Friday 13 May 2022

Poem: The Raven By Edgar Allan Poe

Hi all.

Heres a poem that most of you will have heard off but probably only because of the simpsons, tree house of horror episode.


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            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!


Thats it for now
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poem: JRR Tolkien

Hi All

Again I'm going to share with you some poems from more famous sources than myself, and I find this authors poetry quite shadowed by his fantasy novels.

Here is my favorite poem from Tolkien, it appears in both the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, but its slightly different so I have combined the two for a longer more satisfying poem

The Road Goes Ever On

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
Let others follow it who can!
Let them a journey new begin,
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Another personal favorite is Lament For Boromir, and I particularly liked the new movies rendition of the Lonely Mountain. Follow the following link for More Of JRR Tolkiens Poems

Peace Out

A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities. ― J.R.R. Tolkien

Poem: If by Rudyard Kiplings

Hi All

Time to share a little about what I've been doing of late, I've been writing, staring at this computer screen and drinking copious amounts of caffeine.

Finally before I share the my favorite poem with you I thought I'd inform you all that I've been playing around with the idea of streaming some old school video games via twitch, If I do create a channel I'll link it on this blog.

If By Rudyard Kipling

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!


Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. — George Orwell

Writing Prompts

Hi All

Today's post is going to full of some writing prompts I've gathered from various sources around the Internet. feel free to use them to write your own short story or if you get carried away novel!

You've awoken with four small injection sites on your arm. What does it mean?

It starts with an explosion, and ends with a deep breath.

There are those in this world that have powers beyond imagining.

Peace at Last, The war was over, we had lost.

Freedom for the wolves has often meant death to the sheep.

The Great Elder slept the sleep. He dreams. He Woke. He Wept. Then The dawn was upon him. Today is the day the world ends.

Mars has been finally colonized, and prepared for human in habitation.

A nuclear bomb blows up in the middle of London and nobody knows who it was or how it happened.

It started with sloths...

I like using prompts when I want to write for the fun of it. You can add constraints to make the "challenge" harder.


Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. -C.S. Lewis 

Monday 9 May 2022

My Work: Cold Night

Hi All

Just a little post that continues my borderline fascination with writing about weather, but I decided to add a character.

Rain fell heavily, as the heavens seemed to fall upon the large open field. Each raindrop making unique sounds as it descends from the angry clouds. The wind was sweeping the ground so it fell at an angle. It seemed like it was aiming at the lone man who walked the grassland.

The bitter cold was biting at the weather beaten man, his socked clothing clinging to him, his blond hair hidden under some kind of hat. Bane threw an angry glance to the sky. His hate for the thing called fate bubbling to his eyes. His eyes showed the normal fiery determination, but with a hint of his hate.

Bane was cold, hungry and would do anything for a bit of shelter. It was Banes unlucky day. He was forced to run from the village he had been hiding out in when a group of bounty hunters had shown up. An hour out the weather turned against Bane. And here he was. The only thing Bane was slightly pleased about was the rain would hide his tracks from weak trackers. At least putting him two hours ahead of them, unless someone slowed him down.

The colds bite was getting the better of Bane. It was a mild discomfort and he could dismiss it, but that didn't stop the annoyance that bounty hunters had put him into this cold.

Bane drew his short sword in and swung it in front of him. Trying to vent out some of the frustration that was eating him up. A flurry of blows he released into the air. His grip on the hilt was tighter than usual. It seemed the wet hands and hilt would make fighting difficult. Though Bane didn't care, he enjoyed a challenge. Though he doubted he would have found any in the group of hunters that he was now playing pray for.

Bane stood in the middle of the grassland, with no shelter from the angry sky. But strangely a smile crept across his face. And he muttered into the sky.

“Provide a Challenge for me and I will forgive you.” This statement was more to the thing Bane called fate, though he didn't believe so strongly in god, he did believe that fate was the controlling power.


Well that's it for now, hope you enjoyed it.

Good writing is like a windowpane.- George Orwell 

Wednesday 4 May 2022

Poem: The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Hi All

Thought I'd give you a break from my rantings and give you a short poem written by someone with more skill than I.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.-Robert Frost

Monday 2 May 2022

My Work: Torment

Hi All.

Re-post of some of my older work, if you've been here before you may have read it, though its nice to look back now and then

“My story begins in darkness. And the story ends in darkness, and the middle?”

I sadly whispered into the night, it was a loving companion these days. But then hadn't it always been. Or was it me that had changed, so much was lost during that story. But what was gained?

