because they do

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Dead tress litter the high country, those rare places where the earth attempts to reach the sky. In some places the dead outnumber those left behind to carry on stretching for the heavens. The wormy carvings, the evidence of their doom, are etched across their bare trunks. Drought and a beetle, two things these giants long stood strong against, finally broke through their defenses and feasted heavily on the ancient lodgepoles. The once green forests are graying and thinning like an old man. The forests of the high country are old.
They are still beautiful of course, even if the dead give them a haunting quality that speaks to the one debt we all owe. Or, perhaps they are even more beautiful because of the ghosts standing in their midst. Even these ancient towering spires pay the price of life but they stand tall and meet their fate stoically. They have no choice to do otherwise, of course. Of course. But there is still something honorable there.
Or maybe my judgement is skewed by the thin air and the staggering beauty that surrounds me when I stand in such places. It is always a struggle to get there, to catch these glimpses, to then pause and take it all in. Here are trees that grew from a seed in the harshest of climates for hundreds of years. They struggled and succeeded and grew. I struggled and succeeded in reaching them… and I too will grow.
My journey is different from theirs, yes, but that is inconsequential as long as I continue to reach for the sky, reach for my potential, reach for the highest highs and stand strong against all that work against me.
You should do the same.
We all should.
For we are all like the forests of the high county.
Beautiful.
Even as our age and experiences show through.
Because they do.

Crack

Author’s note:  this one is pretty dark… and I feel like I should mention on the outset, this isn’t me and you don’t need to worry about it.  I’m exploring characters and I had the first line in my head.  As I put the words down the rest sort of filled in to explore the theme of the echoing “cracks.”  So, trigger warning for suicide.  Skip this one if that will set you off.  And, don’t worry about me!  Everything is a-okay in the kingdom!

Another Author’s note:  Feels like there has been a bunch of darker posts recently.  Feels that way because I wrote them all at the same time and have since scheduled them out across the month.  I can’t promise that I’ll write anything happier any time soon but I have noticed the trend and I will make an effort to turn some of these things into something a bit lighter.

………………………………………………………………………….

I opened my eyes to a world bathed in colors I couldn’t name. I blinked and the world remained. I breathed and my lungs filled cleanly. I snapped my fingers and the crack echoed between my ears before fading to nothingness.

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack
Crack

I woke with a start. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, though. I didn’t want to see that it had only been a dream. I didn’t want to miss the colors. As long as my eyes were shut I could ignore the cacophony and the oily air. But then a crash from outside echoed across the room and my eyes flew open.

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack
Crack

Another accident. Another twisting of metal and flesh because of one reason or another and none of them worthwhile. I didn’t need to rise to see it. I could hear the horns and shouts and cries of pain. Son the sirens would come and drown out all else. I would smell the blood and fire but still only see the drab of greys of reality.
I longed for sleep to take me before the worst of it. To sleep. To dream. To return to the beauty of would could be if only…
But sleep did not come. Would not. Refused to come.
I knew how to force it though.
A rope. A fall. And then…

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack
Crack

odds are

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The gods lit the heavens ablaze and dragged their bloody fallen across the sky in retreat.  They had fought.  They had tried.  They had hoped to make a difference, but in the end they had to admit defeat and relinquish the world to the mortals.

They would hide away, mostly forgotten, until the fools who rose to power below ended up sacrificing all of humanity in their pursuits of greed and cowardice.  The gods, those who had survived, had only to wait and eventually the earth would be theirs to shape again.  They would regret those of their own they had sacrificed and those of the mortals who they had tried to save.

Fueled by anger and grief they would forge a better world.  It wasn’t the first time they’d had to start over, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.  Each time the new was better than the old had been, so there was hope one time they would get it right.  They had as much time as they needed, so the odds were in their favor.

………………..

Anyone up for a flash fiction challenge?  Steal this picture and write something of your own to go with it.  No word limits.  No genre demands.  Go where the inspiration takes you.

Sack Nasty

You’ve heard of it, right?  A collection of prison poetry by Ra?  Yes?  Familiar?  I thought so.  You already have a copy?  Fantastic.  You don’t…?  What are you waiting for?

I’m not likely to tell you anything you don’t already know or couldn’t guess on your own.  The poems are gripping and insightful.  The voice and tone are true to Ra’s signature cadence.  The power of the words will force you to pay attention and make you think.  This poetry packs a punch.  And yet, there is a thread of driving hope, also a signature of Ra’s writing, prevalent throughout.

The poems uncover truths some might not see the value in shining a spotlight on, and some might not even believe are truths at all.  The poems discuss life and death: the often minuscule layer between them, the search for life behind bars, and the reluctance to admit that death is even a possibility.  The poems reveal the pain in the loss of one friend and the joy in the discovery of many new ones.

My words aren’t likely to sway you.  I doubt there is much I could say here to send you racing to buy the book, or to have you decide it wouldn’t interest you at all, but…  If you do happen to be on the fence, I would urge you to give Ra and Sack Nasty a try.  I think you will enjoy what you find within the pages of this book, this collection of prison poetry.

Sinking Deeper

Old stuff again but still living it.

This first time
You beckon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I see
I believe
I embrace you and succumb to your warmth.
I float this first time.

This second time
You beckon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I see
I believe
I embrace you and succumb
to what I believe to what
will be your warmth.
Instead the warmth is replaced
by an icy grip.
Against my will, This time I sink.
This second time.

This third time.
You bexkon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I see
I want to believe
I tentatively embrace you.
I once again succumb to your icy grip
I sink deeper
this third time.

All these times,
you beckon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I no longer want to see.
I no longer believe.
Yet I still embrace you.
I still sucxumb to your icy grip.
I sink deeper aand deeper.

I wonder when I will touch bottom.

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