Sometimes, love burns too brightly to be held in the palm.

A streak blurred across the night sky somewhere remote. A witness, if there was a witness (for only the crickets watched tonight), would describe it as a shooting star. Only much dimmer and slower.

The streak arched down in the dark, making a quiet thud as it impacted. There was a small puff of dust as whatever it was tumbled into the tall waving grass, carving out a long channel through the field.

The crickets grew silent long enough to feel safe again. In short order, the stalks regained their composure and stood erect enough for the wind to restore the channel and the object disappeared into the obscurity of a sea of green.

If the crickets could report an observation, it would be that there lay a small boy. He was curled up asleep, wearing a loose cotton shirt the color of faded sky, and linen trousers rolled at the cuffs, both worn thin. His feet were bare. There were little bits of dried stubble stuck in his blonde hair and dirt smudging his face.

He didn't seem hurt, only resting. And the crickets quickly lost interest and went back to singing their serenade into the windy night. And so he slept for many hours.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was blurry darkness. The sounds of rustling grass was like the undeniable roar of a waterfall. The smell of young green stalks filled his nostrils and he could taste the soil.

His body ached, and he tried to remember what had happened, and how he came to be here sprawled on a windy summer night.

But, he had nothing.

He didn’t have nothing. Just not the right somethings.

Let’s see—what did he have?

A name —No. A place?—Blank. A purpose? A whisper of freedom, maybe.

What he did know was that, his head hurt, his body ached, he was a boy, and the grass, it smelled wonderful.

All things considered, not a terrible balance sheet. Not ideal, but not the worst.

He may not have felt great, but he did feel safe. He sat up. A mistake, his body let him know. But, it confirmed when his head peeked out of his little hide that he was in a swell of grasslands. The dim starlight didn’t illuminate much, but it was enough to sculpt hills of roiling fields far into the horizon.

The boy lay back and laid his arm across his forehead. A new sensation swelled in him: loneliness.

Yes, he could recall the distinct emptiness of being distant— one hidden from the world, though he longed for more.

A thin stream of a tear ran down the side of his face and into his ear. The cold wet tickled the tiny hairs and the sensation betrayed his sadness.

How strange, the boy thought, that something born of unhappiness can trigger the tiny joy of a tickle. Like a hug given in support, small kindness in the face of bitterness was a human remedy for so many things.

It made him smile, the little happiness. And with that thought, his mind relaxed and he drifted away to sleep.

In that timeless state, the boy dreamed. Of warmth and love and laughter. Hearths and food and small joys the absence of which had brought the tickling tear.

Eons passed before he opened his eyes again. Not blurry now. He could see the crisp sharp infinity of the night sky with precision. His head no longer ached and he felt tired, but rested.

The boy studied the stars for long minutes, enjoying how the night winds made the light bounce and twinkle in the atmosphere. They looked like a blanket of diamonds across the sky.

“Oh, stars,” the boy whispered into the wind “why does life sometimes leave us abandoned when we need companions but other times surrounded when all we wish is to be alone?”

Expecting the answer to be a hush and rustle of grass, he closed his eyes and inhaled to listen and decode what the wind whispered back.

When he heard a low grumbling voice, his eyes shot open.

“Life is ambivalent to your circumstance.” The growl said. “Everyone wants someone to blame, but most things just are.”

The boy looked around a little desperate. He thought he was all alone.

“Wh-who... who's there?” He stuttered, a little frightened.

It took a moment before the voice spoke again. The boy began to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Raise your eyes and you will see me.” The voice directed.

He was confused as he looked up and saw only the sky. Another moment and nothing. He leaned back on his elbow.

“Where?” He asked. “Are you invisible?”

“Many things are seen when one is patient.” The voice hummed.

The boy lay back again and looked at the sky for many minutes before he saw it. The star Aldebaran moved ever so slightly toward him and twinkled a little brighter.

He pointed excitedly. “Is that you?”

“Aaaaahhhh, good, good. You know how to see. To be patient. To wait is not a gift most hold.” The voice now had a mouth. The boy could see the shimmer of something shifting in the sky.

“Give me a moment, I will come to you.” It was warm and kind sounding.

Curious, the boy asked, “Are you a star?”

“Hmmmm—some would say I am a star, others a group. A few have called me a god.” The voice said this thoughtfully, as if seeking a way to explain. “The people I used to watch who lived where you rest tonight called me Tayamni Pa'. But not one has called me that in a long, long time. You, may call me Tayamni, or Tay if you prefer.”

