All Hallows Eve

Some wisdom is whispered down the generations--not written, but remembered. Its origins are lost in the darkness, when feeble candles flickered and lamps did little more than light the fear in faces.

Listen to the memories of people folded back into the Earth. Warning you. Spirits roam tonight.

Jack-o-Lanterns leer on your doorstep. One face glows evil to ward off the tricksters, and one silly to befuddle the demons. Retire to bed, and pull the covers up a little higher.

Be wary--the lingering shivers betray
Wickedness biding, despising the day.

Have a HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Reverie

Give me a soft path

And a solemn blue sky

With air perfumed by the trees,

Where roots of the mountain

Recall countless years

And thoughts unwind as they please.

Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 8, Final (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Back to Part 1)

       In the darkness, the forest twisted him, tricked him, gouged and grated him. His right arm hung useless, and with each step a hot bolt ripped from the small of his back down to his toes. He fell and crawled like an insect until the forest made him stand. Finally, the rush of car tires in the distance steered him. It was just enough to lead him out.
       Andy hobbled over the field and the pitted ground, and when he crossed to the downward slope, the lights of his house glowed below. Late night silence blanketed all when he returned to the safety of the lamplight and locked doors. He climbed to the room overlooking the woods and pulled a sewing chair over to the window. Dried blood flaked from his arms onto the needlepoint cushions.
       And so, Andy sat, not calling the police for Byrn, not calling the ambulance for himself. He sat. Rarely blinking. Until the dawn stirred in the eastern sky.
       He waited.
       The morning mists whitened as the light grew.
       But before the sun blazed over the horizon, and a measure of night still clung in the shade, Andy spied it.
       A glow. Leaping on the hill. One last revel before the day.
       With leaves and twigs knotted in his hair, Andy sobbed. Dirty tears washed down his cheeks.
       He saw them. Graceful. And beautiful. Two ghastly orbs in a pas de deux. Then, the first sunbeams flared and chased them back into the forest.
       Andy's hands splayed on the window glass. His enraptured face reflected back at him.
       Bryn was whispering. And laughing with the child.
       He wanted to go.
       He wanted to dance.

Back to Part 7

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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Cemetery Symbolism: The Wreath

The Wreath: Dating back to ancient Greece, the wreath signified victory. Christians adopted the symbol to stand for salvation, victory in death. (Note the somewhat unusual use of the same motif for three family members)

(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 7 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Back to Part 1)

       Andy's skin sizzled with electricity.
       The voice laughed again, then dry leaves clattered in a whirl. It sounded like the girl was spinning. Laughing and spinning.
       Andy squashed his eyes shut and pressed his face into the rock. He tried to obliterate the sound. He tried to crowd it out with pain.
       Then, a scoop, and pattering. Crispy shapes sprinkled over him. A thud of soil followed.
       Andy winced.
       Another scoop and more mischievous laughter. Sticks and twigs hit him in a jumbled mess and began to catch. The next shot piled up. And the next. The crack was closing from above.
       Andy inhaled dust and shook with a fit of coughing. Already, the air was turning hot and unwholesome. As the piles built on his shoulders, the noises dulled.
       All stopped.
       The cold cocoon amplified Andy's staccato breaths.
       Bad air. His lungs strained, laboring harder.
       Then, something rustled.
       Below.
       In the deepest cracks where no light reached.
       Andy wheezed. Faster and faster.
       Something was creeping up.
       Quietly.
       Insidiously.
       Only a scrape and low hiss betrayed the approach.
       Andy felt a brush against his ankle. Then, his thigh. His panting teetered on insanity.
       On the side of his chest, an icy hand settled. A puff of air feathered through hair on his neck.
       A giggle reverberated in the chasm.
       Then, a tiny kiss. Behind his ear. The small, thin lips of a child.
       "Daddy," it whispered.
       Andy shrieked and bucked against the rock. He writhed. Again and again his feet kicked and slid down the stone.
       He caught on something he hadn't felt before--a crack, wide enough to jam in a toe. With leverage, he slid upward for the first time.
       Wildly, he punched his legs trying to gain more. He won another couple of inches. He was working loose.
       No!
       He wedged, stuck fast again. Bryn's shoe in his pocket caught a lip of rock.
       Screaming in an unending howl, Andy battered against the prison. His head beat against the sides in a frenzied rhythm.
       Something deep in Andy's hip cracked and yielded, and he popped up. Blind to the pain, he slammed his weight slant-ways, and scaled up the widening space. Sticks showered down as his hands reach over the lip onto solid ground.
       Andy heard his muscles tear during the last heave, but he was out.
       And running as fast as his damaged strides could carry him.

