The Moment We Last Fell

THE MOMENT WE LAST FELL


Today, I had NO choice but to leave the dusty, but mostly sanitary and virus free, confines of the Pharoah Buddy Compound. I went out into the badlands in search of sustenance and some other supplies.

I am what is left of an old guard of warrior – now turned poet, left alone to care for the elders of my tribe and its acquaintances, as well as the great, but often ill, Pharoah Buddy.

My name is Winter NightTiger –  Nocturnal Witch and retired Warrior. I have been lost for years, ever since the untimely death of my Witch companion and Familiar, the soft Ganymede.

Despite my loss, and my dusty and prickly spirit, I mustered the old magick, rarely used anymore, to place a force field of deflecting energy about my body the night prior to my quest. This is a gift few have, and a power for which I have always been grateful.

I prayed to the oldest of gods among the Universe to allow my success, and ensure my safe return; free from the touch of the invisible, evil Monster that has invaded so many lands near and far, and tortured and even killed so many helpless folks while they were just living. I’ve cried for so many strangers, people only akin to me through the force of the Great Spirit. I have pulled my sword so many times, seeking to destroy what lurks in the Void, to save a ravaged species. Yet, feeling pangs of guilt, I wonder if we aren’t being served up what we have dished out. It happens sometimes, when Mother Nature punishes us. But, ’tis a story for another day.

Despite a fairly sleepless night  and a tiredness burning behind my eyes, I arose while it was still dark, tiptoeing around the castle so as not to awake the castle’s chronically worried – the Most High Elder, or Pharaoh Buddy who feels he must ride the wind with me at any time, in any weather, at any cost. I knew that to avoid much lamenting or ride begging, I had to be as quiet as a church mouse.

So, armed with my shield, hand sanitizer, tissues, and prepared to don vinyl gloves, I set out at dawn to seek the much needed goods as quickly as I could find and gather any of them.

Though there were closer vendors, I set out on longer trip. Going further into the wastelands, seeking that which I knew those closest to me could not supply due to not carrying the products even under normal circumstances. That grand trading post is The World of Wally, where I hoped to find the Jimmy Dean’s Sausage Crumbles that I sought…among other things.

When I arrived at the trading post, the other travelers there were in good spirits too, despite waiting outside in inclement weather for the doors to open.

There were only about 20 of us strangers at 7:00am. With a newfound happiness of finding a courage to venture outdoors, many folks seemed glad to see others and spoke, talking above the blaring winds, of their circumstances and experiences; finding camaraderie in fear and helplessness; in boredom and loneliness; in the need to help and be helped. Yet, you could hear it in voices and see it on faces…the hard-to-hide feeling of being the Most Hunted.

Nothing could hide it. Not gloves, nor masks, nor smiles, nor gleaming eyes. It was there. There in the uneasiness in the step, saddness of the heart, worry upon the face. The feeling of helplessness snuggled underneath the masks of courage. Us all…the Aging, and already Aged, Warriors. Not a Younger in sight at that moment; we are People of Legend.

When the doors opened, we all made jokes and waved our “good luck, be safe,” to one another…wishes that I knew were genuine. This World is changing…again. Can we navigate well enough to survive it…again?

A few of us who made friends ran across each other in the market again. There were a couple of fellows who I might’ve wanted to talk to longer under other circumstances, but we just  passed by and smiled, making quick but positive comments.

During my foraging, I enlisted the aid of a tall gentleman to reach something from a top shelf, and despite being of the Hunted – like me, he stopped with good cheer and plucked an out-of-reach bag of Jimmy Dean’s Sausage Crumbles from the depths of the tallest shelf of a cooler section. He even made small talk for about 5 seconds as he steered his cart back onto his own trail. We do have need of each other.

As swiftly as I could, I made my way through the large, fairly empty trading post, where the strangers were well behaved and kept a decent distance from one another…lest the Monster finds us huddled too close…the odors of healthy human hosts too overbearing to resist.

