Evan Hawthorn's Blog

Evan Hawthorn's Blog
(visual aid by Christian Schloe)

Monday, May 30, 2016

Mock's unblighted plight

[this second set of stitched stanzas, assembled as an explanatory preamble
to the latest chapter in my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven
Curmudgeons", relates the tale of Mock's injuries, and their transcendence,
ending as the Curmudgeons and their friends gather together for the
merry feast of Aethelwort's Eve.]
** *** * ***** * ** **** ** * ***** * *** **
Nate pulled a chisel from his ruptured knapsack
and shakily attained his unsteady feet.
then he kissed Mock's forehead and started off,
as valiant a hero as one could hope to meet.

"where are you going?" Mock breathlessly asked,
toppling again from his bark-encrusted crutches.

"to have a go at saving our Sleazy.
i can't just leave him in that horrid thing's clutches."

as Nate descended into the gully,
Sappy sat up, and surveyed the scene with wonder.
"i have the impression we've been here before.
something to do with a housekeeping blunder.
why, this is the spot where we salvaged the sack,
with the watchrug and battlerack, remember?"

"me 'ead's in an awful muddle, Sappy.
i've a notion that beastie gave me distemper."

"surely not, silly old bean.  but come sit down.
i want to inspect those clotted bandages."
Mock winced while he warily lowered himself,
casting aside his knotted appendages.

Sappy visibly flinched from what he uncovered,
a ground up mash of puce and livid red;
the missing kneecap, several severed toes,
and the seeping, shredded skin, hanging by a thread.
his fingers were singed by a blistering fever
inflaming the tainted, shivering frame.
he was far from certain he'd ever recover
but harboured no doubts he'd been rendered lame.

"well, what do you think?" Mock placidly inquired,
gazing obscurely into the mire.

"i think i'll gather some fallen kindling.
it's high time we lighted a night-biding fire."

***** * ***** * ***** * *****
the skittish fire that Sappy had set,
crackling in the shelter of prehistoric stones
was encouraged by the flickering moonlight,
fostering warmth in their chilled and dampened bones.
as he rocked Mock in a cradle of compassion
the skies spilled out their spurting, silver sheets,
and he lulled the delirious ramblings
of anxious adolescence roaming lonely streets.

Mock closed his eyes when the winds subsided,
and the deluge dwindled to intermittent drip.
as the moon traipsed off in search of perspective,
Sappy hunkered down for a cursory kip.

** *** * *** ** * ** *** * *** **
Sylvana was sewing Mock's severed shreds,
coaxing his wounds in the manner Guanyin taught her
with the wandering stitches she'd handed down
from the Man in the Moon's transvestite daughter.
sprinkling his skin with an elixir of herbs,
she released the fever in sweltering streams
and sealing her charms with susurration,
dissolved the delirium reeling from his dreams.

"do you think he can travel?" inquired Sappy
peeping anxiously over her shoulder,
whilst wrapping ropes round ripped apart satchels
and piling them up in the lee of a boulder.

"he'll float with Chester, and don't start fretting.
i give you my word he's entirely benign.
can you hand me my wriggling sack of stitches?
it's over there next to that creeping vine."

Sappy pursued her bobbing directions
to the spry, slinking tendrils of unattached greens.
it wasn't a vine but one of Mock's crutches
spurting like it sprouted from Jack's magic beans.
leaves were unfolding with unstilted grace
while his face was a study in consummate shock.
"Nate carved those out of dead, fallen branches.
they were properly staid when we gave them to Mock."

as they stared at the staves in wide-eyed wonder
the furthest thrusting sprig arrived at Mock's toes,
and seeming to be pleased with this achievement
left off its flailing and acquired repose.
they stood transfixed in pools of stranded light,
sifting and slanting through the sloped, sunken barrow
till Nate passed the portal of staggered stones
in the company of the catering sparrow.

