Long ago before the world became so complex. When men still believed in the mysteries that lay beyond their science and understanding. When people were what they were and daily life left no time to worry about the “-ologies” that infest our understandings of the world around us. There was a legend.
It was told one slightly foggy night to Iris before she left the large fire grate and crept up to her warm bed.
“Now they say Lass,” her very old Grandmother began staring wearily into the dancing flames, as though in them she could see the story she was about to tell. “That these was a time when no clouds spotted the sky in all it’s vast expanse. The Prince of the sky was lonely, so they say. Oh yes child, there is a Prince which rules the sky. You see the King of the Heavens, Father Time, had a son and he was set to govern the sky. The The Prince of the Sky was a kind ruler who shepherds the great sun and moon across his fields and paints the beautiful sunsets. The lovely stars in all their glory dance just for him. Yes the Prince cared for his kingdom and it showed forth all its beauty for him. And yet with all that he had, there still remained a great longing inside of him.
Leaving his throne, he descended to the earth to visit the kingdom of the Queen of the World, Mother Earth. For it was known that she had many beautiful daughters. He went to see them one by one, the fairest of them, The Princess of the Forest in her sweeping green gowns, the Princess of the Lakes searching him with her shimmering blue eyes, the Princes of the Mountains so aloof and regal. But none of them would think of leaving her precious Kingdom to follow the Prince to his Kingdom so far away.
At last deciding to return to his home above he went one last time to visit the Princess of the lakes for of all the kingdoms hers reminded him most of his own, save the fish swam and birds flew. Dusk was falling and the lake turned and mysterious gray. Then at the edge of the lake he saw a woman glide across the surface followed by a thin blue mist.
“That is the child. The Princess of the Mists.” The Prince turned to see the Princess of the Lake, her eyes now as gray as the rippling waves and yet they danced in a fond sisterly love. The Princess of the Mist drew closer and bowed shyly before the Prince. She did not seem such a child to the Prince, indeed her smile glowed with the softness of womanly kindness.
At length he stood and bid the Princesses good night and returned to his home, a vague new longing entering into his heart, a longing no longer nameless.”
“Iris,” Her mother’s voice called impatiently. “Stop bothering your grandmother and get to bed. There’s much to be done tomorrow, a rain storm is due.”
“The child’s not bothering me dear.” The old woman chuckled looking at Iris as though she had just remembered her presence there and found it very amusing. Then her eyes floated to the golden flames once more lost in the tale. “He had not been long returned home when he looked down from his expanse and saw little mist staring back at him. Glancing at the sun, sure in it’s course, he quickly ascended to her side. Every day they met at sunset, to glide across the lake together. One day he spoke very softly to her, “My home is very different from yours, but I think you would feel at home there.” The Princess frowned uneasily and said, “I have no home. I roam the forests, skip through the mountains and glide across the lake. My sisters all give me a place among them to bring drink to their growing kingdoms. They need me, were I to leave them their lands would die.”
The Prince nodded solemnly, understanding her concern.
The Princess reached out her hand and touched his check, “I have wronged you by spending all this time with you.” The Prince tried to object but no sooner had she said the words than she vanished into the thick mist that surrounded her.
Knowing he had received his answer. He quickly whispered one last goodbye and returned to his home. For some time he walked his kingdom and governed his kingdom with only half his heart. “What would it be like to roam free with the mist?” “What would it feeling like to have her there with him?” But there were to many fantasies and a real kingdom to care for.
Then one day, as he lead the sun across the sky, he saw her. The Princess of the Mist wondering through the sky and crying as she went. No longer did a thin mist follow behind her but large blowy clouds thick with the emotions that filled her. Running to her, he saw her eyes brighten at the sight of him. And they embraced one another. Suddenly a bright colorful light burst forth and the first rainbow was seen.
Soon they were married and Mother Earth and Father Time gave the Princess a new name, Princess of the Clouds. And they climbed the sky together.
Alas, though she watered the kingdoms from her lofty perch the Princess of the Clouds was not completely happy. She longed for her old haunts and the freedom to move where ever the wind had blown her. Though she did not complain, the Prince could see her eyes linger longingly upon the crystal clear lakes and the forest glades. He told her one day that she could go if she so desired. With a cry of delight she kissed him quickly and vanished.
