Scribe Rats

Our second City Script entry was sent in by Robyn M.  It is more of a photographic masterpiece than a true City Script, but it remains relevant.  The picture was taken in her hometown at a waterfront park.

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City Script is a new feature we will be presenting on a regular basis.  It consists of poetic script, lettering, and other interesting urban literature we find.  Our first City Script image is from Seattle, Washington.  Hit the jump to check it out.

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I fear the ‘d’ proceeded by ‘e,’
A foolish if frightful phobia.

But somehow I know
That ed runs this show
In a jumbled letter worn world.

For if when I see
A ‘d’ succeeds ‘e,’
I know that they’re coming to get me.

I rarely write in my Moleskine notebook because I am always too busy typing, but I do enjoy the idea of having it.  It is a very high quality book, and it carries a certain legacy as it’s the notebook of Van Gogh, Hemingway and Picasso. I recently read a write up on one of my favorite blogs, The Art of Manliness, about using your notebook as a PDA.  It features several great “hacks” you can perform on your notebook to make it more efficient for taking notes and organizing ideas.  If you are interested in writing or even just keeping track of things, you should definitely read it.

Making a Moleskine PDA

As you may have noticed we have a new banner!  The drawing was done by our very own Daniel and colored by yours truly.  We have all been working very hard behind the scenes and we have a lot of great content in the works.  Please feel free to comment and let us know how you feel about our new banner.

Jason is across the country in the state of Washington right now, but I am sure he will have some interesting things to write when he returns.  Until then I will be posting a short story in segments, and maybe even a few other tidbits.

Enjoy!

I.
When I crush the head of a clover bloom,
the scent carries me to that far off field
where my weed battered knees cut winding trails
by the thick scented blackberry bush,
where the old man fed on jam flavored crop
with his hair crowned by dandelion fluff,
where the overhead hum of power lines
was the only thread that led us back home,
where finding the biggest bleached possum skull,
or smashing the tallest crawdad tower
would crown you the day’s coveted kingship.
The mud-caked gully trash was pirate swag.
A baseball bat swollen with ditch water,
too heavy to lift, was a giant’s club.

II.
Time ran slow there, meandering with bees
that zigzagged honey-drunk before our eyes.
They were as hapless as we explorers,
who trampled grass, and danced around blossoms,
as if we were dodging  primed petal traps.
On some days, it was indifferent of us,
some, it was proud of its unburied vaults,
often revealing behemoth beetles
or a flower of a newfound color.
We passed days safe from school books or bed times,
where the wind whispered to us secret things
through the soft-sharp tapping of tree branches.

III.
But there came a day when that place was lost;
every bull nettle stem, beetle blanket,
and all else named in the sacred kid tongue,
the whole of it severed clean at the stalk.
The other world had beat a jealous blade
against the last patch of grass-stitched magic
that it may have been weaved of long ago.
I grew sick at the headless flowers’ scent,
and for bees that lay like striped raisins
dying of thirst in some far off garden
whose blooms were dust compared to the nectar
that we all once feasted on in the field.

The water is still,
fixed by the weight of the melted Moon.
The Sabine sways with fish at rest –

with silt-tumbling stones
cobbling the riverbed,
with ghost-thin egrets
propped upon their withered sinews.

Numberless nights lie
drenched in it;
the surface shimmers,
a field of reflections
blurred by memory
and a shiver of ripples.

Not one silhouette –
of passing clouds,
of aging cypress,
of moonlit breath –
finds itself unanchored
by a river-tinged shadow.

They are whispering
in the mud-thick laps of shore,
in the bobbing slur of driftwood,
in the moans of rusted steel –
the slow ebb of all that stillness.

It appeared to be a patch of cloud
obscuring Orion in a smoky sheet;
I cursed the clumsy atmosphere.
But when it hung motionless,
despite my steady stare,
I knew I’d glimpsed a puff of dust
still alight with eternity’s ignition.
I felt the gentle tug of Earth
swaying soft as a cradle
and knew for the first time
that Heaven can only be seen in the dark.

April is National Poetry month, and to celebrate we will be posting a few poetry pieces before month’s end.  I know we are a little late, but the site just went live.  Please feel free to comment on any entries we post, and, as always, thank you for your patience.

Welcome to Scribe Rats!  Please stand by while we finalize our layout and add some content to the site.  We crafted this blog in order to provide you with interesting short stories, comics, and drawings.  We will also try to post relevant news and reviews when we aren’t toiling away behind our writing instruments.  In the future we will peddle our wares if you so choose to support us.

Thank you for your time and interest, and please enjoy.