"your friends have turned up with Rashful and the twins.
they're wanting to know when we're planning to leave.
if we start anon and stay out of trouble
we'll be at the spookhouse for Aethelwort's Eve."

Sappy was moved by this tender echo
of Pally's spirited endearment for their home
and deeming that Nate could do with distraction,
pointed at the lumber stemming through the loam.
the woodsman was baffled at what he beheld
for Mock was cocooned in a latticework bed,
cushioned on a bower of shuffling leaves
while stalks were entwining beneath his dozing head.

but cottoning on to what he'd been seeing
when his carpenter's mark went sidling by,
he was seized by a sudden access of angst
and was quite at a loss to comprehend why.
the hedging awareness of a sun-drenched bench
lurked in the menace of a brandishing club.
yet the scent of a pipe like a keening lament
nearly occluded the memory's nub.

Sylvana flashed apprehension to Sappy
suggesting that Nate be nudged from this muddle.
"let's see how Chester's getting on" she proposed,
then linked up their arms to hinder rebuttal.
but her efforts were bested by the sparrow
pivoting focus with imperative cheeps
to the transplanting plants tagging along,
their rummaging roots never tarrying for keeps.

"this is rather unsettling" said Sappy.
"though Mock's conveyance is seemingly decided.
they certainly are a determined lot.
when we stepped in their way, they simply divided."

***** ** *** ** ***** ** *** ** *****
Mock was the last to reach the crowded table
thanks to the pace of his shuffling, rustling gate,
his organic crutches readily appending
to the well-drenched framework nudged next to Nate.

a hybrid species had come into being
a sardonic wit slinging slithering shoots,
an animated green man sprung from his scaffold
and rambling about on rummaging roots.
sensitive tendrils evolved into clothing,
a mossy fabric that covered awkward spots
where extremities lived in memory
ensnaring tactless eyes and tying tongues in knots.
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
- Evan Hawthorn, the 30th of May, 2016



benighted light

[as i prepare to post the latest developments in my novella-poem, "Sludge White
and the Seven Curmudgeons", it's become apparent to me that two particular
threads might need to be unravelled, for those glimpsing my story through the
excerpts i've been posting.  so i have stitched together the pertinent stanzas
in the twining trajectories of the transcendence of Mock's injuries, and Chester's
insightful transference of light, in hopes that they will serve as preambles for
my latest chapter.  in this first fused excerpt, Squint the cheeky squirrel explains
Chester's nature to Elsbeth, the astonishing ivory owl, as she awaits rescue from
a giant spider's web.  in the second bit, which takes place later, Sable, one of the
'nursemaid' crows who helped raise Sylvana, relates disheartening news, providing
an opportunity for seeing Chester in action.  incidentally, the other set of stitched
stanzas that focus on Mock follow along quite snugly.]
*** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** ***
the muted grey daylight abruptly vanished
as a leaden veil dully descended,
ridding the horizon of its ghostly outline
its vague hints of depth eclipsed and ended.
thrust in the midst of a sudden sunset
or the twilight midwinter fringing far-flung lands,
the seasoned staff of the People's Free Collective
serenely clasped their sundry paws and hands.

Elsbeth grew anxious and glumly remarked
"that clenches it.  i knew i should have stayed in bed."

"oh, that's just Chester" Squint casually responded.
"nothin' to trouble your cute little head!"

"was that rife with the scent of well-meaning kindness?"
the minstrel asked as he wrinkled his nose.

"not so's you'd notice.  sorry, your Owlness.
Chester's a glimrin.  you've heard of them, i suppose?"

as Elsbeth didn't answer, Squint prattled on.
"they're beings that absorb particles of light.
they sop it all up like gleam-glomming sponges,
to feed their piercing preternatural sight.
the old legends called them 'the Goblin folk',
'cause they gobble the sheen off anything that's bright.
they're polar opposites of Sylvana's princess.
where her skin glows, theirs turn day into night."