For the first time in an age I felt weakness. The emptiness inside that one gets when all is lost. Something told me that my story wasn’t over, that a new page was being written even now. But how can a new chapter be written without them?

I stood from the cold marble throne I was sitting in. And again I looked around at the room. It had been beautiful once, a great hall of kings. The ruins were part of my story, not a great part. But this place reminded me of simpler times.

I walk slowly through the demented room. It seemed to have grown angry over the years. I see an archway a few steps in front of me. My eyes piercing the veil of darkness, and through the veil I saw runes scribed into the arch. I remember when I first laid my eyes upon these runes. Such a naïve fool I was back then. The distaste of remembering that time in my life left a bitter taste in the back of my throat.

And like fuel to the fire, the emptiness swelling, but a voice sounded from behind me, the voice was one that I knew. But my mind knew that wouldn’t be possible, the dead don’t speak.

“I have found you.”
So that is how our story begins, one twisted shell of a hero tormented by the past begins his second chapter so to speak.

But what happens next? Who is the dead man? Who is the hero? Well aren't you full of questions. Questions that will be answered all in due time. But for the moment know that this part of the story was used to bring these questions to the surface knowing full well that you weren't ready for the answers.

Ahh, where are my manners, I've yet to give introductions. I am a simple storyteller, I weave words together to spin a tale of the usual proportions. And as any good bard I have a reputation for embellishment, exaggeration, and most of all unnecessary bursts of song.

And you? Well as every reader knows all stories have a degree of truth to them. You are an interested party, someone looking for entertainment more than facts, and so I could relay the events to you as they happened, or I can add a touch of flavor to the events. And I am ever so good at the latter, some might say too good, although the people that do say that would say it well out of my earshot.

But my friend, this is the beginning, yet I appear to have began in the middle, and so I interrupt my own writing to offer a brief explanation, an explanation that will be unsatisfactory.

This story relays to you the myths of the past, but not of your world, earth, such a plain and simple name. But of a world of magic, a world of creatures of your myth. As the storytellers of your past once accidentally discovered my world, I stumbled across yours.

Now how did a bard end up in your world, that is best left for another story. And possibly another storyteller. But my dear reader I'm sure you need not know that this is page one of your journey with me. Follow me as I take you down the metaphorical rabbit hole into the wonderland that is my home.



Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time. -Thomas A. Edison 

Sunday 1 May 2022

My Work: Beggining of the End - Short continuation by me

Hi All

I wrote this as to continue my last post, its not as long and while I enjoyed writing it, I did feel that the concept in my head was better than how it ended up.

Hundreds of miles away, sat another dying man. High in the tallest tower of a grand palace.

The wrinkled old man sat on a balcony bathed in sunlight, staring out into the crystal blue ocean.  The clear sky made it difficult for his ageing eyes to separate where the still water met the cloudless sky. He knew that in contrast to this beauty, a storm was moving. Regret filled his thoughts as he realized, today would be the day.

“Ignorance is indeed bliss.” he muttered under his breath as he sipped his extravagant wine. Savoring the taste of it, he had always believed Asar would change the world, as usual he was right. It was with all his heart that this time he wished that he was wrong.

Draining the final mouthful of wine from his jewelled goblet and standing forcefully, he shuffled on unbalanced legs quickly into the tower and then he sat heavily in front of an ornate golden desk. Behind him a flag of red hung on the wall, emblazoned with the gold phoenix of Larne. He mused how his elderly mind still pretended his body was young, and how walking a few feet had fatigued him so.

He picked up a heavy tome. It looked ancient, the battered leather bindings seemed to be burdened with the weight of the world. Its title and author lost to the ravishings of time. He opened it and began researching. For while he suspected what was going to happen today, he needed to know how.

Some of the text was undecipherable, but determined to see it through, he translated as quick as he could, and hoped it would give him some peace of mind. Page after tedious page went by.

Ancient prophecy’s and lost magic’s were spoke of, he even translated myths of dragons. These pages did little to ease his burden. He was desperately searching, wrinkled hands flicked the parchment pages until he read of the coming apocalypse. While translation could be wrong he was certain it was not. He seemed to feel it in his very core. A dread that filled his darkest thoughts, was slowly growing.

His brow furrowed, and he translated with a haste. He knew that death was coming to take him today, he'd accepted this price long ago. He read of the calamity that happened long ago, he read of the enemy that roamed the land and with the omen of death following him. As he read he seemed to gain clarity, a smile grew on his old lips as he drew his final breath.

