Weekly Excerpts.


Chapter 1      


The people are not worried.  Not on this night of alien mysteries that silences all fire.  Woman’s hearth, hunter, and camps of the hidden, have no crackling fire.

This evening, as the dusk bringing sun paints green gray illusions across the great expanding plain.  The shadows cast are perceptibly unique, seemingly kissing the edges of the  standing blue stone circles of the many outlying worlds.  None of the naturally meditative people were worried, because so still the night, even the lambs were safe from the blood hungry wolves.  No matter what aggressive kind of  hunters of flesh, the calming veil over the forest, blankets its wild denizens with a mystical peace under the fragmented blinking skies of ever turning wheels.   The cool and murky atmosphere inspires no fires.  No need for the safety of ember popping fires on this sacred evening.  The wolf lies down with the lamb, embracing as one in the cave bear’s den.  All aggressions are dampened this night of silent fire.

Having exhaustively danced nature’s cooperation, not even the naturally dynamic sky would bring forth her mysterious heat lightning.  The moon turned her pale blue fire face from the night, as if to give passage to the stars appearing with so soft a focused brilliance.  The people, mesmerized by the dancing night skies, flew up as one single soul; to the outer rings of life’s influence.  Soft chants raise these powerful souls high to the place of no worldly memories.

The priests worked three months in preparation for the night of silent fires.  This was the biggest event in a land impregnated with strange mysteries.  To live a fire-less night happens only once in maybe 30 years.  It is the time of alignment with stars known only to a few priests working 3 or 4 of those years, to predict when the time is perfect.  When the blue stones sing.  When Lady Crescendjya sings the blue songs of stone.

The singer herself, prepared in baths of herbs and minerals deeply heated by the orbiting sphere’s life bringing breath.  The pool, a great bowl of lapis lazuli gently glowing many colorful hues, reflecting the memory of the full face of the blue fire sky watcher.  The water fall glistening a green and violet sheen of mystic light, flowing long splashing tendrils into the vivid twinkling;  yet calm waters.  Cascading streams of brilliant hues, caressing and hugging the erotically naked stones, as if remorsefully descending into a comparative darkness of unknown depths.  The spirit nourishing waters falling from some world of splendors, unknown to even these people of singing stone.  The moon?  The waters?  Something opened the petals of the deep purple and bright orange d’vang.  The perfume was so intoxicating, only a true blue stone singer could bear it, and breathe it in with every pore.  Only a highly trained and talented blue stone singer can allow herself to so willingly blend her spirit with such a dangerously mesmerizing scene.  Young lithe dancer Crescendjya, daughter of the great chief shaman Mosha is that stone singer.

Musatta, once a singer, gave way to the many seasons that have stolen her voice away.  Now, as it has forever been, for the aging one’s of this mighty station, she serves the beauty of the youthful singer.  Assuring the radiant scene is absorbed through the open heart of Crescendjya.  Musatta, retired singer, teacher, wise handmaiden of the young supple initiate, held out the cloths of absorbing for Crescendjya.   Musatta’s hands knew well the ways of igniting even more sensitivity, more openness to receive the winds of place and time.   With  strong still delicate fingers, Musatta traced the lines of power on Crescendjya’s freshly enlivened, warmed, perfumed, and hyper sensitive dripping skin.  These ritual baths of the bowed moon, cleanses the inward visions of the two woman priestesses preparing  themselves for the ceremonies of the rings of stone.  A long sacred path for others to follow. On the night of ascending spirits, the night the blue stones sing, the night of silent fire.

