There was a swarm of flies in the town this week.
Brought on by the unusual wave of heat; so they say.
Always a deeper story.
Always a deeper story but it costs you scars to know.
Around here that ain’t cheap.
This town is septic.
The wounds do heal in time but they leave a taint in the blood and it keeps.
I did not want to settle here: I had to.
Against instinct, against wisdom: for duty and for responsibility.
I was sent here because I’m a lone wolf and I’d trod on paws.
To prowl, to scout the place, find out the score.
Something is ill here, something behind the skin.
A scent on the air when the wind changes.
It’s a coastal town, a bay.
A tin town where ore from the hills was brought down by rail and processed in the factories.
All that has gone now, faded away, not even a memory these generations later.
The big smelting works which poisoned the bay the same way sewage outlets do now, has been torn down and replaced by a coastal walk, pretty for people. Its canker still washes upon the shore, light black rock like meteor.
Mor, Sea. Morfa, by the sea. Welsh words. Mor like Mort, and More; L’amore.
I met a witch so dark I could not resist.
Like everyone here, she wears a mask and I hoped so much for its truth that I could not see through it, not until later. Sometimes the Wyrm has mysteries beyond comprehension.
We share a cub, born of Human to Garou.
It transpired after, not Human at all. A cunning cadaver, ancient from the gypsy folk of Europe, having fled the industrial and social revolutions of the great wars a century ago.
So I became tainted. I let her to live for the cub’s sake. A boy needs a mother, even such as she.
He’s not yet of age to tell what he is but I watch his rage and I know well when the time comes he’s going to need me as I’m going to need the pack with whom I seldom moot, because we are so far and so few in number in South Wales, off the beaten track.
Out here I study virtual reality environments, digital dreamtime, the cyber realms a blessing of company in my loneliness. I design urban architecture which investors build in distant cities.
And I roam. And I hunt. Rural Wales is easy for one so long in the tooth as I.
Because it is so difficult for those who are not; and for those unknowning of its ways and of its wylds.
There was a swarm of flies in town this week and I need to find out why.
———————————————-////////
Brought on by the unusual wave of heat; so they say.
Always a deeper story.
Always a deeper story but it costs you scars to know.
Around here that ain’t cheap.
This town is septic.
The wounds do heal in time but they leave a taint in the blood and it keeps.
I did not want to settle here: I had to.
Against instinct, against wisdom: for duty and for responsibility.
I was sent here because I’m a lone wolf and I’d trod on paws.
To prowl, to scout the place, find out the score.
Something is ill here, something behind the skin.
A scent on the air when the wind changes.
It’s a coastal town, a bay.
A tin town where ore from the hills was brought down by rail and processed in the factories.
All that has gone now, faded away, not even a memory these generations later.
The big smelting works which poisoned the bay the same way sewage outlets do now, has been torn down and replaced by a coastal walk, pretty for people. Its canker still washes upon the shore, light black rock like meteor.
Mor, Sea. Morfa, by the sea. Welsh words. Mor like Mort, and More; L’amore.
I met a witch so dark I could not resist.
Like everyone here, she wears a mask and I hoped so much for its truth that I could not see through it, not until later. Sometimes the Wyrm has mysteries beyond comprehension.
We share a cub, born of Human to Garou.
It transpired after, not Human at all. A cunning cadaver, ancient from the gypsy folk of Europe, having fled the industrial and social revolutions of the great wars a century ago.
So I became tainted. I let her to live for the cub’s sake. A boy needs a mother, even such as she.
He’s not yet of age to tell what he is but I watch his rage and I know well when the time comes he’s going to need me as I’m going to need the pack with whom I seldom moot, because we are so far and so few in number in South Wales, off the beaten track.
Out here I study virtual reality environments, digital dreamtime, the cyber realms a blessing of company in my loneliness. I design urban architecture which investors build in distant cities.
And I roam. And I hunt. Rural Wales is easy for one so long in the tooth as I.
Because it is so difficult for those who are not; and for those unknowning of its ways and of its wylds.
There was a swarm of flies in town this week and I need to find out why.
———————————————-////////
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