Sylvana said "one hears of their hoarding treasure,
a brazen projection of flagrant greed.
for elites set great store by glittering metals
and flashing coins emblazoned with their need.
hence rumours were spread that glimrins were demons,
impish non-persons of a treacherous sort.
thugs were enticed with fabled pots of gold,
genocide rebranded as patriotic sport."

Elsbeth was touched by this woeful disclosure
leaking a pearl from her violet eyes.
"i'm obliged to you for chronicling the role
that intolerance plays in self-serving lies.
while i welcome the chance to fill in the facts
so cunningly and royally redacted,
perhaps one might spare a moment to ponder
just how in the hell we'll get me extracted!"

the bard grinned.  "don't fret so.  we've a glimrin in tow.
theirs is the lore that heals situations.
they're natural mediums with a special knack
for rearranging manifestations.
Elsbeth, this is Chester, our boon companion."
a deeper darkness seemed to herald a storm.
she felt more than saw a negative exposure
an absence of essence, fenced in by form.

*** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** ***

the hunched over Sable paced in a circle,
a pompous professor in a tattered coat.
then fluffing her feathers and puffing out her chest,
she tried a few caws to tune up her throat.

"the lustrous princess has been poisoned by the queen.
they've laid her out in a rose-petalled spread.
perhaps it's a coma or drug-induced sleep,
but i'm not convinced that she's actually dead.
the other Curmudgeons are in Godfrey's Gorge,
staring down a monster that's holding its breath.
while the shifty-eyed fellow is a hostage,
the clever little wry one hovers near death."

Sylvana erupted in heartrending sobs
and the minstrel rushed to her quivering side.
the atmosphere crackled with shattering spirits.
Weepy and Gropey inaudibly cried.
then darkness descended like a disenchantment,
depriving the scene of its sorry light.
for a negative exposure passed through them,
soothing their shock with the somber balm of night.

a wavering arc of embers emerged,
weaving itself in a coalescing spiral;
enveloping Sylvana in a galaxy,
a smidgen of fairy dust gone viral.
the scintillating specks began to change color
from deepest ruby to cerulean blue.
then shivering like a kaleidoscope,
the sparkles and Sylvana receded from view.

"where did she go?" asked a frantic Rashful,
vibrating alarm like a panic-stricken bell.

the bard responded with a calming gesture.
"she'll be travelling with Chester for a spell.
i suppose we'd better pack our belongings
and see about prying your pals from their plight.
most likely that's where Chester is off to.
he's apt to get feisty when our prospects aren't bright."
*** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** ***
- Evan Hawthorn, the 30th of May, 2016



Tuesday, May 24, 2016

the recipe (an excerpt from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons")

the hidden chamber far beneath his footfalls
stacked with its caskets of glittering gold junk,
echoed the emptiness his wife couldn't stifle
as she rifled through her trifle-filled trunk.
while the spirited mirror warily watched
she unpacked a rack of beakers and vials.
from the slivered rifts that scarred his scuffed surface
he'd clearly suffered for obstructing her wiles.

perusing the pages of a musty tome
by the light of the grisly gleam in her eye,
she cackled when she came to the recipes
for savory dishes that make people die.
then she whisked out her wand and rolled up her sleeves
thrusting a cauldron over sputtering flames,
to concoct a brew that would likely outdo
Disney's foul litany of dastardly dames.

the shade of something disconcertingly shaped
sifted strange silhouettes that splayed on the wall.
insufferable shrieks bewailing existence
spurted with the blood seeping in from the hall.
a rash of river rats rummaged and snickered
surging in a slithering, roughhousing crowd.
a spate of squat spiders spun while suspended
concealing the ceiling with a sound-proof shroud.

in a raspy and reedy, paper-thin voice
wheezing and riddled with inscrutable ticks,
the book disclosed the fiendish directions
for fixing up fruit in a perfidious mix.
"three festering fingers of a feckless wretch
freshly dissevered or affixed to the stump.
two lingering lesions from scorpion stings
scraped from fading victims, congealed in a clump.

