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    Thin Windows: A Narrative Collection
    Thin Windows: A Narrative Collection
    Thin Windows: A Narrative Collection
    Ebook206 pages1 hour

    Thin Windows: A Narrative Collection

    By R.E. Lockett

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    About this ebook

    R.E. Lockett's Thin Windows is a collection of narrative poems that explores the delicate intersections of reality and fantasy. Each poem weaves a unique tale where sound and light leak into our world from other dimensions, creating vivid, immersive experiences.


    With influences from Edgar Allen Poe and W.B. Yeats to S

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWakeless River Press LLC
    Release dateOct 14, 2024
    ISBN9781955564083
    Thin Windows: A Narrative Collection
    Author

    R.E. Lockett

    R.E. Lockett is an emerging voice in contemporary narrative poetry, blending a love for lyrical storytelling with rich, imaginative worlds. With a background in Literature and a passion for songwriting, Lockett draws from his life experience to craft poems that transport readers to new realms.He is the author and illustrator of three beloved children's books: The Race to Flutter Flower Field, Monet and the Monster Magic, and Bear Bridge. Now, in his first collection of mature poetry, Thin Windows, Lockett invites readers to journey through fantastical landscapes where the boundaries between reality and imagination blur.

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      Book preview

      Thin Windows - R.E. Lockett

      Thin Windows

      A Narrative Collection

      R.E. Lockett

      Wakeless River Press

      image-placeholder

      Copyright © 2024 by R.E. Lockett

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted U.S. copyright law.

      For permission requests, please write to

      Wakeless River Press LLC

      3911 Concord Pike # 7674

      Wilmington, Delaware, 19803

      www.wakelessriverpress.com

      The stories, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

      Published by Wakeless River Press LLC, USA

      Printed in the United States of America

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2024920281

      ISBN:

      978-1-955564-07-6 - Paperback

      978-1-955564-08-3 - Ebook

      1st edition – 2025

      For Landon and Corinne, who light up my life and whose voices are my favorite sounds.

      Unfiltered light,

      Unburdened views,

      And all the sounds

      Just hurtle through

      Thin windows.

      A world of tales,

      Most yet untold,

      Of life and love

      And blood and gold.

      Thin windows.

      From mind and voice

      These truths are birthed.

      We judge their use

      And weigh their worth

      In windows.

      Dividing minds,

      But hiding naught.

      Clear barriers.

      Inside we’ve got

      Thin windows.

      Warping in heat,

      Or frosted white.

      In orange morn,

      Or dark of night.

      Thin windows.

      The fragile glass

      Vibrates the tones

      That help us feel

      Far less alone.

      Thin windows.

      Contents

      1.The Red Wood

      2.Waterworks

      3.New London

      4.The Cleaner

      5.Bitter Almonds

      6.Camperdown

      7.Evermourn

      8.Age

      9.Featherweight

      10.The Lost and the Light

      11.Nurse Lucy

      12.L'Amour

      13.I Cry When I Laugh

      14.Steel Soul

      15.Fit

      16.Riversider

      17.Smoke in Her Mirror

      18.Trainwreck

      19.Sunstormer

      20.The Blowback

      21.Snow

      22.That Sinking Feeling

      23.Aridamissa

      24.The Crossing

      25.The Stockpile Initiative

      26.Welterweight

      27.Brother! From AutoMate!

      28.Palmistry

      29.Tea

      30.Penmanship

      31.Escape

      32.The Road Home

      33.Olympus

      34.Heavyweight

      35.Peace

      36.Circumstance

      37.Birds and Such

      38.Fireworks

      39.Dorvan

      40.The Origami Paradigm

      About the Author

      image-placeholder

      The Red Wood

      Will you dew the grass with me?

      She pulls her waders to her knees,

      Watching his face with pangs of grief.

      He waves her off to her relief.

      The sun sits waiting for the morn.

      Sprinkling while she skips along,

      She sings aloud a joyous song.

      The sun joins in with dancing rays,

      Illuminating where she plays

      And hides away from hunters’ horns.

      Hunters, well aware of her,

      Have placed a price upon her fur.

      The woodsman feels the trouble nigh

      And so lets loose the mournful sigh

      Of one who’s seen the throes of war.

      Suns make mist the morning dew-

      A fog hung just for dancing through.

      It’s cut through by a hunter's eyes.

      He aims his arrow at his prize

      To cease her dancing evermore.

