Corn's Names

[Corn]

Completed: 50/174

UNWRITTEN means a writing piece is planned, or that I have not yet decided;
UNFINISHED means a visual piece is planned;
the blurb afterwards describes some of the dream's content.


journal

[Corn]

The autumn sun was just beginning to set. Golden beams fell through the cheery, though sadly thinning leaves to the swamp below, making intricate patterns on the water’s surface, which then reflected the light, weaving it into a complex dance that played across the roots. Crickets and cicadas chirped and whined merrily, going about their business of finding mates, livening up the air with their monotonous hum.

In blatant disregard to his peaceful surroundings, a rather vibrantly-colored Kimeti was tearing through the murky water, hurrying as best he could through the thick mud on the bottom, narrowly avoiding collision with oncoming trees. He couldn’t remember the exact reason for his flight; there was only a vague, terrible remorse burning in his heart (something about a doe – his doe - something he’d done wrong by… to?... her), and sharp, cold fear. He was certain that others would be following him soon, following him faster then he could run in Mother’s sludge, to catch him and bring him back to answer for the terrible crime he committed.

As he thought about them, right on cue (like one of the tales of Black Dog's trials), he heard splashing some way behind him. He tried to pick up his pace, heading steadily uphill and out of the mire. Of course, uphill meant going through thicker and thicker mud, the swamp stubbornly unwilling to give way to dry land. He tried to scramble up on roots when he could, but was left pulling forward unaided for most of his course.

All the while, splashes and voices could be heard behind, growing closer with each minute. He was terribly tired, and considered, then, simply submerging himself in the mud, smothering his far-too-noticeable coat (fitting, he thought - the coat that won her threatened to avenge her) in it, and waiting out his pursuit. This idea soon evaporated, as one of them shouted that they’d caught his scent. Fear gave him the energy he needed to scrabble out of the muck once more, and fight his way out of Mother Swamp’s eager embrace. The mud beneath him gave way, at length, to solid soil, knotted together with the roots of grasses, and he could run faster.

Finally, catching sight of the sawgrass, he felt some small glimmer of hope pierce his panic. He knew that his pursuers’ advantage was only in that maddeningly thick sludge under the trees; out here, his thicker bristles and longer legs (they called him odd - he was just specialized) would allow him to run much faster without fear of being torn into by the viciously sharp foliage. He narrowed his eyes against the sudden light as he burst into the field, running into the sun.

The voices quieted for a time, confused, and unsure of their prey’s direction. Then they followed again, cautious but swift, tracking him by the mud and trampled stalks in his wake. That didn’t really matter, though – he could run like this for a long, long time, far longer then they could chase him… hopefully. Then, he could hide away in the mud flats, turn his face away from home in shame, live a life of solitude and beg for her forgiveness (he was not worthy of being forgiven, he was not worthy).


The land climbed up and up, and the sun sank lower. They pursued him longer than he thought they were capable of. He panicked, wildly zigzagging in the sawgrass. Even his especially thick coat was being torn through, a few slashes across his sides weeping (in his poetic way, he mused that they wept as much in sorrow for her as in the usual way). He ripped forward, bowing his head against the whipping of the grass, and suddenly broke out into a patch of fading flowers. He stopped, breathless, eyes slipping to and fro.

The small clearing, stained by the sun, cut off a few dozen lengths in front of him in a cliff overlooking the swamp - he’d almost run himself in a circle! Under better circumstances, he thought, this would have been a wonderful place to sit, lonely, contemplating stories of old and the nature of his people (once, there were no stars in the heavens, or none that could be seen). Now, it was just another dead end, a lost peninsula in the air. He looked all about, desperate for escape, but he was being surrounded, though by sheer accident; they didn’t know where he was yet.

A gentle wind was flying about his ears and tail, the dying flowers swaying gently. Ahead of him, a single petal broke off from its brethren, and drifted lazily forward, seeming to catch fire (listen, dearest children, to the story of the fire that ravaged the swamplands) in the blazing dusk. Quietly, as his pursuit drew nearer, the guilty buck watched as the petal slowly, gently drifted over the edge of the cliff, flying onward to the west.

The wind began to rise. Suddenly, there was a mass exodus among the flowers, petals breaking off in as if in a storm. Then the buck knew. He knew that Mother Swamp understood, Mother Swamp forgave him, and Mother Swamp would provide escape, and maybe a chance to apologize to her (not worthy). In the least, if nothing else, he would have peace.

He backed up to the edge of the clearing, oblivious to the shouts of triumph from his would-be captors (let them try to catch me now) as they saw him through the grass. He smiled, and ran. Petals clung to the mud still on his legs and belly; wind urged him on; cries of victory changed to confusion, and then surprise and dismay.

He cleared the edge of the cliff, and, for a time, he was flying on the breeze, with wind carrying him as if he were naught but brother to those petal flowing steadily on. Peace reigned in his heart, in spite of the confusion behind, in spite of what he had done to her, in spite of his change from flying to falling. He closed his eyes, and smiled, savoring the breeze. In mere moments, he knew no more.

[Corn]

Silence. A dark night. An oddly dry night, but brisk and chilly. He sneezed. Dry nights were very rare. They were also very dusty, especially in autumn. The dust tickled his nose. He shivered a little under his fur. The swamp was still behind him. Nobody in their right mind was up this late, and those who were generally kept to themselves. Like him.

The sawgrass stretched out for a long, long distance. From on top of his boulder, he could see unending waving gray. Green in sun, gray after dark. He liked that change, that the world got more subdued, more somber in the night. Even his vibrant coat was dampened to a mixed palette of gray and black.

