"In the flickering shadows"
In the flickering shadows
A council of apparitions sit
In a semi-circle around a growing blaze,
Disappearing and reappearing
Within the warm copper glow.
Ghosting their ghastly way,
In chores, routines, destiny.
I do not believe they have spotted me.
(If they cared to notice at all.)
Either way, I'll keep my presence
To myself. For some reason the land won't keep still,
Morphing; eternally shifting into
Some reason. Evolving, the cliffs become
Valleys become
Desert sand dunes become...
It's better not to watch.
A large dog, possibly a Newfoundland,
Ignores me and growls at the council.
To this day I believe the dog to be real,
Animals have heightened senses after all.
The misty figures seemed not to care,
Which angered the terrified creature,
But did not bother the dog,
Who had no apparent issue with the devilish
Landscape; a horizon consistently shimmering
In the distance, behind phantom smoke and mirage flame.
1/31/10
1/27/10
The Vial (part 2)
Be sure to read part 1 first
When Cassie was a young girl she thought her mother was perfect which is a common mistake most of us make until we are old enough to see reality. Her mother seemed perfectly happy and joyful, always walking around with a smile on her face. And to some extent her mother was, but obviously such couldn't always be the case.
Many years ago when Cassie was much younger and still allowed her hair to be brushed by her mother she noticed the rather odd necklace her mother was wearing. (Perhaps 'notice' is the wrong word here since her mother had worn this particular piece of jewelry for as long as Cassie could remember, but at the least she remembered to take notice.) So it was at the point when they were fighting through a particularly stubborn snag together when, for reasons unknown, she brought up the piece and began to question it in the unrelenting ways of a child.
The necklace was an interlaced gold chain and fixed to it was a small and faded golden vial. It looked like a sparkling, miniature urn complete with matching lid. This would be a weird charm for an undertaker let alone a divorcee. Despite the grilling, Cassie's mother gave no answers. She simply tucked the chain beneath her collar and continued to brush her daughter's golden locks. Cassie may have been young but youth can be intuitive and she declined to push the issue. Which lasted for only a few minutes before round two of the questioning barrage began but this time the topic was shot down even quicker than before and Cassie was cut off.
As far as I can figure through my own inquisitive ways, Cassandra's mother and father split up when she was still very young and her mother never remarried. Her father distanced himself from the family and the only contact she had with him was his signature on the support check which, thankfully, her mother received every month until the day she turned eighteen. Cassie swears that this has had no effect on her but I think she's a little too close to the subject. It's been said that a daughter needs a father in her life as much as a son needs his mother. So even though Cassie has grown up successfully and with a good head on her shoulders, it's obvious (to anyone that has known her for some time), that the lack of a father figure has affected her in a number of ways. Especially in relationships.
She grew up a little ahead of her time in more ways than one. At fifteen she had the body of a woman that resembled her mother's killer figure in a way almost startling. Her face has been pretty as long as I've had the pleasure of knowing her, with piercing blue-green eyes framed in sandy, golden curls. However, Cassie was no fool. She was well aware of what she had and quickly learned how to use it. By eighteen no financial support was necessary because she had already mastered the art of the tease and soon thereafter had everyone, from schoolyard boys to married men, wrapped around her slender fingers. Still, when it came to an actual relationship, she was always involved with distant, standoffish, unavailable guys. She never saw this as clearly as everyone else but it's often hard to notice where the trail is taking us when we're too busy looking at the scenery along the way. As her friend I felt obliged to try and warn her a couple of times when the relationships were beginning but I soon learned my lesson. No one listens very well to what they don't want to hear.
As far as I could tell, her tight figure wasn't her only genetic inheritance. Cassie and her mother were alike in many ways. They shared several of the same quirks, and had similar personalities. They even had a number of the same opinions and beliefs about the world around them, something which is rare in the parent-child union. They were often mistaken for sisters, much to her horror and her mother's delight, and their bond was similar in that they could share anything with each other with only a minimal level of discomfort. All of these facts only made this particular instance even more unusual. Poor Cassie, she could never get that tiny vial out of her mind for good, and anytime she began to steer a conversation in that direction her mother evaded it at all costs.
Unfortunately, another thing my lovely friend inherited was her mother's perseverance. I've seen her go out of her way to avoid talking to fellow employees who she felt offended or upset her; even so far as to change her entire work schedule around so that there was no chance that they would bump into each other. Never the type to give up easily, Cassie would become determined to uncover the secret of the mystery chain. It was somewhere around sixteen or so when the curiosity became too strong to ignore and she resolved to solve the puzzle of her young lifetime. The only problem was that her mother rarely took the chain off, if ever, so Cassie designed a small stratagem that would make a super-villain proud.
When Cassie was a young girl she thought her mother was perfect which is a common mistake most of us make until we are old enough to see reality. Her mother seemed perfectly happy and joyful, always walking around with a smile on her face. And to some extent her mother was, but obviously such couldn't always be the case.
