The Pastor's Tale

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin tonight, he wondered. Tasting the young night moth. Just aborn this very evenin, by the sweetness of it. Listening forward, then by the side, he slow walked to the pastor's lane. I am stiller'n the serpent egg, I am. All awrapped and makin shadows. He sniffed - Ah, there's the pastor's breath, close and warm. I'm fat swimmin now, I am. Hungry for the sermon's tongue. Save me, pastor, sang the pale shape of desire. I am the lord's chariot, come down to take you home.

I am the resurrected, he sighed. I am your doubt, I am your black howl. And over the poor and pebbled paths he walked, neither turnin nor rustlin rock, leaf. Til pon the pastor's door he cast his longing. I am angelus come to make my mark. Then sitting down before the servant's door, he tasted lock and knob and frail sad secrets.

I am salvation, he moaned. Come to me and bring your godliness. I would come in, pastor-man. I would come in.

And so it was through window sealed and brick amortared, past crucefix silver, n past wood apolished with fingers' oil, he came upon the man envirtued. Came upon the old god's faithful. Came ensorceled, all a-magicked. And when our pastor's eyes alit upon this most unwelcome, he saw the son. He saw heaven's light.

I bring you eternal life, man of mortal dust. I am the hope, I am the way and the return. Rise up and seek your golden shores here, in me. Rise up and give yourself freely to me, for I am redemption. So it was that night, when darkness came a-stalkin, the pastor was cast down. And the old house heard the boy a-laughin, heard the words all ancient, felt the hot and soured breathin. Then without memory all quiet came again.

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin this summered night?

By the Bay

He leaned his elbow on my table, cigarette in the air, sulky little beast. A frivolity with a puce scarf. Small ears tight against his head; thick hair swept high. All pout and endless upkeep.

He ran head down, hands protecting his head as stones were thrown from heaven. Again, again, hit, blood running into sweat across his eyes. Pain in his lungs, heart thrashing. A roar all around, hard and raw blasts of lightning pushing him. Searing wind, acrid, dust-filled, howling. Awful wail of angelic song piercing his eardrums, driving deep into his head. Foot jammed, something wrong with his legs, spasms down his calves. Falling. Fallen.

His nose broke as he hit the ground. Cartilege splattered, coarse dirt grinding into his cheek and forehead. Left wrist cracked as he tried to brace the fall. He whispered, "I am undone."

Michael, sitting on His Throne, looked down and whispered in turn, "Indeed."

The Tale of the Singin Lad

He was a singin lad, browner'n cookin butter. And a whistlin lad, and ain't that an ooh la la? He loved cracklin sweet rabbit, greens all stirred up with bacon 'n onions 'n all the good things his maw-maw thought proper. He was a findin lad, 'tweren't a lost doodad in all the county that didn't call out his name. So with a skip and a jump, a grinnin smile and a 'how ya do?' he was out. Out through the garden gate, betwixt ole man apple and the blackberry patch. Not so much a rustle nor a flip 'n a flap did he leave on the summer path. Yes, lawdy yes, he was a laughin lad.

Goin like a glimmer, nuthin but a shadow to the papa-fox all slyin. Just half a breathin shadow slippin past some acorn trees, smellin up the butternuts. No schoolin, no scoldin. No whuppins or weepins for our favorite lad. Our singin lad.

Livin's just like cotton candy, says his maw-maw. Light 'n meltin, gone afore the tastin's done. But sweet, child, sweet. So quick, my lad, live quick, live lightnin. Live faster'n all the summer clouds. Drink the rain a'fallin, cool and full of heaven's grace.

But luck's all feckless, mean 'n fickle. There's witches spellin, darkness huntin. Them that love no laughin boy. Them with pride a-twisted, covetous 'n heavy down with greed. On that day they heard the summer song, hid hushed behind the jasmine bloomin. Hungerin for the lad. On that day the moon was moanin, full up in the blindin sky. Omen fell, 'n omen sorrowed. For our jolly lad.

There was a singin lad, browner'n cookin butter.

