New Release!

Ladies and Gentlemen, and of course my faithful followers of the furry persuasion (yeah I saw my cat skyping the other day) Drum roll please! I have released a new story! Whispers of Dead has turned into a monster that is steadily growing. However its counterpart, Broken Screams, has finished telling itself and is now available for purchase. So please GO read the ramblings of a twisted mind that have taken on a life of their own. Enjoy, share, and as always, tell me what you think. See you soon. Download Broken Screams here

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Around the Corner

Beneath the city skyline two old men watched the world walk past on the stoop of an apartment building. "You are so lucky. I wish I could still hear the sweet call of the birds as they frolick on the lawn." Said the old man to his mate.
His mate turned in astonishment, "What I wouldn't give to see the glisten of a black birds feathers or watch the sun as it falls from the sky, just one more time." His voice was a shout to accommodate the old the man's hearing defecit. Tears welled beneath his darkened glasses at the corners of his cloudy eyes.
While the old men sat talking a buisness man walked by. His gait hurried, he shuffled his brief case from one arm to next while holding a cell phone to his ear and chewing an apple between "Yes "and "sure". With a nod he passed the men a look of envy on his face. Whimiscally he uttered, "What I wouldn't give to spend my day just watching the world pass by."
The buisness man rounded the corner, the apple he half heartedly chewed slipped from his hand into a trash reseptacle as he fumbled between phone calls and files. Between the buildings he briskly passed a young woman in tattered clothes eyed his discarded treat. She rushed to the trash reseptacle on his passing and plucked the half eaten apple into her heavily dinge covered hands. Retreating to the darkness of the alleyway she pressed the juicy red to her lips with a far off look in her eyes, " What I wouldn't give to have enough food to waste half an apple."
From an adjecent building an old woman peered from her window watching the young girl chew a delicious red apple. A low hum filled the air in the room around. Faint electronic whirls and beeps of the machines that kept her alive. Trapped inside four walls with only a birds eyed view of the world walking by she thought to herself, "What I wouldn't give to be able to feel the wind on my face, the dirt beneath my feet, taste food once again. Even being a beggar would be better than the life I'm in."
Just up the block the sound of sirens filled the air. The static filled chirp of a first responders radio, " MVA vs bicyclist corner of Broadway and Pine. DOA." Shaking his head he placed a sheet over the remains of a tiny body. Pink Barbie handlebars jetted from the tire of a sideways sedan. He looked from the apartment buildings in the area where onlookers emptied into the streets. The Sedan's driver stumbled drunkenly around the roadway towards the EMT's oblivious to the severity of the scene around him.
The Medic spoke quietly to his partner wiping tears from his eyes with blood soaked hands, "She couldn't have been more than four. Will people ever realize how precious life is?"
Life is but a fleeting moment in time. Don't let it pass you by.
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

Beast in the Bedsheets

It is an odd comfort, knowing those I have admired the longest in my life were little known before their demise. Apparent now in retrospect, word must travel slowly if it is to have any length to its stay.

"Fifteen minutes of fame" commonplace. The in, the here, the now. Those are the faces and names that rise quickly, then stiffle without a second thought.
Yet, the names who live in eternity, the sweet words that comfort generation upon generation, never experienced fifteen minutes while breathing.
So what then of aspirations? Is there comfort in the future even if it is not lived?

But writing is a torturous beast. It is not to seek fame. Nor is it truely to be heard. Those are things of second thought. Writing is an outlet, an escape from the pictures, sounds, faces, that fill the waking mind. It is the pressure valve that segregates sanity from ridicule.
The nature of the beast is all consuming. Tiny snippets stored through out the day that flash in the mind's eye at sunset begging their tale be told.

It is the whisper of the wind amongst the trees, the light cascading on a pile of fallen leaves. It is the tenderness in a mothers eye, the look of a father with pride. It is life in its light, and even more so in darkness. The tales of those long forgotten.

The beast consumes me, or do I it?
Never dance with the Devil if you value your soul but what if by the making your soul if pure coal? What if by design you created your own undoing? What is life but the process of dying?

Yet into the light once again life is far more than breathing in. So writing too must be more than mechanics, more than grammar and schematics.
For a house to stand it must have a foundation. For a story to sell it must weave a tale worth saying.
The story never ends, merely begins again. For life with the beast is a merciless journey.

The line between sanity and insanity is occasionaly drawn by those without imagination. In a world of walls why barricade the mind?  Only within the pages of a book can one travel the worlds beyond in any form.
The beast is a beautiful friend.
~After the release~ R.M.Brandon 2012

Silence

The silence
Deafening
The shadow of a memory

Watching as the wheels turn
My heart
Drives away from me

What is loss
But the ending of a time
The parting of a smile
Even  if but for a small while

Silence consumes
Where laughter once rang
The skies once blue
Now darkened grey

Like the bitterness of winter
Cold, stagnant times
Awaiting spring’s sweet revival
Flowers and sunshine

My heart drives away
Tears stream  down my face
Yet it is only for a moment

Sacrifice one
That many more may come
Even after winter
The sun warms the earth again

The shadow of their memory
Clings tightly to my mind
Like the ringing  of their laughter
Promises for better times.