On to Part 8, Final
Back to Part 6

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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October Moon

Comes midnight soon
To October's moon.
Gusts on the forest bend.
Fade with the clouds,
The spectral hues,
Glow bright when the shadows rend.

A rain of leaves
In the dying breeze
Pattering cold, unseen.
Dream in the light
Through curtains stream,
Eternal will live this night.


(The poem was inspired by the full moon in forest Saturday, October 14, 2005. The picture was taken that same night.)

A Literary Meme

I was tagged at Coyote Wild for a literary meme (My first, by the way. I guess I've arrived!) Here are the rules:

1. Take first five novels from your bookshelf.
2. Book 1 -- first sentence.
3. Book 2 -- last sentence on page 50.
4. Book 3 -- second sentence on page 100.
5. Book 4 -- next to the last sentence on page 150.
6. Book 5 -- final sentence of the book.
7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph.
8. Feel free to "cheat" to make it a better paragraph.
9. Name your sources.
10.Post to your blog.

Hmmmm. Should be interesting.

Since I have books all over the house rather than on one neat bookshelf, I decided to use the last five books I've read or am reading. Here goes:

He hovered over the unmoving girl, deftly drawing a thick black line on her eyelid, curving it upward at the corner. "Were these Andrew's pants? It looks good on you," he said. At least Galinda turned to see, but then she disappeared behind the fan again. Andrew (without his pants) was alive but taken by the enemy.

Sources:
Anne Frasier, Sleep Tight
Caren Lissner, Carrie Pilby
Gregory Maguire, Wicked
Duane Swierczynski, The Wheelman
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

Scary. I can picture the scene.

Now, I tag:
Anne Frasier, Static (it's only fair)
Kara Alison, Mountaintop Architecture
Chemical Billy, Chemical Billy
Anne, Something Under the Bed is Drooling

You're it!

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
(From The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe)

It's late. It's bleak and cold. Our poor narrator strives to beat back despondency and the dismal weather with a feel good book. But the sadness lurks just beyond his happy chamber. It taps. It raps. It even entreats entrance. But when the shutter is thrown open, our narrator finds no ghost as he feared or hoped. Instead, we meet the raven.

But we're not really dealing with a bird, are we? No, the raven is the personification (or rather, the ornithopterification) of despair itself--despair over a death, the narrator's beloved Lenore.

Poe himself was grieving at the time he wrote these lines. Perhaps he was shooing his own raven from its roost. When The Raven was published in 1845, Virginia Clemm, Poe's wife and cousin, was languishing with tuberculosis. She had suffered a debilitating lung hemorrhage in 1842. Her death finally came in 1847, two years after the publication of The Raven. The loss overwhelmed Poe, who died a mere two years later. The Raven's chilling response of "nevermore" was true for Poe. No relief would come. No joyful reunion.

Pain and loss are like that--forever darkening us with its shadow.

So, I ask you in this time of year when light and dark, life and death, meet and then cross: glance over at your own chamber door. Are the glowering eyes of a raven reflecting the lamplight? What does it represent? And how great is the shadow it casts over your soul?

Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 6 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Back to Part 1)

       Cold fear squeezed Andy's throat. He stared through the blackness, but saw nothing under the profound blanket of forest. The fairy light had slipped away through the maze of trees.
       "Bryn?" he called. "Bryn?" But his voice withered, impotent. His trembling breaths couldn't fill his lungs.
       Andy grabbed one of the shoes and stood. Over his shoulder, he saw the field nearby. The murky light filtered through the branches. He debated whether he should go back. Go back to find help.
       "Bryn?" he yelled again, a little louder.
       No answer.
       If he walked out, he would forever lose the bearing on Bryn's scream.
       He hesitated. His shins burned from where the tree trunk had gouged them.
       No, he couldn't go. Stuffing the shoe into his pocket, he turned back toward the forest.
       For minutes upon minutes, he groped and trudged. Twigs jabbed him. Briars hooked into his clothes and bit through to the skin. And Bryn didn't respond to his repeated calls. The faster his thundering heart pushed him, the more violence he suffered.
       Then, a point of radiance sparkled ahead, almost blinding to his deadened eyes.
       It's back, Andy whispered to himself.
       Yes, back, but motionless. At least a hundred yards away.
       Andy's terror detonated inside his skull. He felt something out there. He felt the danger. Bryn was out there. With the thing. Alone.
       He ran. How many times he crashed and tripped and tore and bled, he couldn't count. One by one, the crisscross of branches drew back. The light streamed into his eyes. Growing. Overwhelming him. The ground sloped up, and a small glade of glowing ferns opened. His strides chopped away the remaining distance.
       So close. The misty illumination infused every corner of Andy's mind. In a moment, he would overtake it.
       Suddenly, the orb yanked upward and swept through the treetops. Andy gaped, following it as it soared. Then, his foot landed on strange ground. Years of tangled pine needles, twigs, and decay gave way. His eyes were still tilted upward when he disappeared into the forest floor.
       He fell. His stomach ballooned up into his throat.
       Disorientation. Weightlessness.
       Then, he stuck fast, at least four feet down from the open air. Andy was wrapped in blindness and silence. His brain raced to process the shock.
       Wet stone.
       Pressed into his face.
       Feet twisted, crushed in the narrows.
       Andy tried to cry out, but the squeeze on his chest denied him. The tendons in his shoulders shrieked in agony. His arms were pulled over his head and jammed tight. The stench of mildew filled his nose.
       He wriggled, but the shift in his weight dropped him a fraction deeper. He tried to yell, but only an inhuman croak rattled in his throat. His shivering muscles bulged with panic.
       No good.
       When he relaxed, he slid yet another fraction deeper. Down into a hidden crack in the bedrock.
       Tears poured down his cheeks and sheeted down the sheer rock into the depths. For a long time his sobs murmured like Earth itself.
       Then, another sound.
       Andy hushed himself. He choked back the horror. He listened.
       There. Again.
       The sound tickled over him. From the ground above. The ethereal voice of a young girl.
       And the impish sound of laughter.

On to Part 7
Back to Part 5

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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A Misty Morning in the Forest

Buckingham Township, Wayne County, Pennsylvania

Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 5 (Fiction)

       The glowing orb swelled in its pleasure, and Andy shivered, sharing it. His face sliced the air, and torn ragweed collapsed in his wake. Nothing could oppose him. The roll of the hill lifted him higher and higher toward the heavens.
       Then, he crested. But still the light bobbed in the distance. Behind him, the house fell beneath the lay of the land and disappeared. Too far. Too far. He pounded over the spot where the thing should have been.
       It frolicked farther ahead, so he ran. But no closer. Never closer.
       Abruptly, Andy smashed through the wood line. A branch snapped him sideways. Then, a fallen tree clipped his feet, and he barreled headlong into the moist carpet of leaves. He hit hard and plowed to a grating stop.
       No! Andy howled in his mind. He ripped back the breath the ground punched out of him and snapped up his head. Through the trees, he saw the fading luminescence. Getting away.
       As he clawed and scrambled to get up, his hand hit upon a shoe. A slip-on style shoe. One of Bryn's. Just ahead, the other was stabbed into the dirt like a curious monument.
       Then, he heard the scream.

