I've loved to write for my whole life. I started when I was 5 and haven't stopped for longer than a few extra depressed months here and there. I write a lot of things, and if you read some of them I'd be god damned honoured.
this page is very much under construction. i have a lot more to add as time goes
There is a place along the bank, where the rocks have crumbled just so and there is a gap in the trees that stand firm on all sides, where the sun shines green through the poplar onto a soft cusion of dead leaves and cedar cones.
This is the spot where, when the days grow long and hot and the river dries enough for flat top rocks to blosom like islands all along her length, you can stand in the middle of the river and if you look just right, at just the right time, you can see the faerie king.
She’s there, lounging in her throne, head leant to the side. Clad in a gown of deep green velvet and dandelion, hair like lichen and sap. She smiles as she watches the dancing of tree sprites across the way and listens to the tittering gossip of mermaids, and this is all in my head but there is a real King here and it’s the River herself.
She is long and lithe and wends through the forest at her will, draped on both sides in leaves the green of your best friends laugh and moss the green of listening to an old folk song and hearing it echo deep inside yourself.
Her watery gown is a dark amber gold, and you might think this makes her dirty but walk up to her bank, look straight down, you will see clear through to the mud slicked rocks and twigs that make up her bed.
Look long enough and you might even see some of her courtiers, knightly crawfish that only fight when they must or dancing fish in dresses of flashing silver and black. Shimery bubbles glide over the surface, weaving between the legs of water skimming bugs.
In places she pours and rushes between rocks and over, quicksilver splashing, a crashing dance, her rushing and shushing a laughing and singing as she trip-tumbles down and around, spinning and tossing, spray summersaulting in air and sliding back cheering, spinning whirling speeding and then sometimes she is still.
And slow.
Luxuriating in dappled sun shade sun, her gentle depths a nursury.
Carressing gently rock and exposed tree root.
Guiding bubble sprites in lazy patterns that can not be traced or predicted, and she sighes and settles looking-glass calm, a breath of wind the only rippling memory of motion.
Walking alongside her, sun dried shale warm under my soles tells stories of the earth’s ever presence, constant and solid, too often overlooked.
Stepping into where her current is fastest I feel the river tug and my ankles, urging me forward towards who knows what and where.
Looking down at my feet, her flow makes them strange, flickering and changing and reminding me that I am as ephemeral as the river is here, that around her bend where I can’t see she is a different being, and in a year or a week or a day I will be a different me, and I will be the same me, as sure as I am standing in the same river as the river a mile downstream.
And I feel the sun firey and warm on my shoulders, and I hear the wind whisper secrets in my ear. The earth still and steady beneath me and the waters ever changing around me, and I feel more whole and one here than I do anywhere else.
I would stay a river creature, but I must go back to being human. I walk my way up the middle, against the flow, skipping rock to rock and splashing in where she is shallow and kind. When I am back she and I will be the same and we will be different and beautiful and one.
And just before I turn to leave her behind I see the rippling, glistening, ever-shifting light of sun-on-water reflected onto trunks and the underside of leaves, slow and patternless, shimmeringly beautiful, and the closest I’ll ever come to seeing the face of a god.