Tuesday, 20 November 2007

Mr. Porcin

Mr. Porcin had read the books, he had learned from the stories and he had chosen to build his house, and the attached pig barn, from bricks. He showed his home off to all the villagers, who could only look at their own timber dwellings with longing and regret. How well Mr. Porcin’s home stood up against the gales and the mighty winds. The rest of the village had to repair their feeble houses with every change in weather as thatches blew off and boards were shaken loose.

Mr. Porcin’s pigs felt very safe in their brick barn, no amount of huffing and puffing could release them to the dangers outside. The pigs would settle down in the hay each night, warm and safe as brick houses.

The Pig keeper was so pleased with himself and the building that he placed a very impressive weather vane on the roof, some of the Iron Monger's finest work. No matter which way the strong winds blew the arrow on the vane, the house stood firm.

Mr. Porcin did not count on the lightning. The weather vane was just too tempting for thunderous skies. One night, in a fearful storm, the brick home was struck. The bolt hit the house with such force that the mortar shook and crumbled. The walls collapsed about Mr. Porcin’s ears and the pigs were exposed to the stormy night outside.

The pigs ran for their lives, down through the feilds and over a stream. Their terror spurred them on faster than any pigs had ever run before They took shelter in the woods, leaving their keeper in the middle of a steaming pile of bricks.

Mr. Porcin was heart broken and moved to the next village where he became a basket weaver. He built a home from wood and eventually learnt to enjoy making repairs in bad weather and painting the boards in the Spring.

Meanwhile, the pigs became accustomed to their wild new home. They grew thick bristles to keep out the cold and strong tusks to forage and fight. The pigs learned to defend themselves against the ferocious wolves. With each new fight the pigs became better combatants and eventually they took hold of the timber territory and drove their fierce predators far away. The wolves looked back at the ferocious pigs as they ran, this was not how they thought the story would end.

Thursday, 15 November 2007

Winds of Change

Two children stand and listen to the wind.

They are as still as the frozen lake at their feet but their minds move and churn with the currents of air about their faces.

One turns to the other and places his lips softly to hers. He whispers a secret but it is lost - the wind reaches out a ehteral hand and snatches it from knowing.

The girl looks at him with such peace that he cant help but melt away ito the breeze. she watches him go, faint traces of colour on the edges of the air.

The girl then looks at her bare feet, they are marbled blue and purple with the cold. She exhales and warmth rushes to her toes. The ice about her starts to melt. Cracks emerge like spiders shattering in shock. The girl blinks. She slips away beneath the freezing deep.

The water ripples for a wing beat and the surface is frozen once more.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

Dreaming and Dust

I had a dark dream about a girl last night. It took place in a huge hall with a domed ceiling, like in the grand rafters of a cathedral. The atmosphere was so thick and suffocating it still clings to me hours after waking. The girl hung herself from the huge domed ceiling and left a man alone in the space to be haunted by her troubled shadow.

People came and went and the structure of the building rusted green and grey. I remember one woman wailing that she couldn't bear the though of the girl wrapping the rope around and around and around. The man just listened and felt the woman didn't know the half of it.

I think I was sometimes the man and sometimes the building itself. I felt the pain of the space so strongly I think I must have been within the walls and the rafters.

Now the dream is fading and the nausea of it all is being swept away by the mundane, like ancient dust under a dresser. But there are lingering bits of grey that the broom cant reach, the bits that nestle in corners for years until someone moves house and moves the dresser.

Wednesday, 7 November 2007

Forests and Wings

The vast canopy is on fire with colour and the forest floor crunches beneath bare feet.
When the seasons turn to this everything seems more alive, more so even than spring. Perhaps it is the anticipation of long sleep that causes such excitement, like little children before bedtime.

Step with me and our bare feet into the Dark Forest.