The Fire by Joshua E. Thompson

A reading of my poem, The Fire. No I’m not good at this but I wanna practise so I can keep my bases covered incase I need work.

Enjoy anyway.

Fix’d. I was trying to use the wrong filetype.

Eleven Eight

*Darting, quick as light

The figure sped now gone

*A snap of twig, wheel

Around to the sound

*But it is far gone

And only birds call now

—————————–

*In the clearing sat he

The sun boy, still

*To kill is our task,

We complete it for

*Our master, and god

From the earth risen

—————————–

*We run, fast we go

Armed with rocks and blades

*Through knee-high bushels,

We speed onwards,

*It is destiny we

Must fulfil to win

—————————–

*The Heart, of Mother Earth

For eternal glory

——————————————————-

Here’s a tip. Comma’s are worth 1 of 11.

The Fire

It was in this black and dreaded night,
My house-maid caught a terrible fright!
Turn on the light,
Give death its spite!
A sprite it was, decided without fight.

With all my might, so that I might smite,
The horrifying sprite that bode that night,
I rose and began,
At the image of a man,
Who looked as if an artisan.

Good sir said I, sit you here,
Why you look as if you have something to fear.
Darkness does draw near
Close enough to sear,
But please, let us enjoy this beer.

And as they sat the darkness came,
And the sensation to the maid was the very same.
Licking along the hall of game,
Was a terrifying flame,
But to this abomination we can give no name.

From the hall of game the fire spread to art,
And the unexpected crackling gave the mistress of the house a start.
Bolting upright, to be ridden of the hot,
She ran unflinchingly, but it did a fat lot.
For the fire had consumed her, but no-one was besot.

A great roar had arisen,
And before the stranger it froze,
Palms ahead,
And a stare set into his head,
The fire receded to the strangers chant of prose.

And as it leapt in reverse,
It cleaned with every verse.

And the stranger sat down once more,
Whilst the smell of burning was scrubbed from the floor.

In that black and dreaded night,
Upon which my house-maid caught fright,
My house had burned,
But alas returned,
And after a while, the stranger uttered, “Good night.”

by Joshua E. Thompson

An Excercept.

Thick sheets of greasy rain pounded against the window. The small, thick paned window was the only deviation of the dull grey walls of the commodious cell. Adorning the wall sat gaudy representations of cultural art, machined tapestries, and printed masterpieces. At the centre of the room sat a shrunken figurine. The lips were drawn tightly around the misaligned teeth, some missing, others scourged by terrible disease whilst the tongue was lumpy and gray. Thin, bedraggled locks of hair hung unceremoniously around a misshaped skull, where malignant scars sat pompously. Ragged strips of clothing hung about a body with skin shrunk to the bone. The legs of the figure were contorted and freshly re-broken. The figure lolled hopelessly upon the hard wooden bench. Around the room were a series of cameras and microphones, recording every move of the figure. The door opposite the window creaked open slowly of un-oiled hinges, perfectly resounding a perfect Middle A across the forsaken walls.

In the square, a pair of stocky figures collided for a fleeting moment, then after exchanging a brief formality, hurried on their way to be rid of the biting cold and lashing rain. Watching the blatant escapade was a moustachioed male. Standing tall and proud, watching over his citizens, he felt a small twinge of compassion, which was immediately crushed by the necessity of the act, or so he was told. Pivoting smartly, he faced the manager of war. The manager of war was not an enlisted man, or ever had been in any army or war. He held no rank, and as a mere technicality, had ceased to exist as soon as he was made the manager of war. With no words exchanged, the manager pulled out a small tablet, and with a few swift jabs, the deed was done. The moustachioed man smiled wanly, as though it was not a custom he favoured. The manager of war stepped backwards, bowed reverentially, stepping through the doorway into the corridor, taking pains to close the door as quietly as possible. Noise was not an object to be presented in the presence of the moustachioed man.

Nothing more to be said.

Dispelling Misconceptions (Before They Are Formed)

This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a blog. You are currently reading the first ever post on this blog (written by me). In this blog I wish to discuss, whatever it is I want to discuss, but mark this, the text you will read may be prolix, and I may ramble on enigmatically for a post or two, because I can. That is all on this front.

If you enjoy books, video games, the Internet, insights on life, angry typing, prolix writing, reading things, and religiously checking RSS feeds for new posts, then sign up now.

Because all of the above you will see here. And maybe some more. It depends really.

That’s all for the first post.

P.S: I guess I forgot to mention I am a musician of sorts. And if I finally discover any ability to compose music, I’ll be sure to put it up here somehow. Now that’s all.