R.M.Brandon 8/13/12

The Wall

The wall. Running at full speed down the chosen path, eyes focused intently on the ground as it rises and falls beneath you. Ahead a shadow rises obscuring the sun.
Doubt clouds the mind. Indecison. The wall fills the eyes. No way around, only over. But the wall is slick and over seems hopeless without help. Nothing to stand on. No rope or ladder to climb. Is this the end of the path?
Has the journey really ended at obscurity?

It is in this moment when true character is formed. Some will turn and return to the point of origin. Others will veer walking along the slick surface of the wall searching for a way around. A select few will use their will power, bloody their fingertips, and exhaust themselves giving every ounce of themselves to the climb.

Standing at that wall I question, who am I? Do I climb or sit on my ass and wait for help? My feet are already tired, my legs scream for a break, mind is numb with endless quandry, hands callused from the path behind.
The wall rises. No I will not stop here, I will climb. When this journey one day ends the view will be a much better place.

Every life has obstacles, it is how handle those obstacles that defines who we are. Today I hit the wall, tomorrow I will climb it.
(C) R.M.Brandon 2012

Measure of A Man

What is the measure of a man? Who defines the value of a life? Is gold worth more than a grain of sand? Peace, tranquility, devine understanding, are these immeasurable traits or attainable goals?

Only in the Sweet Summer surrender am I able to find a tranquility in life. When the sun beats bright across my skin wrapping it in golden kisses. When laughter rings through the air and exploration is commonplace.
The things we find in this, the shortest of seasons, must cling to the mind during the bleakness of winter.

So how then do we measure a quality of life? Is it in the moments spent in sunlight, laughter? Is it the things we aquire through labor? Is it the memories we collect?
A dinosaur on a picnic table, a row of geese playing on a dock, a rain storm relinquishing the blight of a 100 degree draught, a day filled with collectable memories. Just a moment in one life. No money obtained, no great world changing discovery. Just a day.
Yet this day far more precious than a gem. More beautiful than Gold.

This day is peace in the madcap of a life in motion. So to answer my own question; the value of life is what you give it. What YOU make of it. If the value of your life is memories, share them and you will live eternally.
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

Dinner Date

At the end of a broken concrete road in the middle of nowhere waits a long forgotten beach. How does a beach become forgotten? Lost at the end of the tide, catfish remember its name. Cranes dance across its overgrown sand, stalking the scaled visitors. With silent 
magesty the curves of their necks bend dipping their razor sharp beaks into the cool green water. With a flash of movement, they retreat to the tree tops, an impaled fish as a mid day treat.

Sitting at a distance I watch the dance. Swooping from the heights of an oak tree violet black vistors land beside me. Yellow eyes twinkle with mischief as the feathered fiend sizes up the bologna sandwich in my hand.
Such a funny little thief he is, mouth parted between a grin and a laugh. I toss the bread crust to him and wait. Quickly he takes the bait. Snatch and grab, up into the trees again. Another crust of bread, this time he brings a friend.
Soon I am surrounded violet wings everywhere. The thought occurs, I don't think there is enough sandwich to share. Slowly I rise, meandering to the beconing sand and gentle tide. When I turn to look from whence I came, I realize the blackbirds decided the same.
Dropping my clothes with the wrapper on the shore I float on the hands of the gentle tide. On the lost beach my new friends wait. Violet and black wings my dinner dates.
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012

Thoughts and Unanswered Questions

Thought of buying a pool. One of those big in ground numbers with a slide and a diving board. Then realized someone would just fill it with trash.

Thought of building a fire pit. Not just any fire pit, an out door kitchen. A combination of bricks,recycled aluminum and steel, and a touch of imagination. A gaping mouth through which to create tastebud hypnotizing meals. Then realized it would be knocked down as soon as to work I had gone.

Thought of surrounding the yard with flowers.
Daisies, roses, orchids, fragrant beauties that would dance in the summers breeze. Their scent would combine like fresh honeysuckle and invite you to sit among their petals. Their colors would bob and sway singing to the wind. I would keep them hydrated with a meandering stream. It would encircle the yard fed by fountains. Clear blue water filled with golden fish would cast rainbows against the presisely placed stone walkway. The walkway would lead to a secret garden walled in by climbing beauties. Centerpiece, sitting stools surround a solar powered Hot tub. At night surrounded by warm bubbles laying up the sky would be filled with stars. Then I realized the flowers would be cut, the stream filled with pollution, the fish would die, and the hot tub would become lost to overgrowth.

Thought of dancing on the edge of the moon when the stars came out to play. Dangling there, watching the world spin away. Then realized the moon is too far away.

Thought of leaving. Wondered why I hadn't thought of that before. Then I realized I had. I never bothered to walk out the door.

There is a resignation when dreams begin to die. Suddenly you realize you no longer ask why.

Time slips steadily past. The chance for change too long gone. Still the question remains, when did life go so wrong?