      Though he thinks the two alone,

      A horn rings out and rattles bones.

      The frantic fog-dancer retreats

      On hooves where once were hands and feet

      And disappears from hunter’s sight.

      Legends told time and again

      Of shapeshifters who look like men

      Have drawn these hunters to the glade.

      Now confirmation has been made

      Much to the predator’s delight.

      Arrows pierce the veil of mist

      From all directions that exist.

      Echoing horns reverberate

      Throughout the woods - the sound of fate.

      Echoing, too, the sound of war.

      War, it has a certain pull.

      The woodsman stands in armor full.

      The fawn springs forth. He lets her pass.

      Some sands escape the hourglass

      To lie there on the forest floor.

      Roaring, raising up his axe,

      He raises, too, the hair on backs.

      Some give in to the fear and run.

      For most, the hunt has just begun.

      The girl returns to human form.

      Anger burns her cheeks aglow.

      She dons her ancient antler bow

      And armor made to rearrange

      Should she see need, again, to change

      While dancing through the arrow storm.

      Dancing like a dragonfly

      Through drops of rain that fill the sky,

      She capers through the killing swarm.

      The sun dips low, the air grows warm.

      The woodsman drinks the shadows in.

      Shadows seem to fill his eyes.

      He fills his lungs and grows in size.

      His axe turns black and grows as well.

      He strikes it twice to ring the knell

      Then wipes some shadow from his chin.

      Empty quivers, shaking hands.

      The bravest plan to make a stand.

      The fawn-girl fires arrows back.

      The woodsman winds up his attack.

      The wisest hunters turn and flee.

      Arrows suddenly appear

      Where fingertip and string draw near.

      With rabbit speed, her volley flies

      To meet with hearts and throats and eyes

      And spill their blood and soak the trees.

      Cleaving all within his reach,

      He prays beneath his breath for each

      Yet still cuts through the men like weeds.

      The woodsman fells, the shadow feeds.

      A captive and his famished chains.

      In the distance terror rings.

      His master severing loose strings.

      Though most will die with mouths agape,

      She will permit one to escape

      And call more hunters to be slain.

      As it was, as it shall be.

      For once a hunter, too, was he.

      Admired for his speed and strength,

      He’d stalked her through these woods at length

      And wisely tracked her by the dew.

      Dew is fleeting, shadows stay.

      The sun cannot burn them away

      For they belonged to Shadowloch,

      Protector of the changeling flock,

      Once captive of the forest, too.

      Shadowloch, the watchful eye,

      Could never let a changeling die.

      Thus, when the woodsman found his prey,

      A battle raged for seven days

      With shadows watching from the trees.

      Broken was the fawn’s defense.

      Her power drained, her eyes immense.

      The axe had been raised overhead.

      A curse on changelings had been said

      So loudly it drowned out her pleas.

      Down came axe head sharp and swift.

      He hadn’t seen the shadows shift.

      His eyes locked tightly on the girl’s,

      He’d missed the soot-black coils and curls

      Of shadow tendrils creeping in.

      Sight itself was sucked away

      Between the hunter and his prey.

      The axe had buried in the ground

      And laughter had replaced the sound

      Of pleading from the alter-skin.

      Swallowing the urge to scream

      While drowning in the tidal stream

      Of shadows, darkness, and despair,

      The woodsman grew keenly aware

      That he was being driven mad.

      Will is all a woodsman needs.

      The trees don’t fall, the wood concedes.

      With shadows clawing fore and aft,

      He’d gripped the axe’s wooden shaft

      And spun with all the might he had.

      Shadowloch was torn in two.

      A valley left for stepping through.

      Alas, though, magic never dies

      It merely strikes a compromise

      With whosoever tips the scale.

      Siphoned of his energy,

      The woodsman fell to bended knee.

      Before him bloomed a path of dew.

      The sower come to reap, he knew.

      There always was a chance he’d fail.

      Wondrous woodsman, woe is he.

      Inherited true misery.

      The changeling hollowed out his chest

      And poured in Shadowloch to rest

      And feed upon the woodsman’s soul.

      Some souls simply won’t be still.

      The woodsman fought with all his will,

      But each by then was far too weak.

      Forever they are forced to seek

      The other half to make them whole.

      Changeling magic takes a toll.

      By chaining shadows to his soul

      His body lives for her to guide

      And all the while he dies inside.

      A thin container of a man.

      Out he calls his

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