a rasher of ribs, unsparingly sauced
ripped from a rigid reverend, rabid with wroth.
the pinioned wings pilfered off spring's first robin,
a dislocated limb from a three-toed sloth.
the last gasp of air sucked from a drowning mouth,
a patch of stretched out neck, tautly wreathed in rope.
seven slight hands sliced for swiping moldy bread,
a knot of slit veins forever drained of hope."

rattled, rocked, and utterly revolted
the queasy mirror glazed a ghastly shade of green.
he knew the queen's propensity for evil
but her taste in books was patently obscene.
as the horde of relics piled up around her
he cast about for plausible futures,
projecting a means for thwarting her schemes
while skirting reprisals resulting in sutures.

the tome droned on with its uncanny patter
as the shape shifting shade slid under the door.
"a vestige of depleted uranium,
ten tainted toadstools sporting spores by the score.
a pinch of cyanide pigmented with lead,
a shred of panicked dread, screaming in the night.
a trickle of drool that pooled from a fool,
a smidgen of perdition and a spit of spite.

a trace of arsenic, tastelessly laced with lye,
six drops of venom from a viper's bite.
a whiff of suspicion whipped into a froth,
two spoons of envy mixed with finely diced slight.
a lolloping dollop of mercury
tossed in nightshade salad, rolling round in the gorse."

the mirror sighed softly and muttered to himself
"talk about beating to death a dead horse!"
then just as the book was about to impart
the ingredient most lethally binding,
a sudden whistling draft wafted passed the harpy
undermining her magical minding.

the perspectives in the chamber grew deeper
and the distance from the ceiling seemed to swell.
the resulting perceptions wrought vertigo,
rendering the queen unsteady and unwell.
as they settled into altered dimensions
the pages flipped past in an unforeseen rush.
then the arcane tome closed itself with a thud
and the mirror shimmered a violet blush.

"you needn't be so snappy!" quoth Her Highness,
flaring to regain her bearings and bile.
though scarcely affecting a shaky stance,
she managed a manner unspeakably vile.

the ruse the mirror mused had left her confused,
and the truth, forsooth, transcendentally veiled.
the book's grim ramblings were abruptly abridged,
and its recipe corrupted and curtailed.
the queen left further hexing till the morrow,
fearing the frailty her spells might imbue.
the frazzled mirror eyed the frothing cauldron,
darkly reflecting a phosphorescent hue.
*** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** *** **
- Evan Hawthorn, the 24th of May, 2016

Monday, May 23, 2016

darkness I (an excerpt from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons")

darkness.  stark darkness.  utter and absolute.
attempts to use his limbs came to no avail.
as though his nerves had all been unfastened,
or his presence bound up in a bodiless jail.
had his nightmare tacked on another scene,
tightening the terror that held him in its vise?
what had happened to the children's frail hands
he was so used to seeing when he closed his eyes?

he'd no idea of where he might be
and wasn't even certain that was apropos.
for how could he inhabit a location
that none of his senses could possibly know?
constantly rehashing recent events
he rummaged for an anchor to steady his mind,
hoping for a clue to illuminate
the darkness comprising this paralyzing bind.

yet a subtle alteration was occurring
of which he was only faintly aware.
for after an interval that seemed eternal
perception crept into his senseless lair.
and the insight arrived in a sudden flash
that he and his thoughts were no longer alone,
like a primeval dawning of consciousness
sparking on barrens of solitary stone.

darkness.  still darkness.  stultifying and severe.
but misery flickered beyond the pale.
and he strained his reason for the frequency
that wavered with a lonely, heart-rending wail.
a ray of hope ecstatically erupted
that he might subdue his dispiriting fear.
for somewhere in the vale of mind-numbing darkness
someone was sobbing that Pally could hear.
*** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** *** ** ***
- Evan Hawthorn, the 23rd of May, 2016