Faery Flies
by
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Freefall As he fell he couldn’t help noticing a small dung beetle, black and shiny, with a dull wound at the base of its spine. It seemed to be traversing the large bed of leaves toward which he was falling. The noise surrounding him was unfamiliar, it seemed sharp to his ears compared to the bulbous gurgling he’d been used to. That was it, that was what was missing, the noises were familiar but the medium that carried them was different. A sharp pain stabbed his lungs, as he breathed his first breath of autumn air. Left to his own devices he would eat large Ulster fries, morning, noon and night he’d gulp down the oil soaked residue from his non-stick frying pan he’d bought at the local auction in Mill Street last year. However, his wife did most of the cooking now, proper food she called it. He hated the way the food was served, each ingredient had its own space on the plate each tiny morsel carefully designed to give him the correct vitamins. “That was lovely”, he said as he put on the dog’s leash and strolled off across the fields. “I tell you Oscar, she’s warped, they’re all bloody warped”, the dog looked at him, he looked at the dog, leg cocked having a piss, they both looked onward at the open field’s that led toward the moss.
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About the Book
My New Book Powerless Prisoners / Reflections on the Mirror of Hope will be finished by June 2020:- and a Preview explains my first book chapter 1 I haven't the faintest clue what your talking about, and you know whats more, it doesn't even bother me. narrator:- My comings and goings with the world in general er, well they were! He sat on the rails and communicated with a calf. there would be no movement, no welcome or goodbye, only essential functions to enable his stand to be held. signs had been placed at legal distances from his position to remove his legitimacy of targeting, only a faint whisper of the train was heard as he sat in the natural silence of a half dead dawn. an existence was no longer justifiable, others grasp for their place through the aside of friends, for the wisdom inside, his own was growing restless for the funds to establish a retreat, an evenings solitude a piece of place to rest his soul a while. Old memories flicker and fade into the new vision, their place now established, the withdrawal in practice, the castle ruins windswept and torn, only now when the gatekeeper had been bottomed, could he enter through the façade and be retrained.
About the Author
Though the ephemeral effort of the spiritual hub has failed to enrol me, I am at this moment in time a ‘loose-leaf’ follower of the traditions ingrained in a disparate people attracted to a chaotic fraternity. As a well-worn singular person who has forged a link between sensory stimulation, wonder & visions I have learned, from others, that self-adaptation enables prose, verse and observations for general consumption. I am a Pantheist Pagan whose literary stockpile has become a vacant lot for the obscure the sublime and the abandoned. Fifty-one years has left me changed, charged, convicted and convinced of my insight into ingrained attitudes, thus enabling my writing, for which I ask patience and empathy. My aims change with the perceived seasonal pull of nature and the solitude of the spiritual vacuum with which I forge my connection.