Many years ago when Cassie was much younger and still allowed her hair to be brushed by her mother she noticed the rather odd necklace her mother was wearing. (Perhaps 'notice' is the wrong word here since her mother had worn this particular piece of jewelry for as long as Cassie could remember, but at the least she remembered to take notice.) So it was at the point when they were fighting through a particularly stubborn snag together when, for reasons unknown, she brought up the piece and began to question it in the unrelenting ways of a child.
The necklace was an interlaced gold chain and fixed to it was a small and faded golden vial. It looked like a sparkling, miniature urn complete with matching lid. This would be a weird charm for an undertaker let alone a divorcee. Despite the grilling, Cassie's mother gave no answers. She simply tucked the chain beneath her collar and continued to brush her daughter's golden locks. Cassie may have been young but youth can be intuitive and she declined to push the issue. Which lasted for only a few minutes before round two of the questioning barrage began but this time the topic was shot down even quicker than before and Cassie was cut off.
As far as I can figure through my own inquisitive ways, Cassandra's mother and father split up when she was still very young and her mother never remarried. Her father distanced himself from the family and the only contact she had with him was his signature on the support check which, thankfully, her mother received every month until the day she turned eighteen. Cassie swears that this has had no effect on her but I think she's a little too close to the subject. It's been said that a daughter needs a father in her life as much as a son needs his mother. So even though Cassie has grown up successfully and with a good head on her shoulders, it's obvious (to anyone that has known her for some time), that the lack of a father figure has affected her in a number of ways. Especially in relationships.
She grew up a little ahead of her time in more ways than one. At fifteen she had the body of a woman that resembled her mother's killer figure in a way almost startling. Her face has been pretty as long as I've had the pleasure of knowing her, with piercing blue-green eyes framed in sandy, golden curls. However, Cassie was no fool. She was well aware of what she had and quickly learned how to use it. By eighteen no financial support was necessary because she had already mastered the art of the tease and soon thereafter had everyone, from schoolyard boys to married men, wrapped around her slender fingers. Still, when it came to an actual relationship, she was always involved with distant, standoffish, unavailable guys. She never saw this as clearly as everyone else but it's often hard to notice where the trail is taking us when we're too busy looking at the scenery along the way. As her friend I felt obliged to try and warn her a couple of times when the relationships were beginning but I soon learned my lesson. No one listens very well to what they don't want to hear.
As far as I could tell, her tight figure wasn't her only genetic inheritance. Cassie and her mother were alike in many ways. They shared several of the same quirks, and had similar personalities. They even had a number of the same opinions and beliefs about the world around them, something which is rare in the parent-child union. They were often mistaken for sisters, much to her horror and her mother's delight, and their bond was similar in that they could share anything with each other with only a minimal level of discomfort. All of these facts only made this particular instance even more unusual. Poor Cassie, she could never get that tiny vial out of her mind for good, and anytime she began to steer a conversation in that direction her mother evaded it at all costs.
Unfortunately, another thing my lovely friend inherited was her mother's perseverance. I've seen her go out of her way to avoid talking to fellow employees who she felt offended or upset her; even so far as to change her entire work schedule around so that there was no chance that they would bump into each other. Never the type to give up easily, Cassie would become determined to uncover the secret of the mystery chain. It was somewhere around sixteen or so when the curiosity became too strong to ignore and she resolved to solve the puzzle of her young lifetime. The only problem was that her mother rarely took the chain off, if ever, so Cassie designed a small stratagem that would make a super-villain proud.
1/20/10
From The Lab
Her Name Was Melody
She guards her secrets very well,
It protects her fragility,
Locked deep within the beating cell,
She long ago threw out the key,
Determined not to hurt again,
She strong solidified her soul,
And anyone considered friend
Is sure to stay within that role,
Kept at length with the unseen arm,
With all the force of one too real,
Precaution guards against all charm,
The latch is clasped and thus it's sealed.
She guards her secrets very well,
It protects her fragility,
Locked deep within the beating cell,
She long ago threw out the key,
Determined not to hurt again,
She strong solidified her soul,
And anyone considered friend
Is sure to stay within that role,
Kept at length with the unseen arm,
With all the force of one too real,
Precaution guards against all charm,
The latch is clasped and thus it's sealed.
1/18/10
From The Lab
Words To An Empire
The signs were clear and here comes trouble,
In a form of crumbled dreams.
Clues that will speak beneath the rubble,
Proving nothing's as it seems.
The ancestors learned one lesson late,
When the flag was at half mast,
How could they have seen their own sad fate
Without teachers of the past?
Their deeds and sins sit on the mantles,
Collected with words and page,
The benefit of their example
Guides the plot and works the stage.