On to Part 6
Back to Part 4
Just Joining Us? Back to Part 1

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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Morality Poem 1: Learned Frustration

Give up before you've tried,
Accept the risks denied,
Embrace the tired lies,
LOSE the joys of Pride.

(Inspired by early schoolbooks, such as The New England Primer, which taught lessons with insightful rhyming couplets, e.g., "Time cuts down all, Both great and small" and "The idle Fool, is whipt at School.")

Cemetery Symbolism: The Willow Tree

(Circa 1821, Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Pennsylvania)

The Willow Tree: Symbolizing eternal grief.

Isn't it strangely poignant to depict a cemetery on a tombstone?

Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 4 (Fiction)

       "Forget it," Bryn said. "It's nothing."
       But she didn't sound sure. The edge had worn off her voice under the press of darkness. Andy shook his head slowly.
       A white hot streak slashed across the constellations. A lonely grain of sand wandering since the beginning of time had met its death. Andy thought the stars looked like sparkles on the surface of impossibly deep water. Each breath he drew plunged him farther down. And the fairy light was leading him with promises of things words couldn't describe.
       "Andy?" Bryn asked. Her voice was changing, becoming airy and unfocused. "Andy?"
       ...listening to the crickets. And sinking. Lower and lower.
       A gentle whoosh of air brushed Andy's cheek as Bryn jogged past him in the direction of the light. Her unhurried strides bounced away and were swallowed by darkness. Their motion mirrored the spirit of the dance on the hill.
       Andy followed them both in his mind as if in a dream. Whether his feet carried him, or he glided on the night breezes, Andy disappeared into the field. Bryn had already pulled far ahead of him.

On to Part 5
Back to Part 3
Just Joining Us? Back to Part 1

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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A Quiet Moment

INSCRIPTION

SACRED

To the memory of

James McConnel

Who departed this Life

December 29th AD 1820

Aged about 73 Years

The sweet remembrance of the just

Shall flourish when they sleep in dust

(Epitaph of Mary McConnel unreadable)

Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 3 (Fiction)

       "Um, honey, what are you doing?"
       Bryn's shadow was stretched across the yard from the light in the doorway. Her hand was perched on her hip.
       "Andy?" she asked again. She could barely perceive his still silhouette.
       "Come here for a second," Andy said quietly. "And turn off the light."
       "What? I don't have any shoes on," she protested.
       "Get some. I need you to see something."
       Bryn squinted. "Why? Can't you just tell me?" she asked.
       When Andy didn't respond, she sighed and circled back into the house. She spotted a pair of slip-ons, sparing her the trouble of bending down. Her footsteps flapped softly as she passed out into the hushed air.
       "The light," Andy reminded.
       She muttered something at him as she retraced her steps yet again.
       Two switches flipped in succession. Andy's left side joined the night, then his right. The darkness soaked into his eyes, and the field grasses sharpened. The object in the distance grew more defined. To Andy, the thing seemed to slow, almost as if it knew his adjusted eyes didn't need as much to hold them. The graceful arcs and spins glided against the sky in a silent ballet.
       The hiss-crunch of Bryn's shoes in the grass eased up behind him.
       "God, I can't see a damn thing," she said.
       "Give your eyes a second."
       "Is anything wrong?" she asked.
       "No. Just weird. I can't figure out what's out there."
       Bryn turned towards the fields. Despite the purple afterimages of lightbulbs in her vision, she nailed onto the apparition almost immediately.
       She sucked in a surprised breath.
       "So you see it?" Andy asked.
       "That light? You mean that moving light?"
       "Yeah."
       "Uh huh," Bryn said.
       "Good. So it's not just me. I'm not seeing things."
       "What is it?" she asked. "Is somebody out there screwing around?"
       Andy rubbed his forehead.
       "Maybe," he replied. "But I don't think so. That thing's been moving fast."
       Andy started forward.
       "Hey, where are you going?" Bryn asked.
       Andy hitched in his stride and stopped again. "I-- I've gotta get a closer look. This is...driving me crazy."
       But Andy was lying. During the past minutes, the tension is his body had bled away. The soft light caressed his thoughts. A gentle desire hatched deep inside him and snaked through his extremities. As the heaviness in his feet flitted away, he had found himself walking before he had even formed the impulse to walk.