During my hunt, I was able to commandeer hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol, toilet paper and bleach – once dying breeds seeming to be making a resurgence in some territories. I was ecstatic to find the elusive sanitizing wipes, and the ever-evasive, dying species…the sanitizer of hands.

I was able to find much of what the Most High elders of my tribe – my Queen Mother and her good friend, Lady Mary, needed.

Yesterday, I had ventured to the Kingdom of the Smart Pets for no-touch curbside service of the Pharoah’s prescription specialty grub and healthy treats. The trek was seemingly uneventful and I never left my chariot. The Kingdom of the Smart Pets lives to serve the pharaohs, kings, queens, wood peckers, flea scratchers, and the feathered jokers in our miserable human lives…despite those same Servants also being among the Hunted. They, along with those that labor in places such as The World of Wally, and infirmaries where Servants take care of the ill – despite their own odds, these are the strong along with hero First Responders and emergency personnel, and those that pick up our waste and clean our messes. These are the best of our species.

I exchanged cash for my foods and dry goods at the trading post of Wally, then hurried to my chariot as the winds whipped at my hair and water sprinkled from dark clouds. Despite that, a fierce wind can be our friend, possibly blowing the Monster to points uninhabited, ripping its tentacle feelers along the route.

As I loaded the chariot, I looked this way and that…searching for a flying Creeper; an airborne Monster that no animal can see with the naked eye. “Where are you hiding, shadowy Monster? You, who has even outdone, even impressed, the Devil. Will you leave us be?”

I heard no answer with my ears. But despite the only noise being that of the wind, I felt an answer to my final question was given, although unspoken: “I have just begun.”

Other than that ominous feeling, I fought off doom and gloom and deemed my quest quite successful.

The Elders were grateful and joyful upon my return. Pharoah Buddy was happy to see me, yet, was loaded with questions of the “why didn’t you take me with…you shouldn’t have gone alone” sort.

I hope that I was swift enough and kept enough distance from others to elude the silent Monster that lurks in shared spaces and atop oatmeal canisters and packages of beef jerky.

Each time a member of a tribe, a house, compound, or kingdom, and so forth, goes out in search of supplies, they go alone. And upon return, they do not know if they have lead the silent, yet deadly, Monster back to their home.

Once home, the terrifyingly real waiting period begins another cycle.

I disguarded my armour in the carriage house, to rid myself of possible tentacles or spores deposited by the Monster. I donned my robe, and breathed deeply, unsure of the future of my House.

Be strong, fearless species. We shall rise again. But hopefully, we will emerge from this darkness, more patient, kinder and smarter than at the moment we last fell.

Copyright 2020 Wanda Paryla

Happy Halloween!

Greetings All!

I haven’t blog posted in so long! I apologize for that. With my mundane job and writing, I haven’t  had a lot of post time. Regardless, I hate that it’s been so long.

I want to wish you a safe and happy Halloween.

And to those who observe, Blessed Samhain.  )O(

A New Look

Good day to you all.

I’m all too happy to admit how much my author/writer friends have, unknowingly, inspired me to not give up my craft.

Several times over the past couple of years, I’ve mentioned on Facebook how hard it’s become for me to write. Once upon a time, the words flowed like water to wine. Like rapids even. Then one day, they were seemingly gone. Dried up. It went beyond writer’s block. The words were just gone. It was so bad that I asked the doctor if I could be getting Alzheimer’s. I was lost.

But my hopes that the words would return to me were kept alive vicariously through others. I’d watch their progress, secretly cheering them on. Their words and the thrill of performing their craft were not lost. Quite the contrary.

Recently, I got very ill. And as I lay in my hospital bed the first week in January waiting for the cardiologist to tell me I had some terrible heart ailment (luckily and thankfully, my heart & arteries are as exquisite and tough as Ethan Hunt), I was also very lucky. Due to these terrifying circumstances, I had some time to go over the good old mistakes-made list. I got a chance to see what many others never get to. My heart appears healthy.  But no one knew that for sure at the time.