(C) R.M.Brandon 2012

THE GREAT ARTIST

The most beautiful canvas ever painted, is painted new each day. Take the time to appreciate the art of nature. R.M.

Ignorance Is Bliss

If you have never stood on the edge of the ocean, never felt the sun warming your skin with kisses, never inhaled the salty air, or picked shells off the beach, you can be perfectly content in a wheat field. If you have never stood in a wheat field, danced with the gently swaying stocks,inhaled the musky grain smell, and 
baked fresh bread you can be perfectly content in a forest. If you have never stood at the base of a tree so old its top spans beyond sight, its base wider than a car, never climbed up its branches to see the wonder below, you can be happy on a couch. If you have never ventured out the door to taste the bitter sweet success that is love, never felt the warmth of compassion, the joy of a strangers smile. If you have never taken the time to live, you can be perfectly content simply waiting to die. The cruelity of the joke Ignorance is Bliss is knowledge is never unlearned. Once you have stood in the shadow of dream long enough to feel even a glimpse of its warmth, letting go is not an option. So what then is to be of ones who are not ignorant? Live the tortured existence of knowing what is unattained or try to become ignorant? Either existence is simply resigning to death and waiting for flesh to oblidge. When you look at a bird, do you still wish you could fly?

Witan vid Update

Ahhh. The ides of March have passed and the end is drawing near. To my regret and yet revelry I must announce a slight delay in the debut. We anticipated a March release of The Green Man's Curse.
Yet, with wisdom of an amazing editor/writer it has returned to me again. If it is in my hands why the delay? Because I am growing as writer. I could easily give it to you as written, but you wouldn't see the story. You might miss the beauty of a love scene, or the tragedy of a death simply because I didn't show you everything there was to see. Or help you feel what these characters feel.
If I fail in that as a writer, I do not only myself, but my readers a great disservice. So I dive back into the script. In Lost Lambs I have given you a glimpse of the dark side of my writing. In The Green Man's Curse I will show you everything else.
You will love, laugh, cry, agonize, fail, and succeed. At thed end of that journey we will stand together, reader, writer, in a place far beyond your imagination at the begining.
Please be patient. I am working not to give you a book, but a story that will captivate your mind, imagination, and maybe even your life. Until then keep walking with me here. And Thank you for following.

PEOPLE AND CRITTERS

On the bank of the creek. My pole taught in the water. I patiently wait. As I wait, a crow circles above. Two turtles play leap frog jumping in and out from the muddy bank. Slightly up creek a fish jumps. My mind soars with the crow. Up and down through the clouds, high above what I can see, he sees beyond.
If you follow my writing , you, by now, have realized I am facinated with wings and slimy things. Basically anything that flies,crawls, and croaks. Oh and the fuzzy critters as well. But what holds my heart the closest is a toss between birds and frogs. Looking back I guess it has always been like that for me, head in the clouds, eyes to the ground.
What is your critter? The animal that reccurs through your life, thoughts, writing. What does this critter represent to you? No I will not change the word to animal. I said critter and I meant it.
(In the background my mom is cringing over my word choice. Hi mom)
I'm curious. Talk to me. What is the creature that captivates you?

Lost Lambs

                                                                    Lost Lambs

                                                                         By R.M. Brandon

Thank you everyone for following my work. As promised, Lost Lambs is now live at smashwords.com

The face of death is rarely the serenity of old age. Picture instead the blank frozen stare of terror. Eyes empty, mouth agape in silent scream. Walk with me through the final moments. Venture, if you dare, into the hand of death. Before;Before the curtain fell. A high shriek pierced the night air. Part of the act to everyone, except the victim and her killer. 

Download it now for FREE Follow this link and enjoy http://www.smashwords.com/books/ view/144444

Note from the author: If you enjoyed this short read please buy my series Witan Vid. Book One: The Green Man’s Curse available through Gypsy Shadow Publishing.Coming Soon to Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and many more.

Midnight Crow

 Light fades
dawn deaths day
Midnight crow
Calls the hallowed
harvest moon
Ebony strands 
shimmer purple in the night
blue eyes flicker in the dashboard light
Death rides
Long, lean across the land
Flames, ash 
Evidence of his hand
Fire
She chases him
Bending to his will
A thousand souls she will take
Dancing in his wake
Following  
love consumes
that which will never be attained
Mesmerized
steel blue eyes lead her on
captivated by the heat of passion
A trail of ash marks their dance
Desert to sea
She pleads notice me
He guides her through the night
Midnight Crow
Pursued by the flame of lost love's sorrow


~(c) R.M.Brandon 2012~

Dance Of the Sea

Soft caresses upon the sandy floor
she gives, gives
then takes back more
beneath the serenity lies
danger, wonder, mystery divine
wet and fierce she pounds
unaware upon the shore
orphans she leaves
with shock they feel her presence flee
As swiftly she does recede
Only the minute
does she give to the sand
swiftly reclaiming them
with her mighty hand
the shore patiently waits
longing her embrace
yet the great moon above
is her true mate
Dance upon her back
As her lovers she plays
caution in mind
she will sing to your heart
course through your veins
the mighty ocean
is no mans to tame