On to Part 4
Back to Part 2

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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A Cutting Question

Premise: You are about to undergo major surgery (for you medical types, the abdominal cavity will be invaded and reflexes obtunded). For educational purposes, you have given your consent for the filming and display of your surgery.

Question: At any time later, would you watch the tape of your surgery? Why or why not.

(After 4 reader responses, I will give my own answer!)

UPDATE: So the 4 responses are now in. Kudos to Lori and Tanya who set a new Clarity of Night record in responding: 15 and 16 minutes after my post, respectively!

My Answer: I would force myself to watch the video; however, it would be very uncomfortable. Why? Not because I'm squeamish (having prepared my own meat for food is proof that I can handle a few guts...literally). My discomfort flows from another place.

Although I am well aware of human anatomy and the functions of the various organs, I have difficulty accepting that I and people I know are mere conglomerations of beating hearts, sodium cascades, mitosis, cellular respiration, etc. A living, passionate mind, the unique glimmer in every person's eyes, seems so much more to me than the extravaganza of biochemical processes whirling away beneath the skin. Seeing surgery on myself would be a peek behind the curtain at the truth. The Wizard of Oz isn't a thundering, flaming green deity at all. He's just a fumbling little man putting on a show. And losing his hair too.

Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 2 (Fiction)

Last night, as the early hours of darkness settled, Andy dragged his overflowing trash cans toward the road. Casually, his eyes swept across the far hills where ground met glittering sky. Andy spotted the top of Orion's belt. Already, the winter constellations were rising.

At first, he failed to register the oddity. But recognition rumbled into his brain a moment later. His feet skittered. He stopped. As they often did before the frosts, the crickets sang restlessly around him.

Andy peered into the distance. His forehead wrinkled in bewilderment.

It was a glowing sphere. Bouncing and circling over the grass. The light was diffuse and gentle, like moonlight trickled into a cloud. It danced and spiraled--playful, mischievous, too swift for hands. Andy's eyes chased the blurred movements.

The crickets droned on.

Nothing his brain pieced together could explain what he was seeing. He released the cans and stepped forward, leaving the safety of his lit windows. He rubbed his hands on his jeans. He squinted, then eased back onto his heels.

And he wondered what the hell the thing might be.

On to Part 3
Back to Part 1

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 1 (Fiction)

Andy sat in the murky light of morning and stared down at the rising mists. The curtains at his window shivered. The air was awakening after a cold night.

Autumn chill slithered through Andy, but he didn't budge. He didn't reach for the sweatshirt folded on his dresser. He didn't pull the comforter from his bed. He ignored the crumbled leaves and twigs knotted in his hair. The mirror reflected his empty expression and the dirt smeared on his forehead and chin.

Ever since he escaped the forest, he sat there. Waiting. He stared through the mists to the tree line. His eyes bored into the persisting night.

When the sun finally boiled over the horizon, it lit his face, but he perceived only darkness. And, the voice. A child's voice.

On to Part 2

Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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The Breath of Autumn

The mood of the sky changes with the first chilly nights. Whether the sun reheats the day or a grey ceiling looms, the unsettled breezes can swirl on a whim, and the march of clouds can resume their race to catch retiring summer.

Such a strange contest--the glowing, moist air refusing to surrender to the black shiver of winter nights. For now, the spice of crackling leaves overwhelms the memory of frozen gusts. A relief, or a portent? The reign of day, or night? Autumn is neither. And both.

We sit along a stream and watch the colorful boats wash by. Red maple. White oak. Yellow birch. We fold ourselves into the slowing Earth, and if we nod in the drowsiness, we float on the crisp sound of water and the comfort of reassuring dreams.