His last thoughts were not on regrets, and while he knew what was coming he would rest easy
No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of it to anyone else.-Charles Dickens

Friday 29 April 2022

Friends Work: The Beginning of the End

Hi All

Something a friend of mine wrote that I enjoyed.
Mud is disturbed, boots crush the ground beneath them. Every step pushes the ground deeper in, the ground in knowing desperation.

The wind churns and the sky flashes in desperate anger.

A coat flows defiantly in the storm, a desperate defiance.

The rain flees from the heavens falling desperately to an unforgiving  earth.

He walks, coldly, unwilling and yet eager. He walks in desperate need.

To the top of the hill, until he can see all before him, he stops and in the fury of the storm he waits silently and takes hold of the day, the chaos, the destiny before him.

The traveller  stood, and watched. He watched the world as it was now, he looked as the storm rolled ever forward. The storm wasn't a great destroyer, coming to claim the lands. The storm wasn't the end of all, the storm wasn't the fury of the heavens raining onto the the earth showing it's primal power. No the storm was fear.

Pure fear, ancient unforgiving fear, the type of fear that ends us, that brings us to our knees. This fear leaves us unable to move, cowering in the shadows, hoping that the dark will save us from the darkness, hoping that something will come, or that it will end quickly. This fear is the the dread of life, the thing that lies in the back of our mind, waiting to come forth and signal our end. This Fear is desperation.

This fear, this ancient fear, comes from the storm. The storm is afraid. The last desperate act of the heavens to wash away the earth and vanquish the coming end. This storm is the fear felt by the very heavens.

The storm is not enough.

Asar watches. He takes in the rain as it falls unevenly toward the ground, he watches the wind run through the valley before him, waving between the trees, and the hills. He watches the clouds gather in the skies, bringing all they have, all they can muster to force of the storm. He watches It all, he watches and he knows remorse. For soon it will all be gone.

He has travelled so far, he is weak, yet he stands in the fury of the storm, as it seems not to touch him. For the storm will fail, and then he will be the last line that stands before the darkness, and he to. He too will fail.

For it now comes that which the heavens dread. Now comes...

The Reunion.

I have come, I have come brother, friend, savior. Enemy. I did not wish it, I fought for so long, wandering far, as far I could go. I thought I could escape you, I thought I could escape time. I could not. I was drawn, drawn without my will, tricked my all and everything. I fought it, with all of I could. I failed, I failed then and I will fail again.

But I have come. This storm heralds me. I have come. Dear god, I have come.

The storm may not touch him, but the cold, the cold bites at him. Claws at him, every drop of rain, a iced dagger that leaves no wound. So on he walks, down into the valley. Down into the end of all.

Reluctantly, hesitantly he starts again he walks forward. The air around him, cold yet warmer than his fearful heart, his step heavy with dread, his breath, every breath savoured as the last. He walks.

The hills loom high on either side now. Towers of earth guarding against the unknown, the tops dotted with trees, watchmen in the night, watchmen in the dark. The leaves long fallen since the summer fled to the south. The ground soggy and muddied from the storm. Every step forward a triumph to be mourned. The clouds still on high, still darker the abyss, yet lighter than the coming dawn.  A scene of beauty to some, a scene of the truth of nature. Yet here and now, it is a hopeless scene.

Light's in the distance, hidden away tucked into the side of a hill, one then two then many. Like ashes in the fire they seem to dance in the distance, they draw him, summon him. Though they do not know it. They are lucky, for they cannot think cannot feel. They are empty and will not know the horror. They are but candles, and like all this soon they shall burn out and flicker into the darkness, but they, they will not scream when the wicker is spent.

One step then another, closer to it all. No escape, no hope. It will be done soon.

A house in the near distance, stone and wood. Crooked and overgrown the house comes into view. No windows to see, a blessing in this storm. Yet the door does not meet the frame, and the wind whistles through. A shrill sound it carries through the night. A light counters the wind as it peers through, barely it laminates the door. It is a old house, a broken home. A poor man lives here, a man forgotten to poverty and hunger. A man who might spare his bed for a few crumbs at the table. An unwelcoming place to stay. But a place to stay until the dawn. Until the last dawn.

A hand reaches up from the heavy coat, upon the door it lands, the sound cracks like a whip into the night and for instance the shrill of wind between the door and it's frame is broken. The door shudders and splinters at the force. A frightened whine is heard.

