The little AU: Winter Hopes: Trail Markers
The little AU: Winter Hopes: Trail Markers
slashfairy
~~
He posts poems at Perceval Press in English, in Spanish, in Russian, in Portuguese. In any language that does honor to the grace and goodness of life and love; that in any way carries the fire.
Sometimes he posts something in the morning and by mid-afternoon it's gone. At PP they're used to it; the people in his small company recognize his moods and work around them, with them.
At home it's little different. Karl finds February difficult- did in NZ, too, so it's not just the short days and chilly weather. He understands why they're not together all the time- he's an adult- but emotionally sometimes it just hits him how different and sort of ethereal this whole thing is.
This particular evening finds him without Hunter, who's spending the night with a friend, without Orli, who's out for some cause or another, and won't be back until late, and without Viggo, who won't answer his phone and hasn't answered his email.
After an hour of ranting to himself, Karl calms down. Takes the dogs on their walk, brings back a stick of driftwood that's got interesting lines. Picks up dinner from a stall along the beach, and has it with a beer on the small deck on the back of the house.
Before bed, he checks email again. There's nothing but a photo of some bluebells coming up through snow, but it's enough.
He prints it out, hangs it on the fridge for Orli to see when he comes in.
Tomorrow, they'll take a picture of something- a small sculpture on the beach, or the dogs- and mail it back.
Trail markers, like pebbles- better than breadcrumbs- to mark the path back from past the end of the world.
slashfairy
~~
He posts poems at Perceval Press in English, in Spanish, in Russian, in Portuguese. In any language that does honor to the grace and goodness of life and love; that in any way carries the fire.
Sometimes he posts something in the morning and by mid-afternoon it's gone. At PP they're used to it; the people in his small company recognize his moods and work around them, with them.
At home it's little different. Karl finds February difficult- did in NZ, too, so it's not just the short days and chilly weather. He understands why they're not together all the time- he's an adult- but emotionally sometimes it just hits him how different and sort of ethereal this whole thing is.
This particular evening finds him without Hunter, who's spending the night with a friend, without Orli, who's out for some cause or another, and won't be back until late, and without Viggo, who won't answer his phone and hasn't answered his email.
After an hour of ranting to himself, Karl calms down. Takes the dogs on their walk, brings back a stick of driftwood that's got interesting lines. Picks up dinner from a stall along the beach, and has it with a beer on the small deck on the back of the house.
Before bed, he checks email again. There's nothing but a photo of some bluebells coming up through snow, but it's enough.
He prints it out, hangs it on the fridge for Orli to see when he comes in.
Tomorrow, they'll take a picture of something- a small sculpture on the beach, or the dogs- and mail it back.
Trail markers, like pebbles- better than breadcrumbs- to mark the path back from past the end of the world.