As the boy watched, he could see now a dark mass warping with starlight. As it got closer and larger, he could begin to make out the faint edges of the shape. It looked like a large black—buffalo. Its eyes glowed a pale blue light and the tips of his horns, tail and hooves all twinkled like the stars.

“I am no god, little boy,” now the shape, Tayamni, spoke from a dark mouth. “I am just he-who-waits-and-watches. I observe the universe and man, recording for all time what I see. My friends, the other celestial creatures, that is our task.”

As the great beast descended to the ground, its form solidified and its size, still massive against the boy’s diminutive frame, shrunk to approximately what the boy imagined a buffalo would be. The ground shook ever so slightly as the creature's full weight alighted. Tayamni was no longer some ethereal sky monster, he was real flesh and blood, though its eyes, horns and hooves still had that starlight quality.

“Did you watch me?” The boy asked timidly. “I woke up here and I can't remember anything. Just that I am tired and lonely.”

“Why yes,” Tayamni answered. “That is why I reached out to you. I could feel the ache in your heart and see the panic in your little blue eyes when you peeked above the grasses.”

“Please, Tayamni,” the boy was eager now, leaning forward on his knees before the great buffalo. “Can you share anything? Maybe it will help me remember.”

The giant, settled into a relaxed pose, lying on the ground, forelegs crossed in front of it, like a schoolmaster about to instruct a pupil.

“You have made this journey before.” He began, “Many times. Your fall here is not a punishment or accident, but a result of having outgrown something you share. A connection whose form cannot contain your want and desire. As with any container, when full, it overflows. essentially, your love overflowed the universe and you are washed away as a result. Carried by some etheric tempest.”

The boy looked confused.

“This was no act of aggression, my young friend.” Tayamni assured him. “There is no anger involved. You were released by love. Some lights grow too bright to hold in the palm, so they return to the sky.”

“But—” the boy began “I am not in the sky. Right? I am here, so why didn't I return as you were?”

The old bull leaned his enormous head toward the Boy, cocked it slightly so one eye drew close, it was the size of a saucer. “THAT, is the question you always ask! I cannot say except to presume it is your desire. Your want for this love is so great, you are unwilling to leave it behind and ascend to your place in the heavens. If you look there in the night sky, you can see a tiny blank spot where you belong.”

The astral animal gestured to the northern sky with his sparkling hoof.

“Do I find that which I seek? This great thing I cannot deny?” the boy was calm, seeking clarity.

“Perhaps. You always leave seeking. And I can only assume at some level, you find your goal, but always you fall here, in the cricket grasses. They’re already singing of your return. You’re big news in the lives of little insects.” The boy was sure he saw Tayamni smiling and wink as he said this. They could not speak of the boy's journey, but would always sing what they knew.

“Tonight, you will rest and sleep through tomorrow. Starlight travels best in the dark and dawn grows closer even now.” he said as the eastern horizon bloomed the faintest of magentas against the inky indigo sky.

“The rest of your journey will wait for you. The destination always will. This much, I do know.”

“You know that which I seek?” again the boy piqued.

“No, no, my little star—” the buffalo shook its head. “But I've watched planets orbit stars for millennia and comets who can never quite pull away from the pull at their hearts. When true love is struck, there is no stopping it. You will burn out the universe in timeless pursuit of your goal.”

The boy grew suddenly very sleepy as the sky glowed to a bright yellow and felt a great urge to sleep.

Standing to yawn and stretch before leaning his weight against the coarse fur of the buffalo's head he said, “Oh, my—I am suddenly in desperate need of rest.”

“I know, starlight.” the warmth of the animals voice was very soothing to the little boy, making him sleepier still. “Come, rest in my heart. I will protect you until the daystar grows too weary herself and returns the night to us.

At this invitation, Tayamni's chest glowed pale blue and shimmered to translucence. The boy stumbled next to the bull feeling the course fur with his hand and reaching the glowing heart lay down inside the buffalo. The viscous blue light was like a comforting hug from a mother and in short order, the boy was fast asleep. As soon as he was, Tayamni stood and shook his mane at the rising sun.

“Hello, old girl!” He said as he began to trot eastward. Rumbling into a gallop, the ground shook and the crickets leaped away as the big beast transformed back into his celestial form and glided away into the brightening morning sky. Within moments, it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the fading night sky.

Day had begun.

The boy woke after a timeless sleep, feeling energetic and alive. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The low rumble of Tayamni's voice rolled across the grassy plain. “Safe journey, little prince. We will watch your journey and guide you where we can.”

The boy stood erect, face to the sky, an arm extended in a waving salute. “Thank you! Tayamni! Do you think I can find her?”