That night the sky shook with thunder as he wailed her loss. Far away in the meadow she heard his cries. Lifting her gown she wondered across the sky following the sound of his thunderous sorrow, throwing out sparks of light to show her the way. At last she found him and they wept their hellos.
And so they lived. He caring for the sky. She free to wonder as she pleased. Bending low to kiss the morning glories as the sun broke forth its newest rays. Rising quickly to cover his face and lovingly hold him when the day had been too long. When after long separation they embrace the beautiful rainbow bursts forth filling all eye with hope.
And that, my dear, is how the clouds came to roam the skies.” The Grandmother’s eyes left the fire and rested on her pretty granddaughter. “And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” A wrinkled eye winked gaining her a giggle from the little girl. “Now get to bed like you mother said. Before the Prince of Darkness comes to fetch you.”
Iris gave a squeal and ran quickly up the stairs, but quietly stopped at the top, not ready to go to bed just yet.
“Will you not stay mother?” Iris’ mother asked. “He’ll be home soon.”
“No thank you dear.” Came the reply as the rocking chair creaked. “Father comes tomorrow and I long to throw off this frail garb for my new spring gown.”
“And we all long to see you dawn it.”
“Mother!” Iris lept as her father’s voice announced his arrival.
“Hello son.” The old woman greeted him. “Did you shepherd well this day?”
“Ay,” He answered. “All are in their place.” A pause came in which no one spoke. Then her father’s voice mused. “Tomorrow is the day isn’t it? Well then, we’ll all be there. And little Iris will dance in your honor.”
The old woman mumbled her thanks and Iris heard the door open. “Goodnight my children.” She called.
“Goodnight Mother Earth.” Came the unified reply.
Oct 28, 2007
Sep 28, 2007
I'm not sure I like the ending....any sujestions?
It's strange I know but I wish I could draw!
A twilight fog resting airily upon the eastern edge of Farmer John’s largest field concealed his stealthy movements. Blacker than the descending night Morticent rarely made a move that others perceived. He was night. He was shadow. Only his eyes, two blazing orbs, shone like a roaring fire, fire fueled by lust, anger, hate. Fire that consumed the lives of those who Morticent stalked, feeding off their weaknesses and providing fuel to enhance them.
Tom the cobbler saw at Moticent’s biding a vague view of dancing women. Anne his wife swathe look in his eyes and burned for days with the continues screams of injustice that Morticent whispered in her head. And Tom listened intently in turn to the cold bitter words of a long growing hate for his “selfish, possessive” wife. And so Morticent never went hungry.
The village children were warned about him. “Be kind to your sister or Morticent will come and get you in the night!” None realized he was currently consuming their own souls.
Tonight though, tonight Morticent was out to catch a new quarry. Farm John had long shut his door to Morticent, filling his home with so much light that there were no shadows to offer Morticent shelter. So, Morticent waited and watched, never satisfied with souls already won. Tonight there was something different. The light was dimmer. The fog drifted closer to the home carrying Morticent with it. Now he could see in the window.
Farmer John sat with his head in his hands, a photo of his lovely bride before him. Two young girls moved about upstairs removing their mourning dresses in preparation for bed.
Yes, now was the time. The shadows grew with each tear drop upon the Farmer’s table.
“Come Farmer, why do you cry?” came the hushed thought as Morticent slipped in the window. “Crying can not bring her back.”
“No.” agreed the Farmer sobbing even more deepening the shadows, allowing Morticent to creep nearer.
“No, nothing can bring her back.” He hissed in a tentatively angry voice.
“She shall be raised in the resurrection.” Came a feeble reply that barely glowed.
Morticent chuckled at this and continued. “Oh yes the resurrection… but what about today? Who will help you raise your daughters? How will you ever be happy again without her? Is there a reason to go on without her?”
“Oh my Love!” Wailed the Farmer. “Why did He take you?”
“How could He take her?” Morticent corrected angrily. “He knew you needed her and He took her anyway!”
Farmer John’s fist tightened and the light all but disappeared, as though squeezed out by that motion. “Why?” he repeated through gritted teeth, his mind focusing on the injustice of it.
“Why didn’t she fight harder?” Morticent prompted again. “She could have made it but she just gave up.”
