There once was a village and a great vast forest. They lived in harmony side by side. The villagers were farmers, and more too, they were lumberers. Sons were taught from a young age to wield an axe cutting down the trunks of old trees to build their homes, to light their fires and to make stronger axes. When they were done cutting, they planted another young sapling in its place so the forest continued to flourish over the years. The spirit of the forest moved to and fro as the rippling of the current from the Great River which fed its hunger.

There came a time when raids from the east terrorized the villagers. Vikings with silver horned helmets and axes much larger and more threatening than their own plundered and pillaged the small villages along the Great River. Many fought for their home and gave into slavery but many more fled in fear for their life. After countless moons of suffering, the darkness and violence moved on and with it, the Vikings. When the dust settled, the villagers emerged from their hiding place and stood once more on the streets of their village, red with blood and black with ashes. Where once they could see the vast emerald canopies, there the sky shone a clear, unwelcomed blue; where once there were lush grass beddings, there the burnt foxs' dens laid bare.

And the tears came. The lament of the villagers could be heard above the barren lands of the forest. There was no one to help them.

"The mother god has cursed us,
Ridden us of the good men,
Tore from us the babes of our bosoms,
We are nothing but ash again

The moon looked on and ne'r a tear,
The Great River is red with blood
I will sit here to see the sun dry it
Or die from the crimson flood.

The forest was my good friend
The wolves my brothers,
The enemies found their hiding place
Their spirit now smothered.

If I could fight another day
I shall fight for my good friends,
They shall live with me again
If that were how the story ends."

Many more moons passed as the villagers toiled day and night to rebuild what they once had. And many more moons would come as the raids became mere song and dance and folklore to tell around the village fires.

One day, a man named Stian stood up from the crowd and, sick from seeing his people plagued without hope, volunteered himself to seek help from beyond the mountains.

"My good people, I shall go alone and bring back good news of hope. Surely there are kinder folk who will welcome us in with open arms."

"My son!"

"Mother, do not worry. I remember the days of the raids. I was but a wee child. I saw them cut father down. I was there in the fire. I go not alone, father's spirit will guide my wandering feet. And if he cannot travel further, the forest spirits are there, watching and protecting."

"Young man, speak not of the forest spirits! They have become hostile towards us. They believe we did not defend them. They are sick with revenge."

"Nevertheless, I will go. Or I shall die here without hope."

And with that he kissed his mother goodbye and bid his people farewell. To the edge of the barren forest land, he turned to wave one last time at the silhouettes in the distance.

"With hope." He whispered, more to himself. "With hope, dear people."

As Stian traveled along, he kept himself company with the tunes of his mother. She had taught him well and often reminded him his father had blessed him with the voice of an angel. Though he preferred not to be compared to a celestial being, he enjoyed using it to the enjoyment of those around him, mostly himself.

"Wandering feet, take me to the edge of the world
Maybe I shall find some gold or maybe a fine beautiful girl
With hair as soft as air and eyes as deep as the sea
If I ever met such a girl, how happy my spirit would be!

Wandering feet, the world is too wide for only you two,
I wish a friend with me, tell me stories when I'm blue
The birds are nigh and the foxes are running ov'r the hills
But no one here to watch me travel where God wills.

When I reach my destination, what will I find,
I cannot say my good old friend, but I wish it to be kind.
Too much sadness I have seen, too much bitterness
Only sweetness I shall wish, out in this open wilderness."

Many a times he swore he'd seen a glowing figure in the distance. He would call out to it. But no one answered him. In good spirit he told himself it was his father watching over him. But other times he was convinced it was a forest spirit keeping him company, perhaps for protection. He'd heard the legends. The forest spirits loved humans. They existed hand in hand. One cared for the other. He refused to believe they'd become feral spirits, void of any warmth and love. In his youth, he spent much of his time deep in the comfort of the forest. It was never dark, always glowing and light. The woodland creatures scurried to and fro and he would sleep in the dull, quiet noise. He planted many of the trees on the edge of his village and had a name for each one: Kari, Olin, Solvej, Torben, Aart, Abia, Valencia...

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He awoke suddenly to the stars above him, brightly shining. Then a glow breaking between his lashes. A fire!

Stian sat up quickly.

"Who's there!" He peered around him, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the flames before him.
"Please, show yourself. I know you followed me for quite some time. I know you saved me from the raging river. Who are you?"

