Ktgevenson

Check out The Intangible if you're a fan of really weird and dark fiction.

https://open.spotify.com/episode/6gLcaGPK06fH7uYQN7HyTh?si=TJGLMuetSuy58Rc3Th9V3A

9/10ths done (as if any poem is ever actually finished)

Tell the Swaying Grass

He drew a final, forlorn breath. One reedy, heron-neck whistle to contrast and accompany the quiet sting of anticipation, the fleeting calm, and a moment of wild, exuberant peace just before the cold, shrill cacophony of panic took hold. Before those black-eyed indifferent witnesses. Before violent hip thrusts and uncontrollable writhing. Before the frantic clutching of contorted hands and desperate fingers which find only more and more naked, empty air. A seeking need.

A forlorn heron whistle followed by a wretched, clicking wheeze.

The others made no sound. They watched, unmoving, as the moment passed.

When he finished, he was dismissed. Disposed along the soon-forgotten sandy coastal shores, left alone to navigate that uncaring salted breeze.

Not sent ahead with clamor. Left behind by untamed flock. Left by his flamboyance.

So it went and always was among flamingos, brilliant in those ebbing, waning tides.

Close your eyes and really, really listen,
Beyond the quiet whispers of the lemon grass,
farther,
Even farther
Softer still

You'll hear the song of cat-tails singing by the sea.

Send a message to learn more

This is the brief opening for an audio drama I'm writing/ working on. It's meant to give the listener a broadview feel for the world and environment. Immediately after this, the story will (does) begin in January 1911, in Iowa.

--

NARRATOR:
The black mass slithered overhead, slipping and curling under and over and around itself like ink-slick tentacles, three, smoke-smooth tendrils oozing through the stark, pale-blue morning sky. Three writhing shadows of Behemoth tongue, twisting and braiding and untying themselves in and out of their single, perpetual tangle of knot.

To the east, in places meant for holy worship, they are called an Abyss; to the west, they are known as Void.

OLD BONE DIGGER:
'Round here, we call 'em what the hellin' they looks like - eeeels. But nobody knows their True Name.

No one knows much about them at all anymore, if they ever did before. There's plenty of 'em around, we know that. Always swim in threes, as far as anybody's told. Don't know what they eat or even if they eat. Don't often cause much harm to us - none that I can say. And when they do, it's hard to say if it's on purpose or by accident since it only happens when you hear their strange, fancy noise, rumor told. A few folks claim they've heard the eel-song. Others claim the sound will turn you deaf to hear it once, but could be nothin' more than talky-talk, all truth.

One thing is for certain - they are black as witching hour on a winter's solstice. A limitless black. It's a dark so deep and absolute it's dismal. If you allow your tender eye to linger just a little too long on one of 'em, it'll turn your stomach inside out so fast you'll wish you might forget your own name. You bet it will.

I s'pose they might be slightly more than a bit discomforting if I spent too long thinking on 'em, but I ain't got the time for that. I got bones to dig. Always gotta be bone-digging, least must do if I'd like to keep on as the Bone Digger, which I would.

Yup. Best I get diggin!

So long for now. Shorter soon, may speak again!

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"No longer stranded like a painted bird on a fan

Hover in the diving light
We will rip the night
Out of the arms of the sun
One more time

Close your eyes and we will fly
Above the crowded sky
And over the dumbstruck world we will run

We can rip the night out of the arms of the sun."

-Chris Cornell