“Open, old man or crone. I have no harm to give, but I might have food to spare in exchange for your bed” It's been a while since he has spoken, for so long now he has just been a lone figure walking in the distance. He has not forgotten his voice. “Open I say, the door can take little more than a gentle knock, and this cold does not make me a gentle man.”

“ you say. I, I, I have little to lose I guess” A sorrowful laugh sneaks past the door.

A click disappears into the wind. The door scratches upon the floor as it opens. There stands a tragic figure, all broken and aged. Scarred and weak. His hands shake at the thought of the pirate at the door, his eyes clouded and grey. Thin cracked lips tremble from the cold and wind, wispy hair falls unevenly around his head. A dirtied garment wrapped around him in a pitiful effort to stay the cold.

“You said food” the wizened figure manages to let the words fall from him before coughing horribly.

The lone figure, the traveller  moves past the old man, a hand upon the shoulder takes him from his path. Over he goes the weak fire. He stares into it embers. It's unknowing embers.

A small squared room faces him, cracked walls, and broken bricks. An uneven table roughly made sat in the centre. Two chairs on either side. One covered in dust. To one side a small set of cupboards, one door loose upon it's hinges. Scattered and tattered belonging littered the floor and the table. Worthless trinkets, but the only companions to a lonely figure. At the far end sat the fire. carved into the wall and well used, it had burned brighter on many days. There was no bed.

“Yes old man, food.” He drops a pack upon the table and gestures to the old man. Take what you wish. No more is it a concern of his to feed.

Hurriedly the old man searches the pack, He grasps dried meat and though his teeth and broken and rotten he tears through the meat with a ferocity only hunger can bring. He drinks the water, the clean water, most likely his first taste of clean water in his vanishing memory. He eats and drinks and takes no notice of the stranger in his home. Home, or prison, a prison of poverty if there ever was a prison.

After a time the old man slows. His memory returns to the present, to his home and the stranger left alone sat by an ever weakening fire. A slight fear creeping over him.

“Thank you, I rarely eat. I rarely do anything. But I have to confess the thought of food took over me. And I may have been” A spluttered cough leaves him crumbs and half eaten meat scatters to the floor. “ I have, I have to confess that though I have eaten your food, but as you may see. I have no bed to offer”

A snort is his only reply.

“ I have a few herbs, somewhere. If you hadn't have come I might have eaten them, I could perhaps make us a soup. The fire is weak but it should suffice. As way of apology it's a much as I can do.” he coughs again, though he is sparred a full fit this time.

The traveller looks up, eyes uncaring, arms hanging aimlessly in front of him, he is almost unknowing, almost absent. Water drips from him and graces the dust caked floor. He nods in reply.

The old man sets to work, collecting and gathering, muttering to himself. He finds what water he can, he finds what food he has not eaten, what herbs he can find and makes what soup he can muster. The weakening fire somehow boils the water, a forgiving moment in the last of nights. He mutters and stirs and wonders about the traveller in his prison, his home.

He moves to table, and places upon it two bowls, he gestures to the seats, and to his surprise the traveller moves, a statue returned to life.

He slurps and averts his eyes, until finally the unknown figure speaks.

“This home, it seems so empty and heartless” the traveller thinks aloud.

He was as shocked as he was hurt by the words. He would have thought it rude, if it had not been for the bitter truth. “ It's not a home, more a shelter from the winds. I am a poor man, as my father was. I have no sons, no daughters to suffer the same fate.” The words ache his broken soul.

“ Well, well who sir are you? And why have you come here to this place? Not to remind an old man of his misfortune I bet. Though I be flatted the gods sent me someone if that were the case” The old man asked.

He thought about it, he thought about telling the old man it all. But he hadn't the strength to say the words. “Me? What does it matter? Tomorrow I'll be gone and you'll see me no more. I am here for a meeting, that is all there is to it in the end. I'll cause no harm. But I must have some rest. I'll lay upon the floor and gives myself over to the night if you mind.” A weak reply, undoubtedly insufficient, but all that he would say.

He moved to the floor as the old man muttered on, about life and it's cruelty and his gratitude for food.  The traveller stretched out upon the floor. Placed his hands beneath his rain beaten head and gave himself to the night, whilst the old man just sat there in meek confusion. Until fatigue took him into the night.

When the old man awoke the traveller was gone, but the pack remained. He wonder if he had been the real, the mysterious figure, the stranger. Maybe he had been one of the gods, giving an old man one kindness before he was etched from the world. He wondered until hunger took his mind once more.


“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” 
― Jane Austen