I am Ryan Eugene Field, or as I have come to be known across various accounts, refield.  If you’re following me over here from DA, you know what to expect, but if you’ve found my work for the first time, maybe not so much.  If you’ve clicked over from Minds, I thank you for not being lazy, and I apologize for the lack of memes.  I have often described myself as an amateur poet and author in the past, and I think that description still holds true.  So far as my poetry goes, I am currently trying to challenge myself by writing a poem a day, and as you can probably guess, this causes a wide range in quality, from atrociously lazy, to something I would honestly take a measure of pride in.  When it comes to prose, I have higher standards.  I refuse to post anything with which I am dissatisfied, which means the stories you read here will be in general, fairly good.  You, dear reader, shall find the subjects I tackle to be quite disparate, from cute little stories about or aimed toward children, to heart wrenching dramas, to heart-pounding adventures, to the glory and terror of nature.  I hope to capture your attention with every new post.


On Civility and Civil War

At the outset of the election, I was resigned to the prospect of the nation sliding into the ruination of creeping socialism at two speeds, quickly or very quickly.  There was talk in my family about where we could flee to in order to live at least more freely if the Constitution was successfully dismantled or circumvented to a greater degree than it already is.  However, there was some rumbling among fellow patriots that such an erosion would be met with armed resistance, since one of two things were next: hate speech laws, or gun confiscation.  In the first case, SCOTUS was fairly good at protecting Freedom of Speech, so long as the court leaned right, but in the second, they were far more split, and a single appointment could have upset the balance to the point where more and more draconian and ineffectual gun laws would be foisted upon the American people by means of sophistry and fraud.  Molin Labe.  It would have been a bloodbath, and I don’t know which side would have survived.  I say survived instead of prevailed on purpose.

Now, again I feel it is necessary to communicate that I do not actually want to push communists out of helicopters.  It’s a dark joke that turns the hatful violence of communism on its head and lets them know that if they want to go far, then their opposition can go far as well, and it might not end in their favor. I will never give up on my preference for nonviolent solutions, for negotiation, for agreements that operate on a win-win paradigm.  I address this to extreme elements on both sides of the isle, not because I see them as equivalent, but because I think that if we can avoid killing each other, we ought to.  My argument to the left goes as follows: you will lose.  Currently, the American right holds the reigns of the state, putting them at a massive military advantage, and any attempts on your part to overthrow the right’s control over the state will be legitimately treated as an insurrection.  Moreover, there are plenty of right-wingers and centrists who if not willing to fight you directly, are perfectly willing to aid in defeating you.  Even without the backing of the state, the political right is more fit for physical combat, more able to develop clear chains of command, and much better armed.  Don’t do it.  Now don’t think that this is an endorsement to the “BRING IT ON” attitude I have seen on the right recently.  Even if you win a fight to the death, you lose something in the process.  Forget the psychological effects that might have on you for this argument, as I don’t know the level of fortitude your psyche enjoys.  You lose out on who that idiot who just wanted to kill you could have been.  It is true that socialism is a negative value, and that socialists are also a negative value, but socialists have this funny habit of realizing how retarded they had been once they start being productive and watching the state syphon off a portion of their incomes to squander and mismanage ostensibly for the sake of the poor.  If it is possible to talk somebody out of temporary derangement, then I believe that you are morally obligated to make the attempt before you pull the trigger.  Obviously, there will be a point where it’s too late for talk, but we are not there yet.

So let’s get back to civility, let’s have bare knuckle, drag out battles of the mind, but leave the profanity behind, so much as you can help it.  I understand the utility of a good profane filler word, especially in the heat of the moment, but that might serve to only heat up the moment further.  Let’s, so far as we are able, to be patient and with our intellectual foes, and give them a little undue respect, a little like pretending to take a toddler seriously when he’s on the verge of a tantrum.  This doesn’t mean you let them call you names, or physically intimidate you.  The second they start being uncivil when you have been nothing but nice to them, you stop the conversation and make it about just how rude that just was, and don’t let go until they’ve calmed down.

However, sometimes they won’t calm down, and in that case it’s no act of cowardice to disengage before your intellectual opponent becomes a physical one.  That being said, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with finding the off switch on an antifa who just took a swing at you.  But hey, I’m just a guy in a field.

On Marriage and Ceremony

Ah weddings, a time to eat, drink, and be merry with reckless abandon.  No, that’s not what I’m supposed to say.  It’s a time of reflection, and contemplation, and understanding what the flip you’re doing there in the first place.  I was standing in front of around eighty people yesterday in a heretical clip-on bow tie and the blasphemous combination of a belt and suspenders.  Men’s fashion and why my little brothers are wrong about it aside, this was the third time I’d been asked to be in a bridal party.  Mostly the job is to stand next to the groom and look good(ish) while the sermon and vows are happening.  Oh, and don’t trip on the entry or exit.  Very important.  Sometimes though, if you’re the best man, or maid of honor, you get to stand up in front of all of your beloved family, plus a whole bunch of weirdos you don’t know from Adam, and make a speech about the bride and groom to let everybody know that the union is between two families as much as it’s between two people.  Pro tip: don’t change plans at the table.

So a marriage. What’s it about?  You hear a lot about love, and two people coming together in love, but I think that’s only a part of the story.  If you come from a good family, you’re standing there with your glass raised in one hand, and a microphone in the other because there was a wedding some years ago that (hopefully) you didn’t attend.  That same pattern would have been repeated over the centuries with a few minor deviations ending with you here endorsing the latest iteration involving somebody you hold dear.  So maybe it’s about family, adding a family ties to build another family on.  So the love, the coming together, and the union, it’s all for the kids.  Sure, there are couples who never have children, but that story will have a definite end, it won’t go anywhere, they kissed and lived happily ever after, and had some fights here and there.  But if you have children, there’s a whole new story right there, and a good chance that they’ll keep forging links in the chain of family ties so that you can be surrounded by love on your last day.

So on the controversial bits on marriage.  I am not sure that homosexual couples ought to get married.  There, I said it.  Now, before all of the statists start screeching about homophobia, please go look up the word ought.  The tragic thing about homosexual people is they can’t make babies with the person they love, even when they love that person in the long-term monogamous way we associate with marriage and healthy family building.  I feel a tremendous amount of sympathy for people in that position, and I don’t know what the proper solution is, but I don’t think that marriage is one.  So far as what’s allowed, so long as you’re consenting adults, have found a consenting minister, and your families want to bear witness, I say go for it.  Just don’t be surprised when you get some pushback for religious or moral reasons, whether you think them valid or not.  The paradigm of thinking of positions of who should or should not be allowed to marry depends on a statist view of marriage, and the acceptance that the state has a place in the bedroom, which opens the door to some rather uncomfortable relationships with the law.  Better to abolish marriage licenses and treat it as a contract instead, placing the decision of who is allowed to marry in the hands of all and none simultaneously.  But hey, I’m just a guy in this field.

On Innocence and Outcomes

Children have an attribute we like to call innocence.  They don’t know about some aspects of the world because they are not ready for those aspects of the world, or so we think.  Sometimes this can be considered a detriment, such as keeping children innocent of work ethic.  On the other hand, it’s often a good and necessary thing, like keeping them innocent from the horrors of war.  Maybe get on that, Don?  I know the other guys before you just loved dissembling them via drone deliberately or not, but there’s no reason to not forge a new path, it worked with Short-Round after all.  Anyway, until puberty, children are deliberately kept innocent of sexuality.  This is a good thing.  Obviously.

However, if it isn’t obvious allow me to elucidate.  While it is true that puberty is not a magical sexuality on switch, that does not mean that people are ready to engage in sexuality before they are ready.  For instance, the organs necessary for such activity have yet to develop, meaning that the hormone levels requisite for attraction and arousal are not present.  Moreover, the brain structures that process decision making and cognition of the future do not finish developing until age 17-20 for women, and age 22-25 for men.  Children can’t drive, can’t sign contracts, can’t join the military, can’t join the workforce, can’t take a loan, and can’t sign a mortgage for this reason, and the act that is expressly for the purpose of making more humans, not simply feel good on your naughty bits, has vastly more consequence than any of these things.

What you might consider negative outcomes, unemployment, homelessness, addiction, self-harm, depression, and many others have their roots in childhood experience.  Across the board, there is not a single negative outcome that does not have a sizable chunk of child sexual abuse survivors.  Notably, the majority of homeless people, suicides, and self-harm patients were abused as children in this way.  At least that’s what I could find today, and all I could stomach to find out.  Given that the most tragic outcomes are not just increased by childhood sexual abuse, but multiplied, why on earth would you do anything that exposes children to such abuse?  If pedophilia is a sexuality, as the advocates claim, then why would you allow somebody with a reproduction imperative level instinct to abuse children within fifty miles of a single child?  No, if you have any attraction toward children you should feel so much shame about that that you either commit yourself to permanent inpatient care, or find a lead pill dispenser.

On Tommy and Consent

As we’ve covered, the UK law that prohibits filming outside court cases that a judge deems to be sensitive is unconscionable.  It abridges freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and the public’s right to know of events concerning community safety.  Obviously.  The obvious solution to prejudicing or tainting a jury by media exposure is to sequester them.  But this is obvious.  What is less obvious is the fact that Tommy was streaming at a sentencing hearing, so there was no jury to taint.  Isn’t that a wrinkle?  Here’s another: the judge who presided over Tommy’s jury-less trial actually witnessed his arrest, and the so-called “crime” of reporting on the hearing.  Along with at least six other journalists who were doing the same exact thing, but didn’t get arrested for some reason.  I guess Tommy is just special like that.  He’s also special enough for his case to earn one of those media bans in order to prevent the jury that was never called from being tainted in the trial that was concluded the same day.  Because that makes sense.  Fortunately, the world did not take this sitting down.  Memes, paintings, art, songs, arguments, articles, and general displeasure at this egregious miscarriage of justice flooded into Airstrip One from literally everywhere else.  It got the media ban lifted, and thank God too, because the Party has decided to do something underhanded under the cover of darkness.

If you don’t know already, Tommy Robinson is a lower class man living in the Former United Kingdom concerned with the religiously motivated gangs of child rapists who operated with impunity there for decades, targeting white and Sikh children, mostly but not exclusively girls, as well as the underreported murders perpetrated by Muslims.  He has identified the ideology of Islam as the motivating factor in these roving rape gangs, as well as the motivating factor of Islamic terror.  As we have seen, if anybody with any level of prominence says anything that even approaches criticism of the doctrines of Islam, the supposed prophet Mahomed, the Grand Muftis will issue a fatwa, or Islamic edict, calling upon the faithful to murder the critic.  Zealots have been known to dutifully fulfill such edicts, this is well-known.  This is relevant because Airstrip One’s prisons happen to have a tiny bit of an uncontrollable Islamic radicalization problem.  Now here’s the payoff: Tommy was in a relatively safe prison, with a low Muslim population.  This is good, because he would have been able to serve out his unjust sentence in relative security, and keep on living to fight for freedom on the other side.  However, on orders from the Home Office of Airstrip one, something like the Department of the Interior, Tommy was transferred to a prison with a high population of Muslims, and a known problem with the aforementioned radicalization.  Sitting in a cell furnished with merely a blue mat on the cement floor, Tommy had to endure chants and shrieks for his murder throughout his first night.  I can only conclude that the oligarchs of Airstrip one want to see the man murdered.

His crime?  Protecting children from rape.  This comes at a time when attempts to normalize pedophilia and the sexualization of children.  Children lack the physical capability to engage in sex.  Period.  They also lack the brain structures necessary to consent to anything.  This is why they can’t enter into contracts, undergo medical procedures, or take out loans.  They are less capable of consenting than a drunk person, which is why we protect children from making life-altering decisions by limiting their ability to act in the world.  That means that anything you do to a child that would require consent, is by definition a violation of that consent.  Fact.  We get around this by treating parents as legal agents, unless the parent violates the rights of the child, which the child has because he or she is human.

They’re not attracted to pre-sexual humans as a consequence of their reproductive urges.  Just like foot fetishist isn’t attracted to feet to reproduce with feet.  Nor the bestiality afflicted, nor the object fetishist, nor anybody who wants to copulate with something that will not make babies with them.  They’re attracted to the act.  The act of taking the trust of a child, and shattering it.  They’re aroused by destruction, by damage, they’re and they want to prey on the only people too weak to fight back at all.  This is not a sexuality, and it is not normal.

If anybody rapes or molests a child, then it’s game over for them.  It’s too late for redemption at that point, I’m sorry, they need to die.  I can conceive of no other recourse, and there is no good reason to give such a dangerous person another chance to destroy the innocence of another child.  Sure, they can talk about it, have gross drawings, and even though I’m uncomfortable with it dolls, but the instant a child is hurt, that’s it.  No argument, no mercy, only death.  Their graves should be spat on, and their names reviled for as long as people care to remember them.  These people should get no protection from an angry public.  At all.  The public deserves to be angry about the rape of children, especially if it is done by gangs over decades.  Even more so if the law allowed them to operate with impunity.  So the idea that you’d throw a man in jail for exposing these monsters… well, let’s just say it’s not a good look.

On Hatred and Spleen

These days hatred is a common theme, you can’t seem to escape hearing somebody accusing somebody else of hating some group or class of people.  I’m not entirely sure that these accusations are genuine, that is that they are believed by the accusers, since the accusation is usually deployed in situations that shall gain the accuser in some way.  However, I’ve gotten rather good at spotting vitriol.  There is a segment of the population ready to spit in your face if you step out of line with their mores by a single toe’s breadth; the wait, seething, simmering, scheming for the moment that a target appears for them to erupt their pent-up anger upon.  They rigidly demand compliance to their increasingly unpredictable whims, and their attacks are generated by feelings rather than any codified violation, rendering them immune to argument.  Verily, a relationship with such an individual is something like a living hell.

Hatred is caustic to every individual it comes into contact with.  This is a fact.  If you’re on the receiving end of genuine hatred, it will damage you, but woe to the one who carries hatred with them.  If you do actively hate, then it is impossible to ever escape hatred, and you see it everywhere, because it veils everything you see.  Since you hate, you will think that everyone else hates you, and you’ll hate them for it, dragging yourself into a positive feedback loop in a downward spiral until there is little left of you but your hatred for all and everything.  Congratulations, you’re a misanthrope and humanity disgusts you.  Here’s the trouble though, that guy in the mirror is a human too, and you see in him all of the things you hat about humanity, and more clearly because there’s no hiding from yourself if you really want to look.

The hateful person needs to vent some of that poison, that bile, that spleen, on somebody, anybody, else.  If they don’t it will drive them to suicide or homicide, and though it is not exactly optimal for anybody, it’s easier than letting go of hatred.  That’s the trouble with the expedient though, isn’t it?  The expedient option is rarely the optimal one, and often the worse one in the long run, compared with the difficult one.  Anybody who was in an abusive relationship can tell you just how damaging the spleen venting strategy can be in the long run, and some can’t tell you anything because they’re dead.  The thing is, once these victims find some virtuous friends, or return to a virtuous family they were rebelling against, then the hatred that they had been forced to absorb suddenly becomes unacceptable to everybody who cares about the victim, so we know that one individual venting their spleen on another is never acceptable.  This is good.  However, the recent dust-up with Chick Fil-a has demonstrated that it is acceptable to vent spleen on whole groups of individuals.

An individual has a face.  You call a woman a bitch and see the fire in her eyes, then know that was a bad idea.  You tell a man that he has failed his family, and you can see his continence fall.  You can see the effects of your words, and so can everybody else.  Maybe you lack empathy, but the people who saw what you did, and don’t lack empathy will teach you to at least pretend.  A group has no face.  There is no reaction from a group in real terms, only from individuals within that group who may have taken the hateful words personally, and maybe they ought to have.  This does give the hateful person the lame excuse that they were not attacking that person in particular, or even all of the members of the group that he or she had just vented bile upon, but will narrow their intentions after the fact in order to avoid responsibility for the response to the people that were just subject to their bile.  Rightly, that excuse doesn’t fly when certain groups are subjected to that hatred, but conversely, one group is not afforded that consideration.  Looking at you Huffpo, you corporate shill rag infested by misanthropes.  No, you don’t have to hate gay people to disagree with the redefinition of marriage.

On Copyright and Freedom of Speech

Our current communication paradigm depends on the free and open sharing of information and sources across the world.  This is a fact.  We put memes, ideas, videos, and links to sources up on various media platforms in order to communicate our ideas independently of the old paradigm which depended on multimillion corporations necessary to build the infrastructure to broadcast to any notable degree pre-internet.  We live in the information age, a guy with a computer and a camera can start his own show with an investment of around five hundred dollars.  A guy alone is beholden only to the whole market, not to advertisers, not to shareholders, just the free and untrammeled market, and what he wants is an audience.  By being interesting, and not just another corporate suit-and-necktie clone, any individual can reach and influence hundreds or even thousands of people.

The corporate media doesn’t like this.  In the early days of YouTube, corporate media waged an all-out war on independent creators using US copyright law, and some companies still refuse to acknowledge fair use provisions in the law, forcing creators to fight fraudulent or mendacious claims with an appeals system.  However, thanks to the First Amendment, we here in the United States have good protections from such corporate controls, by SCOTUS striking down copyright laws without fair use provisions as unconstitutional.  This has led to the alterative media flourishing, especially here in the US.  Not every country has such a founding document.

