It’s not for fun that I put up my sign. And no, it’s not enough for you to just be quiet, you have to be not there at all or your loud, clumsy thoughts might shatter the fragile crystals forming in my mind. Why you ask? Isn’t beauty its own reason? Are we not all enriched just by beholding? You would take that from me and the people I could share it with?
And yes, I will need that bottle of whiskey, thank you very much, and the cigars. No, you cannot take one with you. Be off with you and leave me to my books and my papers or I’ll show you how old children’s rhymes deal with the likes of you.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 17, 2015
You don’t seem to realise that there is a war between us. I’ve considered telling you of course, but I’m worried it might damage my chances of winning.
I keep you unbalanced with my capriciousness and make sure to forget your birthday unless I’ve found something you hate; I know you’re too polite to refuse a gift. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve insinuated that your weight is above average. When our colleagues are around I am always very careful, and I make sure to make them like me more than they like you. With my allies and my cunning I’m certain to get back at you someday.
Someday I’ll get back at you for saying “irregardless”.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 15, 2015
(Credit: Rebecca Litchfield, beautifulbizarre.net/2015/03/25/rebecca-litchfields-dark-tourism-photography/ )
How could you be such an idiot?
You were supposed to win. Everything was set up to let you win. You’re the youngest, you came in third, your brothers said that you didn’t have a chance; I even gave the ogre in the last trial sleeping potion after your brothers had failed. How could you die to the killer bees in the very first trial? How?
I’m beginning to regret poking the ogre awake when your first brother came in…
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 10, 2015
(Credit: NocturnalGuy at Mecha Pixel, mechapixel.com/ent.php?eid=1047)
Bubbles are bursting in the lava, and we are bursting with laughter at the thought of them trying to pierce our nonexistent hearts.
We sing to the sun and laugh even louder when we catch a glimpse of a fleeing wind walker. There is no point in running, and why would one even try? When they come, we will welcome them. We might even surge out to meet them. They might not like our scorching embrace, but they should have thought of that before they promised to play.
They think to quench us, but they will only fan the dancing flames with their war.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 8, 2015
The battlefield will be green with seaweed when it is ready. We have grown it since the first disturbances, and we have perfected the art of hiding in it.
Schools of soldiers glide through the plants in their new armour. Striped fins and scales let them seem like shadows, but these shadows bite.
We shall see who is blue when all is said and done. Even if they win the first round we will still be there, and if they learn to see through our camouflage, we will make new disguises.
They seem very optimistic about catching us with their bare hands, but we shall see.
We are experts in bursting bubbles.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 3, 2015
(Credit: stevegoad on DeviantART, stevegoad.deviantart.com )
When it begins, we will be right here.
Right where we have always been.
Their puny tremors do not scare us. When they come, they will know what real rumbling is.
Roots dug in deep, we will let them smash themselves to pieces on our wall of thorns and claws. We will let them be crushed under our hooves and rocks.
In a million years, they would not be able to push us an inch. And when they have exhausted themselves, when the rain has washed their blood away, and the scavengers have had their feast, there will be a spring where the vine will crawl through their skulls and the battlefield will be green.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 1, 2015
‘Hurry, hurry,’ feathers rustling, we ride the winds, ‘higher, higher,’ disappearing and reappearing from the clouds as if flitting in and out of reality. The moisture is torn from us by our speed.
Drumbeats pushing up through the air warned us of the danger. When the sun sets it might lend us colour, but we will let nothing paint us permanently. They won’t catch us. Forever colourless, our wings will carry us to a new place, where we will live a new life.
We are not sure where we are going, but it doesn’t matter.
We shan’t be here when it begins.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on March 27, 2015
Mark’s shoulders slumped, when he noticed Jake slouching along on his long thin legs on the other side of the road. With a sigh, Mark put up a hand and put his phone into his pocket without pressing send.
‘Hey,’ he said. Jake saw him, smiled and crossed the road.
‘How are you?’ Jake gave him a high-five.
‘Great,’ said Jake, ‘just coming from Wendy’s. It was a hot night, I can tell you. Whoo.’ Jake fanned himself with his coat collar.
Mark stood with his hands in his pockets and looked back the way he came.
‘Mac-attack?’ asked Jake.
‘Had too much junk food this week.’
‘A box of fries never hurt anyone,’ Jake only ate a single meal a day, but it was triple size of what Mark had ever seen anyone else eat.
‘Nah,’ said Mark, ‘you go, I have stuff to do.’
‘Alright,’ Jake shrugged and strolled down the street, ‘I’ll eat a cheeseburger for you,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘I hope you choke on it,’ mumbled Mark, clenching his phone and the unsent message to Wendy in his pocket.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on March 25, 2015
I kept Orion company and breathed the cool fragrances of the night. I watched the owl bring a mouse to her fluffy muppets. Distracted by their bobbing heads when their mother left, I did not notice the rose tinge on the horizon and the light blue seeping into the sky. Only when the first searing ray struck the top of the tree in front of me, was I reminded of how much earlier the sun rose each day.
I ran from his terrible face, crushing anemones, torn by brambles, my lungs burning in my chest reminding me what the sun could do to my flesh. Even though I strained my legs, the light strolled closer and my cave was still too far away. Sobbing, I raked my cheeks, why could the sun not sleep all year long?
Then I remembered an old badger’s den nearby. I turned and dashed towards it while the light crept towards the top of my head. I dived into the den, as the sun peeked over the hill and saw my left foot still outside. My foot burned and withered and I screamed and scrambled into the den as far as I could go. Whimpering, I pushed more dirt into the opening. Having blocked out the beautiful glare of the sun, I curled into a ball, trembling, and mourned the end of winter.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on March 20, 2015
Credit: Jerry D. Greer, jerrydgreer.wordpress.com
Shivering with loneliness, I looked away from the dark open sky punctured with stars. I half feared that it would draw me into it, into the cold void to be torn apart by the emptiness. My fears deafened me to the first twittering in the branches, but when a chorus began in the bush beside me, I looked up and there on the tip of the nearest hill the grass was smouldering. Something surged within me, and I wished I could sing with the birds. Letting the feeling engulf me, I hardly noticed when something blundered right past me through the undergrowth.
At last, the first rays spread their warmth in me, and I felt like my whole being expanded, already growing. Welcome, my love! I wanted to shout, as I imagined myself growing tall and strong, soon leaving my neighbours far behind, growing right up to kiss his burning face. And I wanted to praise spring with all my being and thank her for giving my love back the strength I had missed for so long.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on March 18, 2015