“She wanted to die.” Farmer John groaned.
“Wasn’t she happy here? Didn’t she love you and…”
“Daddy…” soft voice from upstairs called down. “Daddy, Mommy says it’s time for prayers.”
Farmer John’s head flew up. Morticent leaped forward to quickly squelch the flicker of light he saw in the blood shot eyes. “She is dead!” he hissed. “How could Suzanne make such a joke? It’s not funny!”
“Suzanne that’s not funny!” Farmer John shouted, hardly knowing what he said.
Morticent jumped on the anger and focused it. “She needs to understand she can’t do that. You can’t handle that. She needs to be punished.”
“But Daddy, Mommy said…” came the tearful voice of the four year old.
Farmer John stood up forcefully knocking his chair over. Morticent purposely knocked over the jug of water wetting the bottom of the portrait and cursed. Farmer John repeated the curse and stomped up stairs reaching for his belt at Morticent’s prompting. Morticent himself danced up behind him, drunk on the anger that grew in the devastated man’s heart.
But then something happened. Morticent was thrown down the stairs. Light filled the house leaving no where for Morticent to hide. He fled in confusion screaming his prompts in an effort to be heard but to no avail.
Pure love was the light that bright and strong, pure love so far from Farmer John’s heart as he ascended those stairs. What happened? Morticent would never know. But I will tell you.
Farmer John looked into his daughter’s room and saw the two girls huddled together on the bed crying. In their eyes, their eyes so like their mother’s, was the same fear he had seen on her face. And above them was a picture of Christ. The picture his wife had placed there and told the girls He would always take care of them. That’s when Morticent fell. Farmer John quickly stepped to the bed and gathered his girls up in his arms and prayed mightily. That’s when the angel came and chased Morticent far from the house, the guardian angle that looked just like the portrait on Farmer John’s table.
It's strange I know but I wish I could draw!
A twilight fog resting airily upon the eastern edge of Farmer John’s largest field concealed his stealthy movements. Blacker than the descending night Morticent rarely made a move that others perceived. He was night. He was shadow. Only his eyes, two blazing orbs, shone like a roaring fire, fire fueled by lust, anger, hate. Fire that consumed the lives of those who Morticent stalked, feeding off their weaknesses and providing fuel to enhance them.
Tom the cobbler saw at Moticent’s biding a vague view of dancing women. Anne his wife swathe look in his eyes and burned for days with the continues screams of injustice that Morticent whispered in her head. And Tom listened intently in turn to the cold bitter words of a long growing hate for his “selfish, possessive” wife. And so Morticent never went hungry.
The village children were warned about him. “Be kind to your sister or Morticent will come and get you in the night!” None realized he was currently consuming their own souls.
Tonight though, tonight Morticent was out to catch a new quarry. Farm John had long shut his door to Morticent, filling his home with so much light that there were no shadows to offer Morticent shelter. So, Morticent waited and watched, never satisfied with souls already won. Tonight there was something different. The light was dimmer. The fog drifted closer to the home carrying Morticent with it. Now he could see in the window.
Farmer John sat with his head in his hands, a photo of his lovely bride before him. Two young girls moved about upstairs removing their mourning dresses in preparation for bed.
Yes, now was the time. The shadows grew with each tear drop upon the Farmer’s table.
“Come Farmer, why do you cry?” came the hushed thought as Morticent slipped in the window. “Crying can not bring her back.”
“No.” agreed the Farmer sobbing even more deepening the shadows, allowing Morticent to creep nearer.
“No, nothing can bring her back.” He hissed in a tentatively angry voice.
“She shall be raised in the resurrection.” Came a feeble reply that barely glowed.
Morticent chuckled at this and continued. “Oh yes the resurrection… but what about today? Who will help you raise your daughters? How will you ever be happy again without her? Is there a reason to go on without her?”
“Oh my Love!” Wailed the Farmer. “Why did He take you?”
“How could He take her?” Morticent corrected angrily. “He knew you needed her and He took her anyway!”
Farmer John’s fist tightened and the light all but disappeared, as though squeezed out by that motion. “Why?” he repeated through gritted teeth, his mind focusing on the injustice of it.
“Why didn’t she fight harder?” Morticent prompted again. “She could have made it but she just gave up.”