As he was about to give up coercing his companion from the shadows, it emerged slowly. As the figure became clearer, he could see the slender silhouette of a woman, glowing in the moonlight. Finally he gazed upon her graceful face. She had delicate lips and bright emerald eyes, observing him; a forest spirit.

TO BE CONTINUED/TO BE FINISHED

“What does it mean to be a self-conscious animal? The idea is ludicrous, if it is not monstrous. It means to know that one is food for worms. This is the terror: to have emerged from nothing, to have a name, consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self-expression and with all this yet to die. It seems like a hoax, which is why one type of cultural man rebels openly against the idea of God. What kind of deity would create such a complex and fancy worm food?” -Ernest Becker "The Denial of Death"

i come up with a lot of ideas while i'm at work. but they all are forgotten once i'm rid of boredom. how sad.

Hello there, um....not really sure what to write on this DarkCopy page. I really am not a great writer whatsoever. Honestly, I need to just write down my thoughts. I gotta say I do have some quite impending thoughts that destroy my imagination. However, that's being unproductive. No matter how impending, a thought is a thought is imagination. And imagination....ugh...I hate that word. It's so taunting. It laughs at me. Everyone wants Imagination. Look I just capitalized it. It wants me to succumb to its mastery. Imagination. It is a brilliant thing.

a Car

The one machine which I think most brilliant must be the automobile: the four legged, gas drinking, engine humming machine. I think we take it for granted far too much. To the birds in the sky, they must seem like such dull things scurrying in this direction or that, turning sharp corners and crossing long bridges to get to point B. How they must laugh at us, with their freedom so prevalent. But as a two legged creature, they are too us; these machines, the very help of our existence. They are a testament to our ever-evolving humanity. 

I for one feel safe in a car when it is traveling, somehow. I feel comfort in knowing I can see the world all the while sitting on fabric. The ease there is in being able to control which direction I want to go is so...astounding. 

Yet now, when I see one, with its' shiny red top coat I think of how far I am from success. The money I make, this machine eats it. Its' engine needs the gas and oil. The tires are wearing thin. And have I mentioned the accident on Lincoln and 35th? 

These birds, how they laugh at us. 

You see, nobody believes in friendship. People talk about it. That's the thing about friendship, it's a lot rarer than love. Because there's nothing in it for anybody. - Are You Here movie

Labor of Love

I imagine a dark, inky, brown desk with old carvings and rusty drawers which atop would settle my 1940s typewriter. Although who am I kidding?, one of those would be a fortune. A laptop it is. I'd read news articles all day, composing stories and literature work to submit for publishing all the while editing works from fellow writers as well. I swivel in my chair, maybe kick my feet up on the desk and sip some British coffee, whatever that is. It's the creamy and smooth stuff, the kind where you pick up little sugar cubes with dainty silver tongs and drop it into teacups intricately designed with flowers and cherubs and blue birds peeking out from behind lush crops. Maybe there'll be music slipping into the atmosphere from the vintage record player I found in the attic. King Cole and Fitzgerald will be serenading long into the night. In the morning I'll find myself buried beneath books and fan letters and front page newspapers with my face plastered on it of how I've broken the book-selling record. I'd get up, nonchalant from the attention, and fetch myself some tea although, again, who am I kidding, I don't really like tea. But I'd bring it back to my study/library and immerse myself in my labor or love for the rest of the good day.

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If I was a writer, I wouldn't mind staying up all night in my library, hidden from society but enveloped in a mirage of literary worlds. The shelves will be overflowing, breaking at the seams with words begging to be read and brought to life by the imagination. I'll be inspired, fed by the imaginary sphere of writers whose legacies went before me. I'll write and study and write some more of distant lands beyond the see-able universe, of a man who travels the dimensions and falls in love with Woman of the Wind, of a girl who can sing her heart's desires into being but mistakenly casts away her ability and searches the world over for it, of a whale who dreams of becoming a little mouse only to find how unsatisfactory it is to have to scurry on little limbs. And when I'm done with those, I'll write of normal things like rain on a tin roof, watermelon in a garden, and airplanes in the sky. There will be endless things to conjure up, there will always be more to say and I will never quit, never tire and never cease to let my mind rest. I'll become a lunatic before my imagination runs out. The history books will record of my manic artistry relinquished to society through proverbs and poems and I will become immortal, living in-between dusty covers that will age through centuries and, in one unimportant moment in time, be picked back up, flipped open and studied, cherished and revered for centuries to come.