Poetry

Beneath The Pepper Trees

We sank beneath the pepper trees,
full of lust and dustbowl sadness
he’s just a boy from town,
could have been anybody
with swagger and words.

He touches my scars
but can’t look me in the eyes
and when each breath
is shorter than the last
he whispers,
What if we get caught?

So I go faster,
past it all
and he forgets to speak,
his eyes making
lazy turns in the sky.

When we’re done
he tells me of his life,
so I nod at his words
and shake at his god,
so unlike my own,
all savage and undone.

When he tells me he loves me,
I just hold him close.

It’s dark when we close our eyes,
his marks still fresh on my body
but by morning he is gone,
off onto the freeway
and on into obscurity.

His marks are gone too,
but not his god and not the night
they follow me close all the way home,
back to the reeds and shallows
on the black water,
where the sumac grows wild.

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A Year in The Deepwood

Deepwood: J.R. Westermont

In the summer of 1882,
Jonathan Reginald Westermont
millionaire philanthropist
and big game hunter
bought several parcels of land
containing a dense forest
in the American Pacific Northwest.

The next Spring,
he hired a team of
former military men,
adventurers and survivalists
who he took into the woods
on what he called,
“a kind of training exercise”

That night,
while the team made camp,
he told them a story,
one about an endless forest,
with creatures no one
had ever seen before,
a place that defied size and nature,
with some lost civilization at its heart.
Most of the men laughed at this idea.

The next morning Westermont was gone.

Abandoned, the team tried
to find their way out of the woods,
but upon discovering their markers destroyed,
quickly became disoriented,
the forest’s natural features
seeming to have shifted overnight
or in the case of many trailheads,
simply disappeared.

The team’s journals end there.

The only survivor, Tobias Briar,
a civil war veteran and surveyor
emerged six weeks later,
emaciated and half mad,
raving about a creature
that had hunted the men down
one by one as they tried to escape.

The man had been in the woods
for less than two months,
but claimed that he’d been lost
for over a year.

The incident was pinned on Westermont,
whom no one has seen or heard from since.

The papers put a heavy emphasis
on his time spent in an asylum as a youth
and his obsession with hunting,
one Boston publication going as far as to say:

“Westermont could not be happy,
unless he was hunting the most dangerous game.”

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A Year in The Deepwood

Deepwood: The Deer & The Wolf

I spotted them from
the highest tower,
barely visible
amidst the falling snow.

First the deer,
dragging a broken
leg behind her,
her blood staining
the virgin ground.

Then the wolf,
lapping it up
as he followed.

The doe paid
me no mind,
but the wolf looked up
when he passed,
seeming to see me there…

The last man alive
in Castle Blackwold,
all alone,
locked in the highest tower,
amidst the falling snow.

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Poetry

Do You See Him Now?

Do you remember
that day in the courtyard,
just after the morning mist?

The man we met there,
with his tricky smile
and grown-up voice,
like he knew everything in the world?

I asked if you saw him there,
mumbling to himself
between the hemlock and holly,
with his grey-green cap
and stinking breath.

You said no, but you
had a smile on your face,
I was younger then by two years
and I didn’t know what to think.

You asked me to hold your hand,
I don’t remember if I did,
(it doesn’t sound like
something I would do)
but I know that I was afraid…

Of what I wanted to do,
of what I saw in the man
with the sticky hands,
fumbling with himself
there between the hemlock and holly.

Do you remember him?
That day in the courtyard,
just after the morning mist?

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A Year in The Deepwood

Deepwood: The Hunter

I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth.

And when you see me,
you will know that there is nowhere left to run.
I have hunted the animals in The Green
and I have killed them all;
what do you think am I going to do with you?

I wounded you once, in the snow,
you left a trail of blood behind you,
so that I would have your scent.
I would have caught you then,
but you lost me at the edge of
The Deepwoods.

And in that moment,
I realized that I loved you

you clever little beast…

I love you.

And I will hunt you to the ends of the earth.

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Poetry

The Peril of the Waves

Savage here the wind does blow
through the city’s standing stones
to the path along the water
where once I walked a sailor’s daughter

Gentle then was the breeze that came
and carried with it your first name
in father’s stories overheard
and in the shapes of summer birds

Idle then, as a bottled ship
they told me you could not exist,
when through the rain, I saw your face
upon a ship bound for Thrace.

But evil are the empty phrases
given to the girl who waited
like a captain, tied to mast
bound & deaf as the furies passed.

On lonely shores, I marked my days
in inches unravelled into the maze,
bits of hair and flesh to you
stretched and tied like Ariadne’s clew.

Darkly still, I walk the path
up the cliffs of browning grass
to cast my prayer across the sea,
Come back to the world, come back to me.

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A Year in The Deepwood

Deepwood: The Stream

Turtles gently roam
its sloping banks
passing sumac
growing red and wild,
while strange colored fish
whirl and spin in clear shallows,
in and around cattails and reeds
all growing uninterrupted.

Overhead, a large falcon follows
the corridor of trees,
that grow along this stream,
his summer shadow cast upon
the bed below,
shimmering darkly there among
the centuries smoothed stones,
the occasional arrowhead,
and one or two familiar looking
bones of unknown origin,
half buried
and entirely forgotten,
in the sand

and silt

and time.

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The Shadow Over Innsmouth

H.P. Lovecraft’s The Shadow Over Innsmouth

Two years ago, I wrote a stage adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Shadow Over Innsmouth for the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival. I believe this work, like the original story, should be in the public domain. You are free to read, download, distribute, and perform this piece for commercial and noncommercial purposes.

8 M, 2 W, 10+ extras.

An excerpt:

Scene I

Darkness.

The sound of waves and wind, rising.

Lights up on Area 1, the Ritual Room, where two cultist kneel, in tableau. They wear dark green robes, their faces obscured by hoods. They break and draw a wide chalk circle on the stage floor.

ROBERT OLMSTEAD sits upstage of this, at a rolling desk.

His head bent over a typewriter. OLMSTEAD and the desk are moved downstage, into the light. Wearily, he looks up at the paper in front of him. He types as he speaks, slowly at first, then faster. As he speaks, a photograph of Devil’s Reef is projected on the Cyclorama.

OLMSTEAD:

April 31st 1927, office of the late Anne-Marie Tilton, Miskatonic University, Arkham Massachusetts. (He trembles slightly) My name is Robert Olmstead and I am a fiction. A character in some strange and perverse tale of horror.

I have been maneuvered and positioned and now, I am no longer in control of myself. There is an inhuman element inside of me. Perhaps it was always there waiting, sleeping…

For this cannot be reality. Yet, I am present and I breath and I perceive the world around me as I always have…and yet, if I am to believe in the notion of my own sanity…I must also assume that which would compromise it.

Innsmouth. A squalid town, worm-eaten and decayed.

What I found there, what found me, is very old and very deadly. A dangerous kind of belief that ends in the destruction of all that we hold dear.

Or I am mad.

But that does not mean that I have not seen the truth. If there is any part of this account which should be heeded, let it be this: The town must be destroyed. Down to it’s very foundations, the waterfront and the reef.

He continues to type as lights and projection fade. The sound of the waves take over…

A full copy can be read and downloaded here.

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