“I have felt your heart many times, my little light.” The voice carried the feeling of love and pride the bull had for the boy. “It is pure and true. And a true love like yours will always succeed, because you will never stop.”

High above the stars shimmered—kind and watchful, and a tear streaked back across the boy's cheek and tickled his ear, making him smile. So he found the north star, for which he had a strong feeling of kinship, turned right and took his first steps. He was certain of one thing. It was not the first time, but possibly, this would be the last.

And the little audience of insects watched as the boy vanished over the hill. As he drew away they began their song again. Crickets could not speak of his journey—but they remembered. And they sang of it forever.

#story #adventure #legend #journal #confession #100daystooffset #writing

orig: 2025-08-06 23:45:00

Swiped from @sin.xline

Sina Simbürger posted this yesterday and I found it—profound.

Sina does wonderful work. I'm sorry I'm stealing your work, Sina, but it's just really good stuff. Very thoughtful. Shouldn't be surprised you a girl. We males don't seem capable of producing work quite this deep consistently.

A lot is salient about this for me right now. I feel like I am at another crossroads. The difference this time, is I feel less worried about being run over. In the past, coming to these moments always felt incredibly—dangerous.

Now—I don't know. I think I've realized if I am going to play in the road, I have to be ready to get grazed or run down.

Not sure if I shoudl pray for bus or a bicycle.

#story # journal #poetry #poetry #100daystooffset #writing #story #travel

A magnificently honest rendering of low self esteem.

Thinking we are unloved and unlovable is endemic. What a state to be in. It breeds a constant need to give away parts of ourselves so that we feel loved and valued. When in truth, if someone truly loves and values us, they do not need what small treasures we have. We are enough all by being who we are. By existing. 

When we give of ourselves to get affection or acceptance or love, we enter a transaction. There's nothing inherently wrong with this, but if becomes how we identify ourselves, it can break us. It treads in to parasitic territory. How can love support a parasite? Love requires exchange. Perhaps in the short, it may not be balanced, but on a long enough timeline, it should be an even give and take. 

We all care for one another. Our needs are met.

But in long-term relationships, patterns can form that are not healthy. They may form because one partner or the other just doesn't have what is needed to fill all our missing parts. It isn't their fault. They may even wish to be the parity to our broken. But a one legged man will not win a marathon against bipeds. 

So if we are in a committed imbalance, or not, we must learn to accept ourselves. If you and I can approve of who we are and find validation and acceptance, and not count on our second parties to fulfill us, then we can find peace. 

Or perhaps, we will find each other. Because—not because we wish harm, but because we vibrate at a frequency that feels incredibly lonely. And suddenly, there is a signal in the dark that we recognize other people. And we align with signal. And we are made greater. Where other signals diminish us, we are suddenly enhanced. 

And made beautiful. 

The world is a cold place. Is not the true injustice to ask someone to stand alone in the cold because it is the right thing to do? Family wraps one another in the warm arms of love and survive.

Like penguins.

The Boy, the Mole, The Fox and the Horse is the kind of story that begs introspection.   You, I hope, will see yourself in one of the characters. The wise, the broken, the hurt, the lost and the sage. You will probably realize you are some mixture of these. 

And I think that's beautiful. 

If you can,support Charlie at Charliemackesy.com

#story # journal #poetry #poetry #100daystooffset #writing #story #travel

The first real poem I ever write, will be in skin.

When I forget how to breathe, My body will remember— My skin, thin enough To touch the world And exchange Life for life

Not every day can be a healing. Sometimes, we can only let Small kindnesses in, One after another, Trusting there's Enough.

I have lived a long time armored— In the irony of being an artist, In the pelt of this wolf. I can be more, being The porous one, Letting it in.

Skinbreathers cannot live In arid worlds, absent The wetness of life. So I let the day Touch me in Music.

I let life pass my guardian In word and deed while Trusting in kindness And support when I am most tired. Coming ever.

So today, I won't climb hills. I won't explain or inhale. I'll just let the good Find it's way into Me—the sound And the still.

A world breathing for me While I live in memory, Digesting the past To feed the art, And wisdom, And Love.

Touch me And I'll Live.

#poetry #100daystooffset #writing #story #osxs

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All that is gold does not glitter; all that wanders is not lost.

In every garden lives a keeper of stories, and sometimes, if the wind is kind, travelers stop to tell their own.