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... _kitty.gif[/imgright]The clouds swirled, dauntingly thick, overhead. He resented their presence on this momentous night, the night of the full moon. He made a point to come to this rock for as many full moons as he could - the pure white-blue of the moon on the grass, swaying sweet in the wind like a festival dance... He chuckled. He was finally picking up his father's turn of phrase, but it chose to surface at the oddest of times. His father was a storyteller, a wanderer like he, and they traveled together all over the swamp -

The clouds were finally parting. The buck on the stone stood, shivering again, as the clouds gave way to the full, wide face of the moon. It shone coldly down on the swaying grass, and on an entirely new phenomenon.
Rising slowly out of the sawgrass were tiny specks of light. They drifted on the wind, lazy as the grass below, but light and free. The buck stood still upon the rock, speechless. How often had he come here, to have never seen such a spectacle as these, these -

These Motes in the Moonligt?

[Corn]

Still haven't drawn my third kin's naming dream. cool

[Corn]

All the world is bleak, cold, black and white and blue and brown and gray. No creature stirs, the light is dim, and silence reigns over the world - silence so absolute, so deafening, it is a physical presence, a suffocating pressure, and all over still. A doe looks on, impatient.

A low, sweet note breaks the silence. A single, green shoot rises from the mire. A few more, a hundred more, a mass of tiny green buds, all softly sprouting, tuning up, producing a chord in unison, carpet the ground.

[imgright]https://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/imag ... _kitty.gif[/imgright]A strong note sounds as the first of the plants suddenly explode into growth, hailing an outburst of blossoming, unfurling green all over.

The mosses and lichens lay down a bassline, with trees and soft grasses and ferns and vines interweaving and twinning together, forming an upbeat melody, spontaneous and catchy. the weeds, the kudzu and the sawgrass add their own, occasionally sour tones, with flowers and berries so sharp and high and sweet, spreading their lacy soprano over everything as they joined the chorus.

The song rises, and rises, and rises, as the plants grow and swell from tiny buds to their full blossom. From there, the melody slows, still sweet and glorious, but the opening bars of the tune - that sweet, promising song of spring, with all the hope and potential for the coming Summer rising so suddenly from the silence and chill of Winter - that is what she holds dear in her heart.

[Corn]

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... r_corn.gif[/imgright]They asked her, then, if she would.

They asked her, then, if she would. . She replied,

They asked her, then, if she would. . She replied, . "No.

They asked her, then, if she would. . She replied, . "No. . Not once.

They asked her, then, if she would. . She replied, . "No. . Not once. . Not ever."

[Corn]

You walk.

You are hungry.

There is a tree.

There is one living branch.

There is a fruit hanging from the branch.

Its color is perfect, its shape is flawless.

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... _kitty.gif[/imgright]You can almost taste its succulent juices.

You try for hours to stir the tree into motion, to knock the fruit loose.

You leap and dance at the bough overhead, you butt the trunk, you try grasping rocks in your mouth and hurling them at the branch with a fling of your neck.

At last, sore and worn and hungrier than ever, you knock the fruit loose.

Triumphant, you saunter over and bite into it.

It is rotten.

[Corn]

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... _kitty.gif[/imgright]

There is a low, withered maple growing near my childhood home. Once, when I was young, I plucked a leaf out of curiosity. As I watched the severed end, a strange white ichor seeped out of it. I tilted my head, confused. I looked back up at the tree, thoughtful, and asked it why it had milk in it.

The creaking of its boughs and the soft whispers of its leaves were its only answer.

[Corn]

Grey.

Hard.

Cold.

Soft edges.

Two rocks.

Pale blue sky.

Small rock between.

A hole.

Soft breeze.

A hum?

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... e_corn.gif[/imgright]Edges harden slightly.

Go. Harder. I listen.

Obligingly, the wind picks up.

A hum grows to a whine grows to a tuneless whistle.

The soft edges of his blurred vision, his scattered thoughts, come to focus.

He hears the song within the sharp wail of the wind through the unassuming stone.

Sing to me your secrets, wind. Let the stone speak for you.

[Corn]

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... s_corn.gif[/imgright]Somewhere barren and cold he sits, scraping by, scraping by.
Alone save for stones he's rooted to, he will die, he will die.

Well that's

just

fine

[Corn]

The buck nibbled daintily on a flowerhead, savoring its sweetness.


The buck had come to the clearing especially for the beautiful and sweet flowers that carpeted it. He ate a many-blossomed flowerhead, chewing slowly and with great relish.


The buck had traveled a long way to the clearing, to eat the beautifully intricate, vibrantly colored and succulent, sweet flowers that grew here in proliferation. He had been coming here for a long time - year after year, without fail, he came here on his birthday. He ate a flower here every year, as a treat to himself, as a reminder of who he was.


[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... _kitty.gif[/imgright]The buck had traveled from far, far away to this clearing, one he had known all his life. Every year, no matter where in the swamp he was, he returned to this clearing, the place of his birth, to treat himself to one of the hardy red-violet flowers that grew here, carpeting the ground in their leaves and blossoms. The flowers of this plant were multitudinous, many tiny flowers arranged in a little ball on a single head. Each little flower had a tiny amount of nectar in it, sweet and grassy, tied irrevocably to his youth as the first thing he had eaten, to his future as the last thing he would permit himself to eat before he rejoined the swamp, and to his present as his namesake.

Clover.

He gently plucked a flower from its place on the ground, and chewed it thoughtfully, and left.

[Corn]

[imgright]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... d_corn.gif[/imgright]A buck on his deathbed sighed.
Reliving sad years past, he cried;
"Oh, my precious young lover,
How keep I you from another?
Oh, would that I could!" and then died.

[Corn]

[Corn]

TO BE REWRITTEN

[Corn]

UNWRITTEN
noun: wherewithal; plural noun: wherewithals

    the money or other means needed for a particular purpose.