What once was great and stood tall, unmatched,
Simply no longer exists.
That perfection which could not collapse,
Has faded and will be missed.
Beliefs that all can weather the squall,
And survive intact, unfazed;
Pride and anger thrive before the fall,
Entombed within the last graves.
With preparation it's plain to see
The price, the ultimate cost.
You'll have paid your debt to history,
In pain, despair, and lives lost.
Changes now delay future's mourning,
Time walks quickly, step by step.
Defiant in the face of warning;
Could you tell me who is next?
The signs were clear and here comes trouble,
In a form of crumbled dreams.
Clues that will speak beneath the rubble,
Proving nothing's as it seems.
The ancestors learned one lesson late,
When the flag was at half mast,
How could they have seen their own sad fate
Without teachers of the past?
Their deeds and sins sit on the mantles,
Collected with words and page,
The benefit of their example
Guides the plot and works the stage.
What once was great and stood tall, unmatched,
Simply no longer exists.
That perfection which could not collapse,
Has faded and will be missed.
Beliefs that all can weather the squall,
And survive intact, unfazed;
Pride and anger thrive before the fall,
Entombed within the last graves.
With preparation it's plain to see
The price, the ultimate cost.
You'll have paid your debt to history,
In pain, despair, and lives lost.
Changes now delay future's mourning,
Time walks quickly, step by step.
Defiant in the face of warning;
Could you tell me who is next?
1/12/10
The Vial (part 1)
One hot, dull summer day a few years back some co-workers and I were resting in the backroom of a food store of small fame. We were practicing a hobby of ours which was to avoid all work while maintaining the illusion that we still wished to be employed. This was more of an art form than a hobby, an art form where all variables have to be accounted for; can't have too many people congregating in one place at once, don't talk loud enough to draw attention, keep tabs on the manager at all times, disperse of whiny customers in a way that pleases them, pick a topic of conversation, etc. As time would reveal, on this most boring of afternoons, there would only be two true artists in the room.
After any given length of time a manager may decide to wander. It's in their blood. When they do so and there are no employees working the floor they are prone to complain. Especially when they peer into the back of a stockroom and see seven of their employees clustered together and sweeping the same square of tile with the sort of concentration reserved for bomb squad detonators. It bothers them for some reason. However, a boss secretly loves moments like this. Stalking his/her prey in the anticipation of flexing the flabby authoritative muscles they toiled so hard for. Any employee caught catches their fair share of the wide scale attack in this situation. My well-tuned 'manager alarm' started buzzing so I quickly separated myself from the pack and as I did so another individual began floating away as well.
As the boss entered I simultaneously kicked at the hose of the mopping machine, knowing full well that doing so would cause the hose to fall off and unleash its soapy contents all over the floor. Doing my duty, I went right to work cleaning up the mess and repairing the machine while the other artisan ducked away to fake clean the bathroom. The rest of the geniuses never had a chance. Our boss immediately started in on the loafing crew with a speech on free time and responsibility before handing them a list of menial jobs that would take two hours at least. But not to me. Not to Cassandra.
Cassandra's not her real name of course but innocence must be protected at any cost. Even the semi-innocent deserve some. After everyone had gone their separate ways she emerged from the bathroom grinning ear to ear. We had the backroom to ourselves and shared a laugh at our fellow employees' bad luck, Cassie taking a special joy from the sad and defeated looks on their faces. Conversation being what it is this led to a strange talk about the effects of sadness and melancholia. Not exactly light-hearted banter, but I'm sure we all have those good friends in which no topic of discussion is taboo. If not, I recommend getting some. It was while we were happily sharing stories of the bad times when she became deathly quiet all of a sudden. It was obvious something was wrong but I chose not to force the issue, I even offered to change the topic. After all, discussing such uneasy matters can become fairly depressing after a while.
"No, that's all right," she said, quiet as cotton, "I was just thinkin of somethin from a few years back. It fits what we're talkin about, but..."
"Hey, it's cool," I mumbled, trying to reassure her, "If you're uncomfortable talkin about it--"
"Naw, it's not that. It's just, I forgot about it for a long time. Besides, I've never told somethin like this to anyone before. It's not like embarrassing or anything, but you gotta promise not to tell anyone if I tell you. Nobody."
I promised. Unfortunately for her, all writers are liars, plain and simple.
So Cassie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. You will recognize this betrayal but take solace in the fact that nobody else will figure it out. I hope. The story was too good and too human to keep a lid on.
I never had a notebook at the time, (as if I would sit there and record a woman in pain even if I did), so the following isn't word for word. For simplicity's sake, let's call it idea for idea.