“She wanted to die.” Farmer John groaned.
“Wasn’t she happy here? Didn’t she love you and…”
“Daddy…” soft voice from upstairs called down. “Daddy, Mommy says it’s time for prayers.”
Farmer John’s head flew up. Morticent leaped forward to quickly squelch the flicker of light he saw in the blood shot eyes. “She is dead!” he hissed. “How could Suzanne make such a joke? It’s not funny!”
“Suzanne that’s not funny!” Farmer John shouted, hardly knowing what he said.
Morticent jumped on the anger and focused it. “She needs to understand she can’t do that. You can’t handle that. She needs to be punished.”
“But Daddy, Mommy said…” came the tearful voice of the four year old.
Farmer John stood up forcefully knocking his chair over. Morticent purposely knocked over the jug of water wetting the bottom of the portrait and cursed. Farmer John repeated the curse and stomped up stairs reaching for his belt at Morticent’s prompting. Morticent himself danced up behind him, drunk on the anger that grew in the devastated man’s heart.
But then something happened. Morticent was thrown down the stairs. Light filled the house leaving no where for Morticent to hide. He fled in confusion screaming his prompts in an effort to be heard but to no avail.
Pure love was the light that bright and strong, pure love so far from Farmer John’s heart as he ascended those stairs. What happened? Morticent would never know. But I will tell you.
Farmer John looked into his daughter’s room and saw the two girls huddled together on the bed crying. In their eyes, their eyes so like their mother’s, was the same fear he had seen on her face. And above them was a picture of Christ. The picture his wife had placed there and told the girls He would always take care of them. That’s when Morticent fell. Farmer John quickly stepped to the bed and gathered his girls up in his arms and prayed mightily. That’s when the angel came and chased Morticent far from the house, the guardian angle that looked just like the portrait on Farmer John’s table.
Sep 27, 2007
The King Returns
Quick comment: I wrote this awhile back and forgot to post it... I need to work on the last post so don't stop giving critiques... I need them. Thanks :)
Here's the story...
In the dim twilight no one saw him enter. The man in the shadows seemed like just another dancing branch of the willow tree, dark against the brilliant lights of the party. They continued their revelry, watching, laughing, singing, dancing, and he remained unnoticed as he moved toward the refreshment table. Now it must be understood that it was very late and everyone had long ago given up watchfulness. They were all drunk with the time and the energy it took to revel.
There were, however, in the very back of the crowd a row of men and women who bleary eyed scanned the crowd and watched the entrances. Some even dozed off only to be tapped awake again by those sitting next to him. They had been watching for so long and yet the party grew more boisterous and the revelers more prevalent and they less heeded. Their invitation has said how the party was to go. Yet the Lord of the house still had not returned from his long absence. And those who continued to wait for him to start the party were left sitting while the party seemed to take place without them. And those who sat in the row waiting had long given up trying to remind them, for the music was too loud and the revelers too drunk.
The servants of the house brought out more food. The music band played gaily whatever the rioting crowd requested. And the people forgot why they were there, and in who’s garden they danced.
He watched from the shadows for some time, his eyes ablaze with feeling. How much he had to share with them if they had but waited!
A loud crash sounded out, stopping the music cold. Laugher sounded hollowly and choked to a stop as all eyes turned to see him. Standing in His glory with the table over turned. Each one sobered instantly as realization dawned. How came he to stand in the mist of them and they not notice it? Those who had been waiting leaned forward now completely awake again and ecstatic for his return. But the revelers? They stood in fright. Some at the edge of the crowd turned to flee. Others hung their heads and walked quickly by. None could meet his eyes, so filled with hurt, pity and righteous anger. None could continue to revel when suddenly they remembered all they had not done.
At last the garden emptied, leaving only he and they who had waited. Till now they had said nothing, just watched the frightful event. Now he turned to them and smiled. He signaled the servants and the party began.
The best fruit had not been touched for it had been saved for his return. The sweetest music had not been played for the riotous group knew not what to request. And to those who had waited he told his tale. Of all the knowledge he had and the kingdoms he had gained for them.
Here's the story...
