As I ran across the corn field, hand wrapped around a gun,

I was tired, low and restless after ten days on the run.

The man behind me, running too, was known for being a good shot.

If I’d had lingered any longer, my past would be my lot.


Fifteen years and then some, I had paid my debt in time,

Wishing, in my heart of hearts, that I’d never done the crime.

I knew, when planning my dirty deed, it really shouldn’t be,

But I took the job and did the crime before they then transferred my fee.


As I glanced behind, to see the hunter, tearing through the corn,

I wondered, for the first time, if this man was even born.

He’d tracked me, friend, from east to west and never had retreated.

If he ever got his hands on me, I’m sure I’d be mistreated.


The crime I did, I am not proud, for it was really no good thing.

I had to see the Father and kiss his Holy ring.

Two hours I spent, in solitude, confessing every sin.

And no greater one, he told me, was the killing of one’s kin.


I had got the call, one day at home, when reading from a book,

To say that I had a delivery and to come and have a look.

They told me, when I got there, that a girl had brought it in,

The doorman called her pretty, through his cheeky little grin.


On the desk there lay a briefcase that I knew would hold a file.

The target of which, I’d never have guessed in a sultry country mile.

I had done this for some time now and so I knew what was to come,

But I never thought to think about who would, one day, be one.


As I gazed upon the picture which I took out of the file,

I saw the face of my father, Roberto Fulsome Kyle.

I never thought the day would come, when patricide was asked of,

But, looking on my father’s face, I knew that things had kicked off.


I should tell you now, at this point, that my father’s no damned Angel,

And spent his life, in darkness, making theft and murder manageable.

His life had been a rough one and he’d done his share of time,

But the next few years in prison, surely would be mine.


As the man who chased me also gained, I felt my heart explode,

If he caught me here, his anger hot, my tale would not be told.

He’d lay me out and take my life and leave me in the dust.

To step it up; to run it off; to make it out, I must.


As I reached the end and made it through, I took a sudden left,

I jumped a local and stole his clothes and left my own bereft.

It wasn’t very nice, I know, to steal a poor man’s garments,

But hindsight’s always twenty-twenty through a dying man’s laments.


I hopped a train and made my escape with second of time remaining.

As the man ran up, he missed his chance, his pencil neck was craning,

For me around the passengers, collected on the train,

But he never saw me standing and never will again.


I know I made it sound like I had made it home and clear,

But you should-now hear the ending, though it shakes my heart with fear.

For the train it never made it to its destination line,

And joined me in the cavern until the very end of time.


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The importance of words.

In the beginning was the word

That says it all, doesn’t it? Jesus himself, called ‘the word of God’, showing its importance. Words are much more that we give credit. With words, we are able to communicate freely and with spectacular variance. We did not just create one language but six and a half thousand, or there about, and we are still discovering more and creating more.

Two examples of these newly created languages would be Elvish (JRR Tolkien) and Klingon (Star Trek Franchise). Both have evolved, whether it be through Tolkien’s studious efforts or the Star Trek fan base becoming enthralled with the idea of having their own secret language.

Through the study of certain words, we can see history before us. When the Vikings invaded the north of Scotland, they brought with them Norwegian words which blended into the local vernacular. The Scots, generally speaking Gaelic and English and having a great many family ties in Ireland, the strange fusion that was produced was to last the centuries. The Romans, in invading England from the South, brought Latin verbiage. Even the change in monarchy gave rise to new languages and, French especially, gets thrown into the mix.

Religion, too, throws its stick in. Latin was and still is the preferred language of the Roman Catholic Church and, with each change of Pope, another language is also embedded into the mix.

We therefore have Scotland and England, who were bordering countries and constantly at war with each other, both speaking the same base English language but with different foreign influences. During relatively peaceful times, the two countries mingled and, in turn, they influenced each other verbally and textually. The language wasn’t really set and recorded until Schoolmaster Robert Cawdrey wrote what is regarded to be the first recognised Dictionary.

I use Scotland and England as a mere example. The evidence of all this can be found in any country or community. Words are important. They can tell us who we are and where we come from and, although we must use and love words and books, we must also beware not to overuse. To know when to speak and when to keep our lips firmly shut is a skill we all must learn, especially myself.

Love words; endear them; learn as many as you can and the world will open up to you.

The Final Chapter… maybe.

Since the end of NaNoWriMo 2015, I have been fairly silent. This is because I have been working hard to complete the third in the Bjorn Trilogy, “Bjorn Again”. I will not spoil anything for anyone who has not yet read the first two books but I wished to share with you a small snippet from the chapter I have just completed.

The chapter follows Tomare, the Ninja Thief, as he travels East to the city of Glaschu. Attempting to take the directest route possible, he has ventured into a forest, known to take any man, who entered at night, and turn him insane before taking him fully, never to be seen again.

Suddenly Tomare heard the sound of a voice coming out of the darkness. It was a woman’s voice. Tomare strained to hear what it was saying and realized that not only was it a woman’s voice, it was specifically his own mother’s. His deceased mother to boot. This terrified Tomare to his very bones. His mother had been a stern and forthright woman. A good beating was not uncommon and he still had the mental and physical scars to remember his childhood with.

He told himself to behave, that it couldn’t be his mother. He listened carefully to the words.

“What do you think you are playing at, you young rascal. Going off on some other man’s mission? Is that how I raised you? I think not. If I’d have thought you’d end up like this, I’d have dropped you in the river at birth. I don’t know. You’re a disappointment to a mother and no mistake. Other sons go out and get a real job. They have a respectable career, raising crops or whatever, and bring up a strong family. Where’re my grandchildren, I ask you? I suppose there’s not much chance of that happening now. You’re most likely going to get yourself killed in some pointless way. What’s a mother to do?…”

This went on and on and on and, as it did, Tomare grew steadily tenser and even started to hit himself in the head to try and knock out the grinding voice of his dear gone mother. As she cussed and spoke every discouraging word under the sun, Tomare fell to his knees and held his head in a vice-tight grip.

“Get out of my head,” he screamed at the world in general before he got a sharp pain strike through his head, in one temple and out the other. Tomare cried in agony and, the tears running down his face, he started to beat his head off the ground.

With a flash, the shadow of something living shot past him and the voice of his mother stopped instantly. Tomare’s eyes darted this way and that but there was nothing that he could see. There could be an Oliphant five feet away and he wouldn’t know until he was struck with the largest trunk in the world.

Something else whizzed past him and Tomare was knocked off balance, slightly but enough to worry. Again it happened and again and again. Each time, he was knocked over and he was never able to see it coming, let alone make a grab for one. This really irritated Tomare. It wasn’t playing fair, in his humble opinion.

If that wasn’t all bad enough, small blue lights began to gather around Tomare and circle him. More and more gathered until there were hundreds of the things dancing in the air, around him. As if by a unanimous decision, they all dove straight at Tomare and, as they flew off, they each slapped him across the cheek. What with these glowing beasties flying at him, from all directions, no cheek was safe. Tomare had to kneel down on the ground and put his head between his knees, leaving his rear cheeks ripe for another good slapping.

All of a sudden, Tomare jumped out of his cowering position brandishing the item that he had bought from the stable master. He spun round, swatting everything he could find. As he did, he found to his delight, one hit was enough in any instance. Barely touching the item in question was enough and they dropped like flies to the ground. Tomare could have sworn that he heard high pitched coughing.

Thank you for visiting my blog and I hope you liked what you saw. Take care and read books.