After any given length of time a manager may decide to wander. It's in their blood. When they do so and there are no employees working the floor they are prone to complain. Especially when they peer into the back of a stockroom and see seven of their employees clustered together and sweeping the same square of tile with the sort of concentration reserved for bomb squad detonators. It bothers them for some reason. However, a boss secretly loves moments like this. Stalking his/her prey in the anticipation of flexing the flabby authoritative muscles they toiled so hard for. Any employee caught catches their fair share of the wide scale attack in this situation. My well-tuned 'manager alarm' started buzzing so I quickly separated myself from the pack and as I did so another individual began floating away as well.
As the boss entered I simultaneously kicked at the hose of the mopping machine, knowing full well that doing so would cause the hose to fall off and unleash its soapy contents all over the floor. Doing my duty, I went right to work cleaning up the mess and repairing the machine while the other artisan ducked away to fake clean the bathroom. The rest of the geniuses never had a chance. Our boss immediately started in on the loafing crew with a speech on free time and responsibility before handing them a list of menial jobs that would take two hours at least. But not to me. Not to Cassandra.
Cassandra's not her real name of course but innocence must be protected at any cost. Even the semi-innocent deserve some. After everyone had gone their separate ways she emerged from the bathroom grinning ear to ear. We had the backroom to ourselves and shared a laugh at our fellow employees' bad luck, Cassie taking a special joy from the sad and defeated looks on their faces. Conversation being what it is this led to a strange talk about the effects of sadness and melancholia. Not exactly light-hearted banter, but I'm sure we all have those good friends in which no topic of discussion is taboo. If not, I recommend getting some. It was while we were happily sharing stories of the bad times when she became deathly quiet all of a sudden. It was obvious something was wrong but I chose not to force the issue, I even offered to change the topic. After all, discussing such uneasy matters can become fairly depressing after a while.
"No, that's all right," she said, quiet as cotton, "I was just thinkin of somethin from a few years back. It fits what we're talkin about, but..."
"Hey, it's cool," I mumbled, trying to reassure her, "If you're uncomfortable talkin about it--"
"Naw, it's not that. It's just, I forgot about it for a long time. Besides, I've never told somethin like this to anyone before. It's not like embarrassing or anything, but you gotta promise not to tell anyone if I tell you. Nobody."
I promised. Unfortunately for her, all writers are liars, plain and simple.
So Cassie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. You will recognize this betrayal but take solace in the fact that nobody else will figure it out. I hope. The story was too good and too human to keep a lid on.
I never had a notebook at the time, (as if I would sit there and record a woman in pain even if I did), so the following isn't word for word. For simplicity's sake, let's call it idea for idea.
1/7/10
From The Lab
A Bitch Named Fate
Shunned, the homeless man turns his face away,
All too weary to face another day,
Days which hold countless paths, locked deep inside,
To diminishing all that fools call pride;
Long past giving up, thoughts of survival
Did not matter. Fate resents Her rivals,
It is she who shall choose who lives and dies,
To scoff at your pain and laugh at your tries.
Shunned, the homeless man turns his face away,
All too weary to face another day,
Days which hold countless paths, locked deep inside,
To diminishing all that fools call pride;
Long past giving up, thoughts of survival
Did not matter. Fate resents Her rivals,
It is she who shall choose who lives and dies,
To scoff at your pain and laugh at your tries.
1/5/10
From The Lab
Flight of Fancy
Confusion is the soul's first step,
When hunting bodies free from stress,
Blood and Muscle and Bone detects
The shades of grey within the text.
The serene blankness of the vivid screen,
Where Nothing is exactly what it seems.
And no one wants to disappear,
Wide awake with old nightmares near,
Potentially, that hope for cheer,
Erodes the face with worthless tears.
Now these lessons learned can be changed if forced,
When man has wandered far off from the course.
Cloaked in silence, draped all around,
Shuts out the world, destroys all sound,
Picks up senses to drop them down,
To break the will and keep it bound.
Tied together with feelings of despair.
Drunk with power, acting without the care.
Confusion is the soul's first step,
When hunting bodies free from stress,
Blood and Muscle and Bone detects
The shades of grey within the text.
The serene blankness of the vivid screen,
Where Nothing is exactly what it seems.
And no one wants to disappear,
Wide awake with old nightmares near,
Potentially, that hope for cheer,
Erodes the face with worthless tears.
Now these lessons learned can be changed if forced,
When man has wandered far off from the course.
Cloaked in silence, draped all around,
Shuts out the world, destroys all sound,
Picks up senses to drop them down,
To break the will and keep it bound.
Tied together with feelings of despair.
Drunk with power, acting without the care.
1/2/10
2010!!!
Welp, here's to the new year. Here at Afro Shamrock we'll take 2009 out behind the shed and fire two shots into its head executioner style, welcoming in 2010 with arms open wide. Expect changes and a few (hopefully) big announcements as we begin to come into our own. This site has already taken its first few steps and is now ready to break off into a light jog headlong into the internet fray. Stay tuned for what (I promise) will be a bigger, better, and bolder year.
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