Scribbling
My favorite literary form is the short story. Here are some sketches of sappy stories I have written, intermittently dispersed with crummy poetry.
© 2004 by Jason W. Moulder
Sketch for bookplate (1990)
from STATUE
UNFINISHED
Alone in a garden of camellias stood the statue of Minos, king of Crete, with a stern expression in high relief upon its face of stone. He
seemed to be calculating judgment upon the flowers in the absence of the piteous souls who would be his normal subjects.
But infrequently did human spirits now wander within the survey of his intimidating stare.
The workmanship of the carving of the face and other features of the torso were evidently that of a genius. The remaining limbs and body, however, were sometimes here marred, or there disproportionate to the rest of the composition of the sculpture as a whole.
"What strange circumstance could account for such inconsistency?" Fran wondered to herself.
She had not long to wonder before a rustle came from behind...
[continued]
Comic drawing (1988)
from PATHS
OF STONE
Richard had hiked to Clingman's Dome twice; once in the rain when the fog hung so thick
he couldn't see to walk, but on the way back down, and as the mist began to lift, the moss and ferns were so full,
fresh and ethereal that
he got the mist in his eyes.
The second time the air was so clear he could surely see the five states boasted on the bronze plaque laid out for tourists. But still the lush blankets of green moss and fern fountains were the most beautiful, four times in passing, where Richard almost gave in to their siren call to be lost forever in the blue-green shadows of Appalachia . . .
QUILL AND QUIVER (Acrobat PDF)
A collection of my (ahem) serious poetry, published here to commemorate National Poetry Month (April 2004).
Self Portrait (1988)
HUMILITY
He spat upon the floor, demonstrating his wretchedness to all in the room.
Later—and prior to his destruction—all would pity him at the sight of his basest humility,
and also because of their empathy of human suffering.
When one is stripped of all else—vanity, pride, selfishness, cruelty, hatred—one is always reduced to the most basic and common man.
One is always humbled to the degree that All must pity. All must pity because the very sight
of humility humbles All.
We as human beings share this one link only among ourselves. All else is the shell of personality.
All else is vanity and vexation of spirit.
from WHAT
SHE TOLD THE WIND
"How are things?" he asked in his smallest voice.
The hall was dark and quiet, except for the gentle murmur of the wind tripping through the leafy
branches just outside the windows. Each pane framed by countless ages of peeling paint and dirt;
pulling away, as if trying, hopelessly, to escape upon the breeze and fly to a happier land.
She did not reply, but gently touching his arm, smiled and stepped out into the twilight. The coming night was full and
beautiful—a true summer night. Every trimming seemed magically contrived to delight even the most melancholy heart into a bold passion for living.
"I've stopped making promises I can't keep," he said at length with a sigh. "I suppose nights like this have been responsible for more than one rash vow," he added with awkward levity, looking up at the moonlit wisps of cloud.
"Yes," she replied, "That may be true. But grace comes with repentance." Here she turned her face toward the wind and continued softly in words that he could not hear.
"What is that you said?" he inquired absent-minded in the reverie of the warmth and beauty which surrounded them both.
"It was nothing," she replied with brevity and a quaver in her voice which would have feigned to disguise the emotion she felt, had he not been so preoccupied with the sound of the growing breeze. "I will walk with you if you like," she said in a more comfortable tone,
hoping to remain in the only light that could hide the telling flush of her cheek, "It
is such a lovely evening."
Offering her his arm, they walked slowly and silently beneath the arbor of tall birches, two lonely strangers, each with a secret joy of hope quickening their beating hearts.
Sketch for bookplate (1991)
from TO
ONE WHO SAVED MY LIFE
She waited at a table restlessly stirring her coffee, unsure of herself, self-conscious and afraid.
Her whole life, Laura never realized how beautiful she was. Not just an inside beauty. No one wants to be told they are beautiful on the inside. But she was both.
Her eyes were the soulful kind. Dark, brown and intense.
She took a small sip of coffee and fixed her eyes on the table; afraid to look up or around. What if he should be there? What would she say? Would she reveal her inexperience with an awkward glance? The butterflies in her stomach began to give way to sparrows.
Pausing at the door for the briefest moment, he entered and walked toward the table. Her pulse immediately began to quicken, knowing he was there but hesitating, until she convinced her own mind of the fact. In a flash it seemed, the formal greeting and handshake were done. Still her self-consciousness prevented her from seeing him at all until they had been talking for a quarter of an hour or more.
Building up her nerve lest the blood in her face should betray her, Laura finally dared herself to look—opening the slightest chink in her armor to stare through those brown eyes into his, and chance an arrow piercing her soul by staring too long with nothing to say.
His was the most beautiful smile she thought she had ever seen. As he spoke, his eyes began to caress Laura's face, coming to rest on her slightly-parting lips, and for the first time, she took courage.
Sketch for abstract painting (2003)
I'VE HEARD
IT SAID from Quill and Quiver
I’ve heard it said, I don’t know where,
That people fall in love six times.
Though I, perhaps, have two or three,
And hope that four will come my way,
Know one is all I’ll ever need.
And one should be enough.
If suddenly the world was fair,
And every lover perfect matched,
There would be no more poetry.
Or so I’ve heard it said.
