My Written Work: in progress

The Meadow’s Tale ©

 A Children's Short Story

 (excerpt - work in progress)

In a meadow deeply green and flower-flecked – with a cresting forest, black and thick – a realm, unknown to man, endured through aeons in timeless doings. Amongst the birds and frogs and bugs, the denizens lived in harmonious fellowship.

When summer visited this well-disposed and hallowed land, its days went sun-washed in languid careless meanders; nights diligent with magic and colors and fragrances to sow. Wintertime all fell still: spent in a slumbering dewy sleep, when all were silent in vaporous keep.

On a dazzling Mid-summer day, with the Meadow in her brilliant cloth – speckled with hues of ravishing reds, brilliant blues and pleasurable pinks, yummy yellows, outrageous oranges and passionate purples...all cushioned by a dense and vibrant green – a young boy appeared. Small and inquiring, he sought a prize he knew nothing of.

The birds and the beetles, the dragonflies too, the hoppers and crawlers and all there who dwelled, had stopped at their play and silenced the field. Never had anyone pierced the impenetrable woods – never a human to trample this magical ground. The unearthly still made no mark on the boy: his knowledge of meadows yet to be versed.

Dazzled by this apparition of never-before-seen wonder, the 10 year-old Himmel was tugged by his hunger for more...and onward he sought. The Meadow’s complexion glistened and mesmerized with her palette of outlandish tinctures; and carefully, prudentially she lay in wait – all-knowing of what was to come...

...but some days before, so sad and alone, he slipped away from the place he called home. There – with a huge and dark burly uncle, who all had called Ark, and four elder, knavish cousins, all male and far from his age – the light-haired, gentle boy was barely remarked. His duties he attempted with hardship and pain, all too often far too small for the tasks and burdens for a boy barely five-feet tall.

He admired the power and craftsmanship his mighty relations so easily executed; but somehow his efforts to comply had always fallen far short of the others’ results...and expectations. He felt ever failing with no prize of praise, no achievement of merit. Always left knowing he hadn’t the talent to be like them.

Instead, Himmel’s heart was filled with the spectacle and timbre of Nature: billowing breezes bringing breaths of blossoms, songs and whispers from birds and leaves; the feathery softness of fern fronds and dew beads. He ached for a freedom from the dull, repetitive existence of the woodsman’s world, and dreaded a future of such hardship...and destruction.

                                                                                              The enormous and hardy Ark – with his strapping sons of near-equal size – crafted the surrounding crowded forest into great timber for houses and frameworks and pieces of lumber for wagons and fittings. The clearings their logging left were the paths where Himmel wandered and dreamt – and would soon steal his escape – his eyes distant-fixed to a world where a heart is loved and a home, one’s refuge.

Early this portentous, mild summer morn, while the others slumbered and snored – with memories harsh and of little warmth, stopping to glimpse the rough wooded cottage he had known as home – he slipped away swiftly with a sack of crisp fruits and a hunk of fresh bread. Through alleys of great pine stumps and slanted shafts of muted sunlight, his courage empowered and heartened by what he conceived lie ahead....

“Passage” ©

(excerpt)

Europe: I had dreamt of this since my early teens, and at twenty-two, here I was…staying with a college buddy’s relatives in South Germany for an open-ended visit. The members of the Faustmann family consisted of mother Petra, father Franz and their son Karl, who was a bit younger than I. Their home was huge and airy: the heavily wood-paneled ceilings and stucco-type walls were something out of a Tyrolean fairytale. The entire group appeared sturdy, massive-limbed, with a countryside brand of shyness...no surprise their livelihood was dairy farming. They were very generous to house me; and perhaps more than curious to experience an American, from what my friend implied…and after nearly eight years studying the language, I was all too happy for the invaluable, first-hand experience.

Franz’s younger brother Horst was also there assisting in the reconstruction of the horse stalls. Never uttering more than a few indecipherable syllables, his presence was otherwise powerfully felt: a bulky, brawny tough guy who was never caught smiling and nearly always keeping to himself. His densely muscled frame was an awesome sight and his brooding aloofness fired my curiosity. No matter what the temperature, he was scantily clad in ripped, unbuttoned flannel shirts or tattered, stained t-shirts, his jeans and work pants often tight and weathered, hugging powerfully built legs. Usually smeared with machine grease and flecked with sawdust, he was the quintessential lumberjack. Adding to the lure, he was exceptionally handsome: big-featured and strong-boned, he had the most amazing blue-grey eyes, full, fleshy lips and skin somehow beautiful and rugged at once.

It took a while to get accustomed to the family’s heavy dialect, but before long, my decent ear had us conversing with relative ease. Herr and Frau Faustmann were very jovial and caring hosts, but nonetheless expected a good day’s effort around the farm and grounds. I soon got used to the rhythm of everyday life and Karl was a great companion. Being far from the next real city, we made our fun as we worked and sweat through all the chores and duties demanded us.

As weeks passed, the effects of my daily labors became evident with some muscle growth of my own: bulkier biceps and deeper pectorals, veins now evident and even some chest hair beginning to sprout. While at school, I barely had time for the gym and even less for dating. At night, I would lie in the darkness feeling my body winding down and my thoughts unraveling like slackened cords…drowsily – perhaps subconsciously – musing over passionate encounters, sexual episodes with partners unseen, blurred by emotions I had yet to comprehend…or accept.

When my chores took me close to the stables, I would see Horst as he handled the long planks of wood or sometimes cooling himself under the hose, and find myself more and more fascinated with this strapping, enigmatic woodsman. His presence affected me like nothing I had yet encountered: his overwhelming masculinity, his dark, musky scent and the perplexing ambiguity of angry ogre and reticent teddy bear...making my head spin and my heart race. I was at once unsettled by and exhilarated with the rush of emotions and physical reactions his presence engendered. What was happening to me?