In a quiet, shady corner of Moonflower Garden, where the dew collects into tiny constellations of liquid stars, Bonita the spider swiftly and lovingly tended her web. Bonita was an artist. Each of her webs spun a story—of her days and nights, of the victories and failures, and the lessons she had learned through her life. Her web was not designed to capture but to listen. Each silken strand translated the voices of the wind, the pollen, and passing dreams.

On a golden fall afternoon as the light turned the color of apricots, the Gardener—wearing a periwinkle sweater—smiled and sang. A cloud of orange and gold descended, singing its own song of greeting as it murmurated across the Moonflower landscape. The Gardener stopped digging with her little blue spade and rocked back on her heels, head tilted, listening.

We are Les Ailes du Méridien de Poussière, the cloud of silent beauty. We come from far away and pay no heed to man.

We are the wing that flutters, the breath that whispers songs only the beloved may hear.

So listen, friend of the Moonflower, and when you hear us, know that you are loved. O Moonflower, keeper of silence, let your light fall over me.

We come from far and see so much— from lands below, from seas and storms— we come to touch, to drink your nectar sweet.

Grant us, O Moonflower Garden, a safe and delicious place upon which to rest our weary feet.

Let us kiss you with our proboscis, and we will soothe your tired leaves; we are part of the pulse of your paradise.

We will make love to your blossoms, introduce them one to another, becoming messengers and makers—

We, Les Ailes du Méridien de Poussière, the cloud of songful beauty. Come— feast upon our splendor.

Tears filled the gardener's eyes as she watched the flood of color and motion fill her world. She was agape with wonder as she heard the song they whispered and settled everywhere, wrapping her verdant world in a blanket of amber and saffron.

“Oh!” she cried. “Welcome, beautiful things, to my little world of life. I pray you find solitude and respite here on your journey. Meet my friend Bonita—she is a welcoming host, not what you’d expect.”

The Gardener gestured to Bonita's beautiful web, glowing in the afternoon light and conspicuously absent of the little winged-wonders.

Bonita waved back a welcoming gesture. “Come closer my little jeweled travelers. There is no danger here, I am a vegetarian spider—a weaver not of snares but of stories. I hunger for the wonders you have seen on your journey.”

The little orange spider fit right in among the myriad of trembling wings, her smile, perhaps a little off-putting to her audience, was genuine and bore the warmth of her heart in any case.

Monarch's and their kind are skittish by nature, and so they hovered close, alighting on the lavender and milkweed, wings never still. The gardener thought of a page wiggling in the wind.

“Tell me,” Bonita said, in her best Butterfly-ese, “of the lands you’ve seen.”

They spoke all at once, their voices blending in an almost overwhelming choir. Bonita learned of gleaming mirrored salt flats, storms over cornfields, and canals and lakes alive with creatures of every kind.

She was saddened by tales of those lost along the way, yet thrilled to hear of the millions that would nest far to the south, in the place they called the Valley of Return.

What Bonita loved most, was the love and energy they carried with them. They spoke of wonders and kindnesses, leaving out the woe and hardship. These tiny miracles found joy and happiness in the journey, choosing to focus on the camaraderie and brotherhood they shared. The difficulties were just the road upon which they traveled.

Bonita thought these children of Michoacán were beautiful and beauty multiplied.

As twilight began to deepen, and the Gardener sank into the shadows, a passive observer, Bonita spun a new web. Now it was the guest's turn to marvel. Between the stems of the Moonflower, the garden lattice and the beams of the Gardener's porch, she built a tapestry of silver thread.

Once, one of Bonita's ancestors had wowed a world with a lexicon that saved a life. But as she worked through the night, it was not a dictionary she referenced, but the countless tiny souls that found a safe place here in her world. And so as the sun rose the next morning, the work of Bonita's night shined and glowed for those beautiful little souls that had come so far and found safety and happiness as her guests.

Bonita’s night work gleamed— a giant silver effigy to the lovely company.

“For your rest,” she said softly, “I pray the night has refreshed you and the dawn has healed your wings.”

As she spoke her invocation, a shudder rippled across the yard, through every surface of orange and black and white—an unspoken butterfly gesture of love and gratitude.


Bonita’s eyes welled with appreciation and love. She wished her Gardener could have witnessed the miracle.

The Monarchs rose as one and brushed her web in farewell.


“Your kindness will travel with us,” they cried in whisper. “Even across the Dust Meridian.

Bonita watched them charge the morning air with the power of millions of tiny wings—
a drifting constellation in the blue sky.


Then she smiled to herself and to the garden before turning back to her web—
and there, gleaming at its heart, was a single orange scale, left behind— like a promise.

#poetry #100daystooffset #writing #story #osxs

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