The Pastor's Tale

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin tonight, he wondered. Tasting the young night moth. Just aborn this very evenin, by the sweetness of it. Listening forward, then by the side, he slow walked to the pastor's lane. I am stiller'n the serpent egg, I am. All awrapped and makin shadows. He sniffed - Ah, there's the pastor's breath, close and warm. I'm fat swimmin now, I am. Hungry for the sermon's tongue. Save me, pastor, sang the pale shape of desire. I am the lord's chariot, come down to take you home.

I am the resurrected, he sighed. I am your doubt, I am your black howl. And over the poor and pebbled paths he walked, neither turnin nor rustlin rock, leaf. Til pon the pastor's door he cast his longing. I am angelus come to make my mark. Then sitting down before the servant's door, he tasted lock and knob and frail sad secrets.

I am salvation, he moaned. Come to me and bring your godliness. I would come in, pastor-man. I would come in.

And so it was through window sealed and brick amortared, past crucefix silver, n past wood apolished with fingers' oil, he came upon the man envirtued. Came upon the old god's faithful. Came ensorceled, all a-magicked. And when our pastor's eyes alit upon this most unwelcome, he saw the son. He saw heaven's light.

I bring you eternal life, man of mortal dust. I am the hope, I am the way and the return. Rise up and seek your golden shores here, in me. Rise up and give yourself freely to me, for I am redemption. So it was that night, when darkness came a-stalkin, the pastor was cast down. And the old house heard the boy a-laughin, heard the words all ancient, felt the hot and soured breathin. Then without memory all quiet came again.

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin this summered night?

By the Bay

The Parable of the Boy Who Figured

Toe in, toe out. He sat awonderin. Splashin n thinkin. Figurin. The ole black thing was out there, hoppin over the water. Sometimes faster'n he was, sometimes not. It was a fair day. Yesterday his sister became dead. But it was different, it was. He might become dead some day, maybe not. No way alookin there, there wasn't.

Maybe he'd fish, n maybe he wouldn't. Thinkin bout fishin was a better thing, that he did know for certain. N certain was his favorite. So up he was, for when the time came for clappin n skippin, for roamin n inspectin, a fella had to follow. For that's what fellas were for, and on that he was sure and certain. Yes, indeed, today was a fair day.

And the road went up, and the road went down. Now there was goin to do, and a bit a comin as well. But just til when the day said, "Enough, fella. Enough." He had his trusty bag, filled with all the things a trusty bag ought to have. He had his very best stick, n bread enough for two. Weren't that a smilin thing? So ear to ground he waited for the gossipin of the stones to learn him well. N eye to sky he looked higher n the day-dim moon. He was a crafty lad.

With a jump n a leap he was off. Quieter n the witch's breath was our lad. Look twice, then look thrice and still you'd be pressed to see this lad. He had places to see, n flowers to smell n mushrooms all tasty n hankerin to eat. It was a fair day, indeed it was.

Yesterday his ma became dead. But yesterday had no hold on 'im. That's why yesterday wasn't today - oh no indeed, the very reason why. It was for the losin, not the gettin. Your feet pointed front, not back. Tho that'd be a pretty sight. N your nose was where it was. Now there's clever n there's smart, and our fella knew both.

If there was a troll, he'd smite it. If there was a fairy, he'd catch it. No ogre under any bridge was faster'n our boy. He had a tra and a la, 'n a fa dee dee. He had toes for climbin, n fingers for findin. So he ran n he ran, til the hills fell flat, n the rivers fell into yesterday. He ran til you couldn't figure day from dark. And when he stopped, it was only cause he came to the very end. There were no more road, n no more bread. N the moon became dead yesterday.

Now this was no place for a fella to be, no indeed. With no more goin, or fishin or splashin. So all that a fella could do, he did. He closed his eyes, n held his breath. N figured harder than any boy had ever figured. N when he heard the green frog croakin, smelled the butter churnin, he figured, "That's right enough, that is." So he sat by the river, toes in the water, ponderin.

By the Bay

Knowin Forward

Evenin
I was ponderin, sittin by the kitchen bowls. Some up, some down. Waitin for the dust to stop its flyin. It's where I sat, lookin for the evenin start. Ready for the sun to settle. Then I wouldn't mind if I took to dancin, thinkin yesterday's. I couldna see my face in the garden window, but that's alright. I was twixt n tween.

I was sittin lone, where I always sat. Owlish, I was. Aperched on my daddy's stool, made for evenin watchin. Ponderin. Maybe bout the cherry tree, maybe not.

Then my feet took to their ways and I was here, around, skimmin like an old stoled dream. You can't go against your ways when the sun's a'settin. They might take you out against the garden walls. Out into the sleepin times. A softer place there never was. Fit n ready.

Mornin
Old man sun was a'shakin me. Hollerin: "Get up, get up, silly fella! Sleepin by the garden wall just like your daddy." But first is first, and I was wonderin - where was that old cherry tree? I seem to remember those sweet n red n juicy cherries just jumpin in my mouth. But a twig's all I see, so what a mornin this'll be. Breakfast'll be hard 'nless I move. No bread a'bakin, milk a'callin.

So I ran, I did, into my daddy's room - wonderin what I'd find. And by fiddle dee and fiddle dum, there he was, cradled in my granny's arms. Small n tender, sleepin to her sleepin song. She hushed me proper, did sweet granny. Knowin forward, as she would do. Seein me yesterday n seein me tomorrow. But I were gone today.

By the Bay

The Parable of the Egg

Down under leafy cover, he was. Ahidden, in his quiet bedding, lay the forest's foundling. No more than cub, slept this boy acurled with sharpened rock and pointed branch. Old trees listened to his breathing; mice chased away the crawlers; wonder ate away the night.

Then dim and fallow sun broke his sleep in two. And in a gush the boy was leaping out and mute-shouting in the still. Calling all the breezes and stirrings for a taste. Ear and tongue, nose and eye drinking n eating the morning's offers. Quiet as the oaken elders, was this boy thing. Ready for his hunt.

Ear to ground, eye to sky, tongue to wind. Just a legged hawk, he was. Just barely grounded, quick n swooping. Over anted mounds and through eel-thrashed waters. Stabbing, taking, then stopped as cold corpse bones. Asliding into moss deep places. He was no mother's dream, our found child.

Came a'calling the sparrow's song. Came a'visioning the swallow's nest. And with a run, quick as dying went the foundling up the golden tree. Up n up into the bowers thick with spring. Sniffing for the boy's sole prize. He was deep into the ancient dream when sudden came the feral smile. Fingers fierce n needing clutched the small bird's hope. Stole a nest's poor treasure. Apound, apound went his joy. With swift small jabs those fingers cracked and raised the shell to lip. But out came no yolken life. Out came shriek n wail. Out came harsh n ash. N with a shake, n with a horror fell the foundling. Fell the boy. Fell the last of all the boys that came into the world.

Acooing with her little flutters, came the sorrowed mother bird. Laid her eggs anew.

By the Bay

The Parable of the Yesterday Child

Mornings meant toast. Toast meant apple butter. And apple butter meant ... ? He forgot. Sometimes he would remember. But not this time. Sometimes his brother would write clues and leave them under his pillow. Or behind his great aunt's knitting bag. Maybe other places, but he wasn't sure. He was very short and some special places were very high. You see, he lived in the biggest house on all of Dandelion Street. Which crossed Verbena, which crossed Maravilla. Mmm, or was it Mandrigora? But he had never been that far so it was perfectly OK. Some days he could count all of the stairs in the whole house. Not all of the days. He had never seen a mirror.

Some days he would listen to the hummingbirds whispering. All the way from his orange juice to his lunch. Some days he would hang from the old willow's branches and sing to the spiders. His song today would be of black holes and event horizons. Maybe words n tra la la bout dark matter. But dark matter was a troublesome thing and he wouldna want to disappoint the spiders.

If he closed his eyes tight tight tight. If he shut out the sun and his father and his heart noise. And if he could think just right. Sometimes, sometimes he could walk backwards. Into yesterday.

By the Bay.