His father’s voice was low, faint with semi-awareness. Hearing him, seeing the goblin lord’s paleness and the dark hair uncombed, clinging to his dewy brow, the little goblin child could not bear it. He burst into tears.
Lorthal heard his son’s choked sobs at once. His eyes opened, his hand reaching for the child. He found the little one’s knee.
The trail stretched for miles through the Grimsward forest. Already the three companions had walked for six hours. As the sun set, the trees gathered close, and already Edgar was seeing troubling things in the shadows of the haunted wood.
“What are they?” asked Midge.
“Don’t you two know?” asked their gnoman guide. “They’re the spirits of lost travelers. Travelers who didn’t stay on the road.”
Wallie and I thought we had this blog thing under control until we hit the Daily Post Prompt “Funnel.” On a ten o’ clock morning that feels like 2 above freezing, we decided that, while we have not quite reversed our affection for the cold, we have funnelized it.
To the Winter Cold
My love for you was wide at top
I never thought that it would stop;
It hasn’t stopped, but more refined
Is much more narrow in my mind.
A little treat for the snow. You wouldn’t believe the bad rep it gets. Maybe you would. But…’tis the season for forgiveness?
A subtle difference is in the sky,
A light to dream or softly whisper by—
As if, with Heaven’s quiet grace endowed,
A candle flame were whisk’d within each cloud,
And showing faintly through the grey-cast veil
That makes some shining Ceremony pale
Concealing kindled starlight from our eyes
Lest we perceive what angels realize;
Oh still that thrill of eager wonder bright
We feel for this white magic at mid-night.
On the theme of “Reservation,” why not write about one of the greatest social enigmas of all–getting to know a stranger? And what if that stranger just happened to be the world’s most savage literary critic, Edgar Allan Poe? Wallie and I decided to explore the reservations between strangers (and not-quite strangers) meeting for the first time.
There is a superstition amongst players that a performance of Macbeth brings ill luck on the company. We had just given a performance that I remember, when I first met him. It was a poor season and perhaps we knew we were not at our best, but we gave it what we could on tight, empty bellies, breathing cold air through cold noses and making fine gestures with numb hands. The winter was bitter and had worked itself into our bones. But it was not the play nor the weather that troubled us. It was a villain with a pen, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.