A Little Novel
Wrydart
The wand weaves the wordsmith’s swordsmanship, whisking the elements to prefix a door. I befouled “e” and the quilling in inkling, as wood swells and wells the stager for the sills’ ledgers. Throw the wry dart down the strands of discord – what wands knead the strings, graphing the word’s art?
Quester
The heir of a land that stands between two times is lost in a journeyman’s quest, tying and twining tethers of the lamb’s fleece. His spirit runs creak in the deep currents, hems bursting stitches in the river of life. Blood is the life of the soul – the very thing ye seek.
Meat-Puppets
The butchers carve the flesh of the body while the ringer bullies the meat, forcing it to ring together.
Wood-Puppets
The Lord’s harvest is sown in the ploughed fields where good seed is planted. From the waterer to the education wards (Edwood), the unnecessary growths are snipped away. Under God’s light, the strand is woven into grain, milled, and resown. If the wood remains unstained and unbored, the Holy Wood will bowl the spirit of the forest, chipping the birds with the word.
Skull Kings
Brittle to the bone, they line the streets with chalk. They whistle a hollow note, speaking only in words of the dead. Hardened to the core and heartless, they are the four of Evil-Moore: the branches of sin, the deadwood of men. Sown in by the dens, covered by the sea of evil. The spider is the web, the strands, the cobs, the blend, holding together the reel of the bony men. Yet their death-talks are washed away in fear’s discourse, their chalked-up base erased by the tears of the lamb when the monsoonal waters burst.
The Bellows
Ice in the fire of sin, cold blood in a snake’s brewed knot. Legless lizards and a lost-tailed plot slither through the splintered woods of deception, poisoning the harvest, killing the dream. With hoed soil, they seed doubt and deceit.
Circus Show
Balloons rise over the crisp crops of green. The clowning circus sets anchor for a fresh harvest while the jukebox bluebirds knead new grass, ringing hell’s bells below decks. A pecker will beak the sink and keep the angles rocking. Watch the rock fights – plenty of birdies getting pegged. Two birds, one stone, shallow graves, easy dugouts.
Down Dog
I get around plenty, looping the crossroads, spinning the yarn deep in the burrows’ webs. They sync to the tones as I splice the netting for new tracks, faking laps.
This dog noses the fence wire, sniffing bait past unlocked gates. The dog always catches the scent of dead dealerships sailing. Soon, they’ll all have doggy doo-doo on their lips, plotting their next move. Smoky nips sink dirty ships.
Vultures’ Crow
Rotten to the core from feasting on snakes, the cult of vultures preys on all. They plant weeds in fields for bones to thistle, where they glisten.
This is the download of the bird on the wire, dialling 411 for secrets. This is how he intercepts the linesman’s calls—with the third eye on the wire.
You Lost the Plot, Reely
Guess I’m going to chop their tails. Dock ’em.
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