The Survivors

From the Apocalyptic Journal – 83 Years from Now

He smelled wood burning but it was the tug on his chest that woke him up. Someone or something was pulling on his left bicep. And for some reason he couldn’t open his eyes.

“Hold still!” A woman’s voice pushed him back down again when he tried to sit up. He forced one eye partially open, “Stitches?” he asked. She must have pulled him away from the wolves, and she was stitching him up. He passed out again from the pain.

When he awoke, he was inside the earth……wait no……he was in an earthen lodge. The wind outside told him they were in the middle of a tenacious storm. She offered him a bowl of something warm. All she said was, “Drink.” He did, and it was smooth warmth going down. He tasted honey, ginger and lemon. Lemon? Where did she find a lemon?

She looked at him with a knife in her hands. waving it at him “I know you’re immune from the last disease, otherwise you wouldn’t be here….my name is Brie, and I think we should help each other…..but if you ever hurt me……you will be a dead man.” She meant it and he knew it. He tried to say he would never do such a thing…but he couldn’t speak it.

Her face was beautiful and round, but she had one scar on her right cheek. A knife fight? She had long black hair, and he realized she was from one of the tribes. She had the smell of buckskin and lavender.

“The drink will help you sleep……I’ll need your help in a few days, delivering.” It was only then he noticed she was very pregnant. He fell into a deep sleep……thinking that she was attractive, but he was worried about the knife……. at least he did know how a child is born……

Writing and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

The Dark Comfort

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When I write of the dark now, the enfolding, the pouring in of midnight, I’m not referring to evil, the seeking to destroy, the choking of our humanity, with talons extended,

or even of the darkness of our anointed narcissist, screaming so sadly of his insanity, supported by the prayers of some of the faithful, often confused, and sometimes worse…

no, I write of that dark comfort, stillness enfolding into us, like twilight wrapping us, holding us,

a silence of the heart…where we sometimes go, where stars live….still clinging to the night, watching over us,

over the deepest parts of us….causing even our scars to bow down, hoping for release,

like when birds awaken, praying, fighting sleep, to greet the dawn. It’s OK to go quiet during the rebirth of wings,

instead of leaving our spirits shredded, left in ruins. We don’t have to accept ourselves wearing a reality of dark wings trembling.

We do know the way, don’t we?

      

Poem, and Image, Copyright © 2020 ancient skies

A Love Story

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She never trusted in the dark side so she took my hand instead,

I wasn’t exactly a knight, but she saw something within me she could believe in,

and she wasn’t exactly all flowers, but her heart carried a priestess within, filled with light,

I recognized some of her scars, and I knew her beginning was a hail storm,

we both knew, and became synced when I tried to capture her flag….she took mine instead,

before I even knew what had happened,

and we never quite reached the height of eagles, we were more like hawks,

but at least we were not crows, all noise and no substance,

we live with grey feathers now, carrying courage, healing each other, and……very much in love.

       

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

Winds Changing

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In that day when warfare is the ruler, the sovereign thief

stealing, destroying what we do know,

our spirits will often lead us

into winds changing,

pulling us into the kingdom of blue skies,

into something new,

a sense of a spring forest

exploring, restoring and changing

who we are.

Not the wiser,

maybe not even stronger,

yet a new creation

in love with a sense of living…..

the journey

of a new adventure.

       

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

Note: It’s ok if our faith changes due to the ruins of our lives. It’s really ok, and a very real part…… of our survival. It is ok.

75 Arrows

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He shifted slightly in the saddle, letting go gently of the reigns, they both stood there and breathed in the view from the top of the ridge. In his peace, he realized it didn’t matter now.

Even if the government fell tonight, and democracy was swept away, he would still have one of the best trail horses ever made. He loved his Quarter Horse/Belgian mare. And he had his compound bow, but only 75 arrows until he learned how to make his own.

He dismounted and led the mare to the stream. Soon even people would be able to drink from the rivers again, having been cleansed. He was a little uneasy though, about carrying the bow wherever he went. What was it the pastor had said?

“Sometimes we hold onto our weapons, not willing to accept the new being made…..” Yep that was it……he was unwilling to accept the ruins and the new was having a difficult time breaking in. Maybe he just needed more time.

As the mare drank deeply, a noise to his right caught his attention. He swung around the bow, and his right hand instinctively reached back to the quiver……he wondered if the deer knew he was hunting…..

from the Apocalyptic Journal

     

Writing and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies