Having pledged his voice
to the monastery, he attends
the growling sky; clouds muscled
with pure element brace duskily,
crafting thunder in their bowels.
This, he knows, is something steeper
than any cliff of manhood; it is the last
ascent into solvent beauty.
Within his robe–a gift
of the friary and fitted to repair
the iniquities of flesh–
he angles every nerve
toward the orchestra
of Autumn’s grand departure.
A blinding root cleaves the soil
of night, and the drum
of the heavens is started.
Soon, winter will mute the land
with its slow, white plague, asking of it
the same vow.
And with the land, his mortal sense
diminished, he will learn the key
with which one harmonizes
the silence without and the silence within.
Here are the first two chapters of a novella I attempted to write a few years back. It’s about a priest who relives his entire life during a leisurely stroll down a haunted street. I would classify it as magical realism. Hopefully, I’ll return to it someday.
1 Divinity Way
“This technically is your backdoor,” said the real estate agent while pressing his right knee against the old wood, its paint like the speckled hide of a wild horse. Turning the house key, he pushed forward and the house opened with a churlish crack that made Collier think of the noise his knees now made after standing still too long. Collier loathed reminders of his age, but perhaps, he thought, a shared rusty framework will bond him to his new home.