Excerpt
Global Cooling
GLOBAL COOLING slowly extends towards a series of ice-ages in the wingspan of these epochs while APES arise and diversify; Grasslands extend Islands in the ocean clearing of primordial forest at first setting for camps for forests in extent dwindling in some extent to great wide opens (limited at every wooded edge, where that limit isn’t sea or mountain. Deifying the Science Myth: advertised as an Eden Age when Flora and Fauna become recognizably Modern. The Idyll’s stage was set then though in archaic creature forms long before any leader would bring his beasts to pasture and the dogs operated in brigand bands without any human head to organize their genes
By Rob Angeli3 years ago in Fiction
All About Goats. Content Warning.
GOATHERD CONTESTANTS both —Why do we not oh Mopsy you and I good fellows both convene together, you to blow the reeds and I to beat the verses: here in the mixed grove to sit between hazels and elms recording the cruel extinction of Daphnis that the nymphs enact weeping the various mourners’ rites with hazels and brooklets bearing testimonial witness?
By Rob Angeli3 years ago in Fiction
Sketch: Millennial Rage
Sketch again (Millennial rage the newest hottest voices): A present generation now of shepherd youth learning the ropes of herdsmanship, so spending lots of time singing songs and recanting incantations contemporary to their forbears that told infectious gossip about the newest hottest voices recollected in Past Song Fame. This once passed as the very definition of craftsmanship. They mourned the silence of the songbreakers so jaded and sick with plaints so sick of love thus no longer lovesick, reed-breakers, aulos-smashers, tibia crushers, flesh and blood and bone, and others gone with these reallocated land portions bringing many a Chloe and a Lycidas from the countryside into being city dwellers after being shoved out of their own fields and robbed by the Government of their precious Herds: thus runs progress and the industrial revolution and the august Caesars and all the rest. They would reflect on past tradition, the dead departed and those who ceased to sing and poetize for whatever reason, and recite their now-classic songs: success as seasons and as the seasons flow a series, they will renew, every present tense being cast of leaf and trunk and flowery field or grassy slope, succession without transition, a world of dead campestral memories, crying for next generation’s resurrection, like the seasons, the blooming, and the snow, in spiral plant sex orgies and hibernation, a texture of rampant rhizomes, there is no break in the Daisy-Chain: they observed Nature, and sang about What they saw via the marvel of mammalian senses, they were animists, decanting the vintage of leaf and trunk and fur and tooth, and sweet heat of mating season, in normalcy or inverted form, in season or just when-fuckin-ever in whatever place, whatever flower grove or bower; eternal fields not in being everlasting but in repeating themselves in degree of succession which was the resurrection in nature or in culture and not just the sentimental revival but Daphnis himself in his fragmentary songs preserved only as quotations in other writers and Rosalind’s invaluable and green-thumbed gardening tips she who was popularly called the Green Reaper (by apellation contrôlée) in the Thessalonically Heliconoid domaine she once in olden days would haunt (a dream-realm with gorgeously painted sceneries between the Tagus and the Euphrates in Euboican Hesperidicana land, New World, until she moved to Sicily with her Syracusan boyfriend in a paradise for good sheep and meek pastors once they get over Love and focus on the Works and the Days, and other useful agricultural DIY manuals: profligate in the land of Kent A Golden Aged Return (the Return on which many departed Herdsman rhythmed their strophes, the hoped-for Homecoming, fitting Subject, and all for the Season) expectant of the Green Thumb or the Reaper and the sexy sacred youth and maidenhead repeatedly reinvigorated tho constantly mowed down w/the sweeping swipe of that sickle.
By Rob Angeli3 years ago in Fiction
Arcadia in a Sicilian Painting
ARCADIA in a Sicilian Painting It was a thick grove of white poplars, flowering thorns and intricate thickets, in which a thousand amorous vines intertwined, and with tight lacing enwound. In the fields, that could be seen at a little distance, it seems that Mistress Nature wanted the earth to compete with the beauty of the stars of the sky by the variety of Her panoply of flowers. And it was there that the Springtime of the Fables unrolled Her painted carpets, for the gardens of Jupiter: or not otherwise than in the great stained-glass windows of variegated squares and triangles and such in mosaic, all seen in vast swaths of undulating change, and the sunflowers beam on the meadow.
By Rob Angeli3 years ago in Fiction
Questioning
It’s been weeks since I dropped them off at the ferry dock. “Don’t call me,” I told them, “Don’t call any number that goes back to the Punishment.” Blair had nodded in a way that made me sure she understood, and wonder if she’d already decided not to. She was only 15, barely 15. To the Fa’e that may be adult, but I wonder if she’s grown up enough to handle being away from home. Blair Jamison’s not just another soldier, in the end she is a pampered rich girl. She’s has the same bruises as everyone else in her class, the same ones we all get during combat training. She would have been a solid soldier, if she had stayed.
By Alice Wakefield3 years ago in Fiction
The Realm of Hearts
In the realm of hearts, where love resides, A tale unfolds of two souls entwined. Through the tapestry of life they glide, Their love, a flame that forever shines. With every dawn, their spirits awake, Eyes locked in a gaze, a silent vow they make. In the dance of affection, they find solace and peace, Love's symphony within their hearts will never cease. In her eyes, he sees a universe so vast, Where constellations of love are cast. Her smile, like a sunbeam on a cloudy day, Guides him through storms, lighting the way. In his embrace, she finds strength and care, A sanctuary where she's free from despair. His touch, a gentle caress on her skin, Ignites a fire, a passion burning within. Hand in hand, they brave the world's storm, Together they conquer, their love the norm. Through life's trials, they remain steadfast, Their love, an anchor, forever to last. In whispers, they share secrets of the soul, The depths of their love, no one can control. Their laughter dances like a sweet melody, Filling each moment with pure ecstasy. In the garden of love, their hearts bloom, Fragrant petals of affection in full bloom. Their love story, a masterpiece divine, A symphony of two hearts intertwined. For love knows no boundaries, no limit to time, It transcends the mundane, it is sublime. Their love, a force that breaks through walls, United they stand, as destiny calls. In this ode to love, let our hearts be stirred, By the beauty of a love that's undeterred. May it inspire us to cherish and adore, To find love's essence and forever explore. For in love's embrace, we find our true worth, A treasure that blesses our time on Earth. Let this love poem be a reminder, a sign, That love is the essence of the divine.
By Crystal Ventures3 years ago in Fiction
Psychological Horror
The old house stood ominously at the end of the street, its crumbling façade and broken windows hinting at a dark history. It was said that those who entered never returned the same. Samantha, a young psychology student fascinated by the human mind, couldn't resist the allure of the abandoned house. Ignoring the warnings of her friends, she ventured inside, eager to explore the depths of psychological horror firsthand.
By Ademola Samuel 3 years ago in Fiction
Whispers of Love. Content Warning.
Chapter 1: Serendipitous Encounter As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the city, Sarah found herself lost in the bustling streets. She had always been a dreamer, with her head in the clouds and a heart full of longing for something more. On this particular evening, fate intervened, guiding her to a quaint café tucked away on a quiet corner.
By Word Weaver 3 years ago in Fiction
