Solocrow — One Crow Against the World

Pentina

Posted on April 8th, 2008 by solocrow.
Categories: Fiction, Generic Blatherings, Images.

The long silence of sand and stone
Whispers into the dark belonging to the night birds.
Waves glint with inner timeless wisdom,
And a crown of cloud-frost haloes the moon.
Eternal spirals twist restlessly in forgotten shells.

Sea-phantom forms writhe into the pearled shell-depths;
Living stones, striving in the muck
Under the unblinking eye of a summer moon.
The delicacies hide from the sun and its hungry bird-maws –
A Strong rationale, the wisdom of the unseen.

Wisdom,
Shells,
The wild cries of birds,
And the singing, silent stones –
Yes, these things gather under moon and sun.

Sun and moon – locked forever in chase,
Never growing wise to the mortal strivings
Of stones turning to sand,
Of shells, empty and hollow,
Of the broken pinions of weary, frail birds.

Memories haunt the night, like the fragile birds –
Calling themselves together in moonlight,
Curling themselves into shell-spirals,
Piling their wisdoms together
Into little cairns of stone bravery in the surf.

Soon the stones become birds,
And the wisdoms rub smooth into moon-pearls, hidden in shells.

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Salamanca

Posted on July 13th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Fiction, Generic Blatherings.

She can hear the moths breathing feebly, struggling sluggishly against the glass of the kitchen windows. Perhaps she will find them later, lying like morose faeries in the dawn’s wet grass.

Once, she’d found the wing of a bluebird perfectly separated from its little azure body — undoubtedly the work of one of the many hopeful cats that continuously prowl around the kitchen courtyard. She’d gathered the immaculate wing into her apron; a secret prize she later hung with a piece of stolen butcher’s twine from the ceiling of her small and stony room.

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Sacripant!

Posted on July 10th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Fiction, Generic Blatherings.

XLV
If any ask who made this sorrowing,
And pour’d into the stream so many tears,
I answer, it was fair Circassia’s king,
That Sacripant, oppressed with amorous cares.
Love is the source from which his troubles spring,
The sole occasion of his pains and fears;
And he to her a lover’s service paid,
Now well remembered by the royal maid.

Orlando Furioso
Ludovico Ariosto
(1474 - 1533)

“Is this the sentimental shite you’re attempting to recreate with your girlish plots?” he asks, whilst waving the torn and offending page accusingly in my direction.

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Pink Blues [a recently recovered document of collegiate idiocy and fraud]

Posted on June 12th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Fiction, Generic Blatherings.

Whilst looking for an empty sketchbook to tote off to Iceland, I happened upon this essay I wrote in college for a course soporifically called “Creative Nonfiction Writing”. The hilarious part of this essay is that about 45% of it *is* actually fiction; I made up parts of it to complete the assignment [at the last minute of course]. Ha!

And yes, I’m still avoiding the onerous task of packing for this trip.

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le rossignol rouge

Posted on May 15th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Fiction.

Recovered fragment from the journals of the notorious courtesan, Le Rossignol Rouge:

…he cannot mean it. Where is the boy with the eyes like ferns and the hands like frightened moths? I saw him, dark and melancholy, under the moon-dappled shade of the wisteria-laced bower a fortnight ago. His steps are like sad songs. I suspect he has gone to see Le Loup de Glace. No good can come of it, but what do I care? It is none of my affair. Les Poignards Silencieux will find him in the night, I’m sure.

Then we will see something, oh yes. His father will be ill-pleased; all the better for me.

Damn Il Varro! — that cursed Italian will undoubtedly show at the next meeting of Les Enfants de l’Automne, and I have no wish to cross paths with him again. He wouldn’t know a cortigiana onesta from a pretentiously whorish farmer’s daughter, and I daresay the daughter in question would be hard pressed to distinguish him from his namesake.

I trouble myself over nothing. Etienne will deal with it.

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