In the dim twilight no one saw him enter. The man in the shadows seemed like just another dancing branch of the willow tree, dark against the brilliant lights of the party. They continued their revelry, watching, laughing, singing, dancing, and he remained unnoticed as he moved toward the refreshment table. Now it must be understood that it was very late and everyone had long ago given up watchfulness. They were all drunk with the time and the energy it took to revel.
There were, however, in the very back of the crowd a row of men and women who bleary eyed scanned the crowd and watched the entrances. Some even dozed off only to be tapped awake again by those sitting next to him. They had been watching for so long and yet the party grew more boisterous and the revelers more prevalent and they less heeded. Their invitation has said how the party was to go. Yet the Lord of the house still had not returned from his long absence. And those who continued to wait for him to start the party were left sitting while the party seemed to take place without them. And those who sat in the row waiting had long given up trying to remind them, for the music was too loud and the revelers too drunk.
The servants of the house brought out more food. The music band played gaily whatever the rioting crowd requested. And the people forgot why they were there, and in who’s garden they danced.
He watched from the shadows for some time, his eyes ablaze with feeling. How much he had to share with them if they had but waited!
A loud crash sounded out, stopping the music cold. Laugher sounded hollowly and choked to a stop as all eyes turned to see him. Standing in His glory with the table over turned. Each one sobered instantly as realization dawned. How came he to stand in the mist of them and they not notice it? Those who had been waiting leaned forward now completely awake again and ecstatic for his return. But the revelers? They stood in fright. Some at the edge of the crowd turned to flee. Others hung their heads and walked quickly by. None could meet his eyes, so filled with hurt, pity and righteous anger. None could continue to revel when suddenly they remembered all they had not done.
At last the garden emptied, leaving only he and they who had waited. Till now they had said nothing, just watched the frightful event. Now he turned to them and smiled. He signaled the servants and the party began.
The best fruit had not been touched for it had been saved for his return. The sweetest music had not been played for the riotous group knew not what to request. And to those who had waited he told his tale. Of all the knowledge he had and the kingdoms he had gained for them.
May 28, 2007
Discusion with my Pen
To write, to write upon a sheet of milky white. Why seem you so daunting? Once you and I, Dear Pen, were friends of many and various climbs. Exploring and adventuring through other’s lives and ideas of seemingly great purport. And yet I do to you what I have in store for all my talents. A nicely packed away place where you shall only be touched if eternity be within your grasp.
It is not the lack of reading as I have once told myself. “If only I were reading more my fingers would be inspired as before.” But alas this is not so. For a reader may read only that which she is inspired to read and I feel at the same loss for reading. Picking up a book and setting it down just as quickly.
There is so much to do! To think of doing! The future is looming up before me begging to be solved and accomplished. Things of the Kingdom are screaming for my attention. What have I to do with a pen who can only write things which have no eternal importance?!
And yet though they scream to me my hands seem tied and I am not free to do anything but remain sitting bound by my thoughts of all I want to do.
In a time when time is short on all sides and nothing is free but sacrificed for I must write! I must share this passion which spoken words and expression have such difficulty revealing of me. They must not say as they lay me in the grave. “She was sweet and kind. She was always pleasant yet never really fought for anything.” They must KNOW there is a fire that burns within me which will not let me hold still. It calls me by night and day “Be better, Be prepared!” for great work, no matter how small, must be placed at my Master’s feet with the enthusiasm of a child who has helped in such a tiny way her Father in His Great and Eternal work. I long, I strive, I must help build His kingdom!
And so Pen, if you want a place in my life, must you.
It is not the lack of reading as I have once told myself. “If only I were reading more my fingers would be inspired as before.” But alas this is not so. For a reader may read only that which she is inspired to read and I feel at the same loss for reading. Picking up a book and setting it down just as quickly.
There is so much to do! To think of doing! The future is looming up before me begging to be solved and accomplished. Things of the Kingdom are screaming for my attention. What have I to do with a pen who can only write things which have no eternal importance?!
And yet though they scream to me my hands seem tied and I am not free to do anything but remain sitting bound by my thoughts of all I want to do.
