Dancing in Mist

"Huldra Disappeared" Credit: Theodor Kittelsen

“Huldra Disappeared” Credit: Theodor Kittelsen

He saw her in the morning mist, slender as a willow wand, her skin pale. He would have thought her frail in any other situation, but as he saw her there, she seemed to be made of flexible marble, dancing on the tips of her toes through moss which hardly gave way under her.

She retreated slowly and silently. He followed.

The mist was disturbed by her; convincing it to do her bidding, she formed it to her own designs, long tendrils reaching out to him. The moss seemed softer underfoot as they went deeper into the forest. He wondered if he should call out to her, ask her name. She moved her white limbs to the silence of the mist, and he was struck dumb. She raised her hands above her head and looked at the green roof. She pirouetted and for the first time turned her back to him. It was rotted away like an ancient tree. She was hollow, and he knew he was lost. She no longer retreated as he came closer. When he reached her, she had already sunk in to the knees. She slung her arms around his middle and dragged him down with her.



He is on a slippery, sloping roof. Confident of his grip, he stares at the trees, willing himself to see the forest. Connections were never his strong suit, but he knows they are there. He has paid large sums for an eye operation which made all the colours brighter, stronger, thus making the world look like a collage pieced together from wrapping paper and paint magazines. When he complained, he had been offered his money back, but he could not stand the smell of mildew from the notes.

It begins to rain and the raindrops hiss all around him. Ignoring their threats, he pokes out his tongue and tastes several, before he looks from the clouds to the trees to the roof and back to the trees and wonders what could bind these things together.

He makes a frame with his fingers and thumbs and looks at the world in this new way, slipping slightly as soon as he lets go of the roof. He picks up speed, reaches the end of the roof, tumbles over the side and the sky and the trees and the house become one big blur to his eyes.

Here are some Haikus

(Credit: wikipedia)

(Credit: wikipedia)

I’ve written Haikus.
Mostly because they are short,
And sometimes funny.


It is new for me
And thus exciting for me
I’m doing my best


I was inspired
By the following haiku
The author unknown


Haikus are easy.
But sometimes they don’t make sense.

(Also this book)

(Also this book)

Her love was moonlight
If his had not been fire
He would have seen it


Writing poetry
Scenery is not needed
But mountains do help


Japanese pictures
Cherry blossoms and insects
Love in the brush strokes


Coughing and wheezing
Tomorrow will be better
Snot fills the trash can


Now a little game
Read the following haiku
Guess an old story


A little girl finds
Very wide smiles and

She Came Towards Him


She came towards him smiling,
The saliva on her teeth glistening in the sun.

She came towards him waving,
Her hair constrained by tight braids and dandelions.

She came towards him skipping,


Lopping his head off with a great big axe.

It only took her one swing.

A Man with a Hat

credit: gwenbeads.blogspot.dk

credit: gwenbeads.blogspot.dk

There is a man
Strolling along the pavement.
He smiles at you.
Do you hear his walking stick meeting the stones?


He touches his hat
It is old and made of felt
With a feather so long it tickles your nose.
Can you smell the dust?


He makes his hat disappear
In a puff of smoke
Revealing yellow curls underneath
Can you taste the burnt air?


It seems you were tricked;
The air is clear
And the man has no walking stick as he continues on his way,
But he tips his top hat at you as he leaves your brain.

A Goddess in the Making

Credit: "Glow-BM", glow-bm.deviantart.com

Credit: “Glow-BM”, glow-bm.deviantart.com

Her glow gives her a divine touch.

Admittedly, it makes her veins stand out against her pale skin and the green colour looks slightly poisonous, but it also makes her ethereal , unreachable, like her feet would never truly touch the ground. However, at the moment she is lying very still and it is perceptible that her back pins the seer white fabric of her dress to the examination table, so invisible strings might be needed to complete the picture.

Also, a voice should be found for her. It is unlikely she will ever speak again.

I’ve Never Written …

I don't see it yet. I hope I'm getting close.

I don’t see it yet. I hope I’m getting close.

In search of inspiration, I considered today some stories that I’ve not written.

I’ve never written a story about Bill Gates and how he is an evil mastermind taking over the world.

I’ve never written a story with a protagonist thinking he’s an apple.

I’ve never written a story about the stain on my trousers and how it came from a substance very much like tooth paste dropping through a worm hole and leeching on to my trousers just as I was crossing the road.

I’ve never written a story about a Norwegian, fifty year old, male ballet dancer who has retired to become a shoemaker in Iceland, but who is constantly visited by the ghost of H. P. Lovecraft.

I thought I would never write any of those stories, but now in a small way I have.

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