Our Way
Norway
O! Ye Olde Timey Word(e)s
A cannonade, deferred. Who thought it wise to spit upon the glory of the day? Fighting ignobly, warring interminably. No sword, nor word of mine, enters the bray!
Lil’ Rhodie
Heretofore, under the guidance of his most exhalted, and bound to the affectations of a prudent, yet callous head, press everforward. Never leaning, never wavering in the face of spite. Not once a grimace to show. Donning a madras and nothing more. Clinging to the open air as upon a leaden anchor. Coastal claims of charging upheaval displace the realm once thought to be home. Not homme. Not herr. Emptied, sullied – nay! Jocular invocations heeded by those thought gone. Parading down the ghostly promenade, smelling of salt and rot. Metronome taps to the corazonal beat. Hold fast to the memories faded, that once thought lost, may indeed be found.
It’s always about Frank
The second hand on the clock was a tremendous tick that pounded. Each passing moment was forgotten as he embraced the present with visions of the future. The walls, painted in a slight hue of green breathed and swayed with his own. Frank had become one with his surroundings. The chair he sat upon, an extension of his lanky frame.
Frank was of average size and build. Not one for frequenting a gym, his eating habits shaped his appearance better than anything else. A prudish diet of coffee, fish and nuts had left his skin an ashen color better suited for a lab rat. His gaunt face cut with a dull hatchet and ornately decorated with dark whiskers along his protruding jawbone. His hands, forged from leather, possessed the brute strength of a longshoreman and the steadiness of a neurosurgeon. His legs seemed to go on, unhindered for miles and miles. People had assumed his frame for distance running, but years of smoking had quieted that ambition. His yellowed teeth, never shown in smile or conversation, were all that told of his moonlighting as a chimney. And thus, was Frank.