In a time when time is short on all sides and nothing is free but sacrificed for I must write! I must share this passion which spoken words and expression have such difficulty revealing of me. They must not say as they lay me in the grave. “She was sweet and kind. She was always pleasant yet never really fought for anything.” They must KNOW there is a fire that burns within me which will not let me hold still. It calls me by night and day “Be better, Be prepared!” for great work, no matter how small, must be placed at my Master’s feet with the enthusiasm of a child who has helped in such a tiny way her Father in His Great and Eternal work. I long, I strive, I must help build His kingdom!
And so Pen, if you want a place in my life, must you.
Another Rebelous speach.
“Happiness is fleeting.”
So they say. And who are “They” that they can tell me how long I can keep my happiness? Oh sure circumstances chance quickly. But what does that have to do with my state of happiness? Are these the same “they” who say I must suffer through the majority of my life to get to the good part? I mean really! Who put such negative people in charge of saying what life is like? Did they EVER get to the “good” part? And why do we not only listen to them but adapt their philosophies into our lives and then wonder why we’re not happy? “They” obviously weren’t either. Is it possible they are right?
HECK NO! I say we rebel! I say “we” become the “They”s for our children. So our children may say “They say life is wonderful. And so it has become.”
So they say. And who are “They” that they can tell me how long I can keep my happiness? Oh sure circumstances chance quickly. But what does that have to do with my state of happiness? Are these the same “they” who say I must suffer through the majority of my life to get to the good part? I mean really! Who put such negative people in charge of saying what life is like? Did they EVER get to the “good” part? And why do we not only listen to them but adapt their philosophies into our lives and then wonder why we’re not happy? “They” obviously weren’t either. Is it possible they are right?
HECK NO! I say we rebel! I say “we” become the “They”s for our children. So our children may say “They say life is wonderful. And so it has become.”
Apr 18, 2007
It's a Girl!
What magic to feel
Your insides reel
To know that she is REAL
How fun to see her poke and kick
How beautiful to know
She so presious now to me
Is still more presious to Him
Not my best poem ever but I wrote it just now so there.
I love my little girl... I know she's been in my life since atleast last september... though probably much longer. And I am grateful for her. She is kicking me now and it doesn't feel as funny as I thought it would. It is nice to know that the Lord led me here many years after I had wanted it... and yet not a moment too late. Because back in September I felt she would come in August or Sept... I had just hoped it ment she would be concieved then, but she didn't come till it was her time. IF I had been married any sooner to anyone else... she might not have been mine. I am glad of the wait.
mE
Your insides reel
To know that she is REAL
How fun to see her poke and kick
How beautiful to know
She so presious now to me
Is still more presious to Him
Not my best poem ever but I wrote it just now so there.
I love my little girl... I know she's been in my life since atleast last september... though probably much longer. And I am grateful for her. She is kicking me now and it doesn't feel as funny as I thought it would. It is nice to know that the Lord led me here many years after I had wanted it... and yet not a moment too late. Because back in September I felt she would come in August or Sept... I had just hoped it ment she would be concieved then, but she didn't come till it was her time. IF I had been married any sooner to anyone else... she might not have been mine. I am glad of the wait.
mE
Mar 30, 2007
I have to speak out!
They are all liars!
They've been sold on the same masochistic lie that their parents were sold on!
The Lord never ...anywhere... said "Life sucks. Deal with it"
No he said, "men are that they might have joy". He said that man's labor is to bring him joy...not something which he must suffer through to get to the good stuff.
So why should men have to accept working in misery... getting pot bellies from STRESS? That's not what I think the Lord had in mind!
If you aren't happy... wouldn't the Lord provide as way out? Even if it's just an aditude adjustment or learning a higher principle...or in really bad cases leaving it.
THAT much of your life(40 hours, if your lucky, a week. for minumim of 40 years) should NOT be spent in misery!
They've been sold on the same masochistic lie that their parents were sold on!
The Lord never ...anywhere... said "Life sucks. Deal with it"
No he said, "men are that they might have joy". He said that man's labor is to bring him joy...not something which he must suffer through to get to the good stuff.
So why should men have to accept working in misery... getting pot bellies from STRESS? That's not what I think the Lord had in mind!
If you aren't happy... wouldn't the Lord provide as way out? Even if it's just an aditude adjustment or learning a higher principle...or in really bad cases leaving it.
THAT much of your life(40 hours, if your lucky, a week. for minumim of 40 years) should NOT be spent in misery!
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