Tra-aegha, the high chief, stood as tall as the staff that precedes his immensity; his eminence.  The colorful light spears of his inner man shining brightly from a soul that tenders all things living.  Maalsh-aeghai, Tra-aegha’s mirror spirit, as all married woman were known to they’re men, shone a love on him that would drop a sylvan brute to his knees.  As so often it did.  These, a people rare, had no war weapons.  No need.  No army could stand they’re  presence.  No warrior, no thief, no heart approaching this world could pump a single drop of black blood.  The very unmentioned name of this land could bring dramatic transformations.  Therefore, the name be ever sealed away from those who would play with the weaving of fate.  Only on the night of silent fire are the gates opened to the lesser worlds, the  veiled worlds of the struggling material planes.  The very reason for the mammoth blue singing stones.


Tra-aegha, as with every such  powerful night, stood with the spirit of wisdom on his lips.  His eyes lifting to places unseen, unimaginable, for the many who sat before him on the field of the dull, green grasses of dreaming.  He looked deep into the past of the ancestors reflected on the faces and souls of the people sitting before him.  He watched as the star boats sailed into the vast frozen.  Going only where spirit winds would carry them.  This time, to a blue-green planet.  An azure emerald marbled sphere with white puffs of seeming nothingness floating over its firmament.  As always, they knew what they came for.  They knew an intelligence was involved with the lives found there.

They came to quarry a particular blue stone.  Enough to carry home and erect another, mirroring the one they erected as they quarried.  Yet another circle of blue stone standing in the ever-expanding plane of galactic travels.


Chapter 2.


It was a vivid night.  The sky was brilliant and the illusion on the land was striking.  It seemed the stars came in for a closer look.  A blue sheen surrounded the camps of the hunters and gatherers.  The people noticed a strange peace that fell on them.  Everyone was looking inward.  It might have been the shaman’s dance.  But he danced often, and nothing like this has happened in the past.  The people would know, because the people remembered everything.  They were strong and healthy of mind, body, and spirit.

Mosha, the chief shaman, raised his eyes to the stars so close that night.  He knew something was different.  Mosha checked the crystal he kept in his conical tent.  On the floor, next to the center fire with the flat stone hearth, lied his father’s small ceremonial drum, and his own large deer skinned rattle of spirit calling.  The rattle was a huge gourd, with his ancestors knuckle bones inside, to offer they’re counsel when shaken in a shamanic way.  Shaken to the four directions.  He checked the crystal to see if other camps were experiencing the same conditions of this night.  His vision was clear and powerful.  All people were at peace.  Animals were at peace throughout the land.  He pondered.  He found no meaning and wondered deeply.  After all, it was Mosha who held the safety of the people in his hands.  Ombram, the chief, stepped into Mosha’s tent.  He first cleansed with the sweet burning grass.  He drank of the bitter spirit water that always sits at the threshold of the shaman’s tent.  He prepared himself for a conversation with Mosha.  Such things are never taken lightly.  Nothing concerning the people was a light matter.  Survival demanded absolute awareness of everything.

Deep they went, chanting  into each other.  In spirit, they walked as one.  They walked to the place of dreaming within dreams.  They walked into a stone structure of concentric rings.  This is the place where they take unsettled spirits of disturbing people.  The circles held them while the shaman dealt with whatever might be the problem.  Some were kept forever, some returned to they’re source of birthing, others were dealt with and released.  None was taken lightly.   Tajet, the overseer of the circles was always present.  This is who they sought conference with.  From Tajet, they sought to learn of the night’s strange atmosphere.  They only learned the mystery is deep.  Tajet spoke with the voice of oak trees rubbing their trunks on each other.  Deep and moving, with unworldly authority.  He could reach out far beyond the bounds of the mortal world.  Tonight, he could not reach.  This mystery evaded even he who kept the long record of the people.  They passed smoke and offered prayers to the sky.

Returned now to the people’s camp.  The two dug deeply into they’re minds to try to say something of value.  The people didn’t care, they were already in deep peace, as if a sedative was carried on the winds.

Mosha took up his father’s drum and played and chanted.  The people went to the place of dreams.  It was all Mosha could do.  He allowed for the people to find their own way through this strange night.  No howls from the wilds.  No noisome winds blowing.  No night birds calling.  Even the clicking of the small grass eaters was silenced.  No bugs in the air.  Just a blanket of peace.

