Follow My Voice (Be My Eyes)

The explosion had not come in the middle of the night–that would have made it a cliche, this disaster–but during the middle of the day.  There had been an explosion and the sound of a shriek, followed by a rush to clean up the immediate fire and glass before the entire basement was burning.

It was when one of them fell to his knees with his hands covering his face, that the true extent of what happened became apparent.

During the times his Beloved could not speak, the violin became his guide.

He had asked for a song, one autumn evening–the paperwork had come back, a potential experimental procedure that he was qualified for, and he needed to take his mind off all the fear and hope that was rolling around in his stomach.  He felt hands grasp his own, and his Beloved began to sign.

Do you want to try playing, he paused, or should I?

“You do it, I simply want to listen.”

I’ll be back.  There was the sound of footsteps on the porch, then the screen door closing softly.  There was a pause, the door opening, and the footsteps returning again.  There was a clunk and the sounds of a violin case being opened, and the instrument being unwrapped.

“You need to tune first,” he said.

Whatever dry comment may have been made in the pause was lost as a single screeching note filled the air.  There were three more off-key notes, each in rapid succession, each one making him wince.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it,” he asked, “since you’ve played?”  He leaned back against the porch swing, holding out his hands as his Beloved began signing again.

Yes.  The pause that followed lasted too long to be comfortable.  I…was composing a piece, when your experiment exploded.

“Darling, I didn’t know….”

Let me!  The words were signed too quickly, his Beloved’s hands shaking slightly even as the words were formed.  Let me play for you.  Please.

“Of course.”

A single slow, mournful note filled the air.  It shifted into a second, a higher cry of longing.  The piece was discordant, a display of all the empty spaces between them, of all that had happened before and since those tragedies.

He remembered his Beloved in a hospital room, utterly broken beyond repair, slipping away into what he had thought was his true death.  But the Land and the Far Ones had brought him back, and his rage upon waking was only stunted by the Land’s energy rolling through him, refusing to let him go.

Darkness must like its King.  The first words he signed were bitter, sarcastic.  His scars–what would be his scars–were glowing, spilling golden light.  His golden eyes were filled with rage.

The room had been completely dark, the curtains and blinds pulled for privacy.  He had slipped away into death late in the evening after the doctors had left, but now he was breathing and his Heart was beating.

It was dawn, and the King’s life had begun yet again.

They were no longer by the sea, no longer in that cramped white room, but the song that his Beloved played on his violin held those memories.

“Was that what you were working on,” he asked.  “They day I…lost my eyes?”

No, that…was something happier.  The violin case was closed, and he felt a hand resting on his shoulder.  He leaned into the touch, and warm arms enveloped him.

The click of his cane on the tiled floor echoed.  He hoped he would no longer need it, but giving it up right away would be like suddenly losing his watch, awkward and constantly feeling like he was forgetting something.

He could, at least, detect the light from behind his closed eyes.  His new eyes.  It felt strange, these wires and bandages, but there was a promise of hope as well.

There was a loud clunk when his cane hit the door, and he paused.

“Do you want me to get that,” his Beloved asked.

“Could you?”

“Of course.”

He could hear the door opening, could feel the rush of wind on his face.  He reached up and slowly, gently, removed the bandages that were covering his eyes.  Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was standing in the dim corridor of the Singing Halls, not out in the full sunlight.  His Beloved was leaning against an apple tree, watching him quietly.  His Beloved stepped forward and held out a hand, the mosaic design on his shirt shimmering in the sunlight.  He took his Beloved’s hand, and was drawn out into the sunlight.


Anyone Want Some Yarn?

I have five balls of Rowan felted tweed [link] yarn to give away.  It’s lovely yarn, a bit rougher than some others I’ve worked with, but knits up very soft.  Due to being associated with a family member that passed away (the yarn was for a project that was going to be a gift for for him) I can’t keep it anymore, due to painful associations.


Each ball of yarn is 191 yards, making this around 955 yards total.  There’s one ball of yarn I’ve used part of, but not very much; however, I’m unsure of the weight of that ball, or exactly how much yarn is left.

The yarn is a DK weight, and knits up very soft.  It’s a blend of wool, alpaca, and rayon.  It has a felted effect when it’s knitted, and has a tweed-y texture to it.  It’s a deep red, almost rust colored, with flecks of blue and white in it.

I’ll happily send the yarn to whoever wants it, or trade for another yarn if anyone wants to set up something like that.  Either comment here or email me ( if you’re interested.

Knitting, Estrangement, and Grief

I have about 550 yards of red yarn, and…I’m facing a problem with it.

You see, it was going to be a poncho dedicated to [the Dreamer’s father.]  Magically, it was going to function as a sort of shield, and a reminder that [this deity] cared for me.

My Spouse and his father became estranged two years ago, the type of estrangement there’s no going back from (in support of my Beloved, I cut all contact with [this deity] as well.)  In August of 2018, we received word that [this deity] had passed away, which brought up a lot of mixed feelings for us all (especially the manner of his death, which was awful.)

I don’t know what to do with the yarn, but I know that making the poncho is out of the question.  I’m not sure if I’m even *ready* to use it, but I wanted to write this (and ask if anyone has ideas) while it was on my mind.

WIP Wednesday

Lately, with it being so cold out, I’ve been making my Beloved’s scarf my priority knitting project.  It’s easier for me to knit on larger needles with my hands being cold, so I’ve made a lot of progress on this.


I’ve gotten to the section where I’ve added the fourth color, a royal shade of blue.  In this picture, you can see the color differences between colors two and three better.  There’s a few areas where I messed up, like when I had to pick my stitches back up after ripping out a few rows, but as long as the stitches aren’t falling down, I’m okay with leaving in a mistake or two.

There might end up being a solid royal blue section, since I don’t have much of the blue-grey yarn left, and I have even less of the navy.  I’ll see where I am when I get to that section of the scarf.

Other Ghosts

I recently bought The Awakening’s new album, Chasm, and the first song resonates eerily with my mental illness.  I don’t know if that’s what the song is meant to be *about,* but I’ve discovered that it’s comforting to hear music that makes me feel less alone.

There are other ghosts and voices 
Melodies and noises 
Beneath the dust 
Beneath our time 

There are other lies and secrets 
Foreign knives and tickets 
Behind these walls 
And ties that bind 

The turn of the days 
As the circus became your only life 

Oh the turn of the days 
And the whispered delays and all you denied 

And all I wanted 
Is all I need to survive 

There are other ghosts and people 
Jerrichos and steeples 
Will you and I belong? 

There are other lies and takers 
Borders and forsakers 
Will you and I belong? 

Oh with the light of these days 
Oh we fall and we break 
And we do not understand 

You’re as pure as the tears 
That you gave to the dreams 
That you could not understand 

And all I wanted 
Is all I need to survive 
To survive 
To survive 

There are other ghosts and voices 
Melodies and noises 
Beneath the dust 
Beneath our time