The Bantering Welshman
M.S. Humphreys is The Bantering Welshman, an East Tennessee native, author, journalist, storyteller, marketing specialist, husband and step father. https://www.instagram.com/thebanteringwelshman/ and http://www.banteringwelshman.com
The Dead Colon
So, it is my tradition: nigh on 13 years now. Nothing else can be gleaned from this if that isn’t made clear. It is my tradition that I read Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol every Christmas, but this year I read it differently; this year I studied it; this year gave birth to questions.
A New Spirit on the Breeze A ghostly gray was the evening air, an ethereal soup of snow filled clouds and filtered moonlight, but black as pitch was the horse and carriage parked in front of the modest country home. It was a strong and proud horse with a shiny mane, and as handsome a carriage as ever a carriage was, but only sorrow could the presence of this rig bring to the grieving family within the home, for it meant a beating heart had gone silent.
I haven’t visited my blog in a while. In fact, I’ve been off my writing game for weeks. Less than mediocre book sales and current events have been very depressing and distracting. It seems my creativity and my opinion do not operate well together and I won’t tarnish my blog with political opinion. This is all about writing.
Introducing the End All Be All superhero crew of entertainment, lyrical legends, melodious masters of musical mixes and purveyors of pure home-grown hip hop without the hierarchy of lubricious corporate greed. Up and coming are the princes of prose, the royal remasters, the G-Vegas monarchs of Imperial Inc. Music.
In the gloom of my subconscious, I could just make out the dirty yellow sphere of the Sun through the opaque air made thick from the smoke of generations burning. I thought it had all been a dream, but I woke within this nightmare. I struggled to focus, uncertain if I was dead or if I had ever been alive. Even my memories were dulled and out of focus in the darkness of the lingering cloud. I began to move about conveyed by spirit, ethereal and without notice of my physical body. As if time turned back on itself, smoke and flame coalesced returning nature to its state of order before the chaos.
Growing up helping Mom and Dad in our garden, I always thought there was something magical and empowering about working the ground, planting a seed and putting food on our table. Likewise, it is deeply spiritual to me to stare up a towering silver maple that I remember Dad putting in the ground as a sapling; the same tree I used to cut the suckers and water sprouts from so one main trunk would grow tall, straight and true.