Alone in the middle of the night – hooked up to all sorts of scary, beeping shit – in an all too quiet room in the cardiac unit, perhaps dying at 46, I was scared shitless as this Scorpio held back her emotions.

Hell, if I died, I was not going out all dramatic like a pussy. Heck, no. I’m Scorpio. I rule death. And if She’s coming for me, she better have 40 silver fucking pitchforks.

Regardless of how worried this warrior pretended not to be, death nor sleep ever came.

At the top of my mistakes-made list was not the things that I thought would be there such as vacations I didn’t take, the kids I didn’t birth, or sorrow at fights with family members. Nothing about a Master’s degree, or the lottery, or all the sugar I’ve consumed in my lifetime. Not even apologies never spoken.

There were two things there. Two sorrows. They are: never loving in return the men that loved me; never giving them a chance. They DID love me. I know that now.

The next is: giving up on my writing for reasons truly unknown to me at the time. I was beaten into submission by me, but had no clue.

Some who know me chalked up the lost interest in writing to depression, sadness, anger, etc. All sorts of barriers. A couple of thrifty pals delegated it to my recent obsession with fixing my past. Or my desire to live there, which actually may have caused my sadness. Maybe they are correct. It was destroying me on many levels. Keeping me blind to all the good; allowing me to only see the bad. I was drowning.

I had no idea what was going on. Maybe I was blind on purpose. That happens, you know? I think I’ve been fighting my age. Maybe those who are older than I know what I mean.

So I enjoyed watching my writer friends. I think if there was no Internet,  I might not have had access to them and who knows where I’d be now. In what state of mind.

They are all winners. And despite that I wasn’t writing, they didn’t treat me any differently than they had years ago. They let me stay in the winner’s circle while, unknowingly, hanging on to me by threads.

I’ve been ill before and hospitalized. But never with something potentially life-threatening.  Life ending. For awhile I was like, “FTW? Figures.” But, while we’re still searching for answers, I’m very much alive. My mistakes-made list is changeable because I’m not dead yet. It’s changeable because I’ve seen others change directions many times.

Scorpio may rule death, but also rebirth. I’m reborn. It’s not time to return to the Underworld just yet. The gods have forced my eyes toward what I should see: the good. This goes beyond writing. It encompasses my spirituality and beliefs. It extends to who I know, where I live, as well as to my abilities of storytelling. My ancestors have given me a gift, and I’m still alive to use it. I should not abuse that.

My advice: do not fight the inevitable.  Change only what can certainly be moved. Let the rest go.

Thank you for reading.

-Wanda

The Crime of a Life Sentence (excerpt)

Hello there!

Please enjoy this excerpt from my book-in-progress of original poetry, tentatively titled The Crime of a Life Sentence. As mentioned in my previous blog, the publication dates of this work as well as the sequel to Someday Always Comes – The Devil Plays Dice – have been pushed into 2017. I am expecting to publish this particular book April 2017.

The poems in this book have been written over many, many years and when I post an excerpt some will have the original copyright dates.

(Please find the link to my previous blog below this post – I’ve inserted one and there’s the link back under this post if my link doesn’t work.)

 

CRYING AT MIDDAY

Crying at midday
I cannot find the right words to say
What I feel is lost

Staring into space
I recall another time with grace
What I feel is lost

My heart breaks in two
Heart bounded by the tragedy of you
What I feel is lost

I strive to not see
Myself and you surrounded by defeat
What I feel is lost

Copyright 2015 Wanda S. Paryla

 

FALLTIDE

Mysterious sounds creeping
While ravens call weeping
And wait on bare branch swaying

Triangle-eyed, round pumpkins smile wide
Cats use shadows to hide
Orange light seeping out bright

And crackling fires warm the eve
While crisp, crackles the leaves
Fall’s arrived; Winter’s nearby

Copyright 2013 Wanda S. Paryla

 

 

The Devil Plays Dice – excerpt