Mosha, done and spent now.  Stood and raised his arms to send the power out to the heavens and over all of the Earth.  Mosha froze.  The people gaped.  The sky was rent open.  The stars were gone and replaced with otherworldly wonders.  Great ships ascended.  The people had no concept of ships.  They knew not what they saw, yet somehow, they remained peaceful.


Chapter 3


It was the time of demise for the giant mammals. Some still remained. Sloths, pachyderms of a surprising array. Rodents, giant scaled lizards, crocks, and many things not found in the fossil record. Whatever died, was eaten. To the bone, very little escaped a belly.

The large mammals dined on each other, they loved they’re meat. Humans didn’t have much to offer, the people were safe from the giant ones. That is, if they move with the flow of things. If they warred, fought each other anywhere, they would draw attention from their carrion eating friends. Fighting meant death. Death meant easy fixings. And these were not above creating fresh carrion from weakened materials.

Energy begets energy. Anger draws the easily angered from the wilds.  Not a healthy emotion, but a great way to draw oneself inward.  Inward is the road to survival in a shamanic society.  Inward, yet powerfully connected with others, all things.  When the inner eye opens, there is nothing but the people in one’s vision. Or, whatever one wishes to see.  This gave a great peace, and a false sense of security.  The shaman was responsible for the people’s safety.  He accomplished this through ecstatic dance.  The people dance the fire circles around the camp.  In they’re minds they see the fire.  They project that fire around the dancing group.  A fire of protection, a fire of connection.  Now, they are of one mind, one body flowing as a spirit wind.  The shaman joins in, and the dance intensifies.  Soon, the earth is carrying the low tones of stomping feet into the wilds.  Trees are sounding boards that carry tones to the nesting birds and the leaf eating insects.  The earth carries the tones to the deep ground talkers, the giant ones who use they’re feet as ears on the earth.  The whole of nature is informed that the people are dancing, the people would soon be in trance.  The dwellers of the forest are now at peace, if the dance was true.  The shaman held the safety of the people in his hands.  Now, the people could journey to see they’re relatives.  They could find the herds that feed the people the best.  They could go to the herbal world and learn from the over-mind of the green healing helpers.  They could do what they could imagine.

The people survived because they were deeply grounded in the shamanic ways.  They knew science well through the labs within they’re minds.  They knew ways to make a variety machines.  Such concepts came naturally, simply by observing the mechanics of nature.  These things were not treated wholesale.  They were deeply considered, as would be anything that affects the people.  They knew machines could change social structure, that could be very dangerous in these times.  They could not fight over possessions, so they had to share all things, and own nothing but they’re clothes and shamanic tools.  The tools such as drums, bones, rattles, and weapons of the hunt were passed down from generations. Clothes were what someone was buried in.  When a birth was expected, the shaman would make something for the child.  These gifts became the heirlooms since the time of first memory.  The first time the sky opened.



  1. Curious about your work, so I stopped by. I know little about poetic prose, but you clearly have a gift for imagery. I found your writing very creative, the first chapter seeming more poetic than prose. I could follow the story and the script more easily in the second and third chapters, but still, the sentence structure was difficult for me at first. I can imagine finding someone to edit would not be easy. I’m sure many of your incomplete sentences, standalone prepositions, etc. are by intent and for effect, but an editor not familiar with your poetic imagery would have out the red pen. I wish you well on your first publication.


    • Thank you, I don’t try to write, I word paint. I would need an editor with a gift. A literary professor from Warsaw told me I found a new way of expression. I’m glad you enjoyed this. I’m thankful you read it. I got an A in creative writing, and I rarely followed the rules. The writing style is an attempt to recreate an ancient alien born mindset.


  2. These tree chapters are all I will reveal now. I am working on the knitting of these worlds into a novella. Thank you for viewing.


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