Britain doesn’t have a constitution, for instance, so even though that isle is the birthplace of free speech, she has it not.  Similarly, the European countries with constitutions are not absolute in their protections of free speech, especially speech against the state.  The French constitution comes to mind.  It is apparent that the European instinct to control is quite prevalent by the fact that not a single country protects free speech, and many of them have specifically outlawed certain classes of speech, and slapped an emotionally charged label on it, “Hate speech.”  The trouble for them is here in America, we haven’t completely abandoned Liberty, though our embrace of her is tepid.

Thus, the bureaucratic project and aspiring superstrate known as the European Union has a solution the protect the sluggish and inefficient media corporations, however.  Their solution is draconian tightening of copyright.  Rather than attempting to pressure the unassailable United States to abide by the communistic hate speech laws, they shall instead pressure American corporations who provide us with service enabling us to build audiences where they are vulnerable: copyright liability.  Article 13 proposes to make social media corporations liable for every post, tightens the window for takedown for copyrighted material, eliminates fair use provisions, imposes fees to the government for using copyrighted material rather than to the holder of the copyright, and broadens what counts as copyrighted to such a degree that posting hyperlinks to copyrighted materials would be considered usage of such materials.  It is so draconian that it is illegal for the holder to declare their material free to use, and it requires tech firms to implement automated upload filters.  This will make everything but sanitized, state approved media entirely impossible to produce, and must therefore be opposed by any and all who have the ability to oppose it.  I for one, can lend my voice to the opposition, so I have done.

The UnBEARables

What’s with the bears?  The simple answer is that there’s a bear inside you, deep inside you, and you need to feed the bear.  The long answer is that sometimes embodying an architype is the best way to take courage and act or speak in a forthright manner that accords with what you believe to be true.  The bear, as an animal is large, mostly solitary, occasionally sociable, and in general quite content to give other large mammals a wide berth.  Unless they’re threatened or hungry; basically don’t poke the bear.

In mythology, the bear is often used as a symbol for motherhood, with several mother bear goddesses who represented the fierce protection that mother bears in real life afford their cubs.  It may be why so many women are UnBEARables, but hey, I’m just a guy in a field.  The women in this community are fierce and stalwart, and God save you if you twitch in a menacing way in the approximate direction of their children.  That attitude gives these women a peculiar care for the future, since they’re leaving it to their children, which means that they can be found in the twatter trenches slogging out the idea fight with the rest of us.

Now for the men, the dude-bears, the builders, the skillmongers, Why am I talking about the men now? Because ladies first, and I like my dudely danglers attached, and one of the lady bears is an Israeli assassin.  Bears are often symbols of strength ferocity, and persistence in the masculine side of ancient myth, and as such the men will focus in on their prey and maul it to pieces, figuratively.  Whether that prey is mastering a skill that they can use to provide to their families, or the retarded arguments of socialists who don’t expect anybody else to know about Rousseau.  This makes many of them formidable in the twatter battle, because they also want to find the best ideas for their children.

The men and women of the Bears, the orderly and the chaotic, the creative and the critical, the contradictory mess of people the Bears come together in various places online not only to unify against a common foe, collectivism as ideologies, but also to revel in each other’s talents and skills, from artists, to musicians, to comedians, to builders, to plumbers, to writers, to just your average office jockey with a good two cents to add.  Common foes are not enough to form community, you need common love.  Family, art, laughter, and freedom bind the Bears together as a community of out-there weirdos who can’t agree on literally anything else, and often they have heated arguments over which values take precedence.

Becoming a bear is easy, just think about the kind of person you are, and find a word or phrase that describes that, then slap “Bear” in there somewhere, and you’ve got your bear name.  Then, be hilarious, make good arguments, and maybe have a chat with a fellow Bear about how things are going.  You’re in, and you can leave anytime you want.  Just remember, a lot of these dudes are crazy loyal, so they might not stop liking you even if you decide you’re not an UnBEARable anymore.

Sir Little and The Cave.

Once upon a time there was a little knight, who as it happens was called Sir Little.  Now, Sir Little lived in a little castle and rode a little horse in a big kingdom on big adventures.  He tamed the griffons on snowy peaks; he slew giants in the fields.  He dove for treasure with mermaids, and followed maps to lost cities.  He even partied with the king and queen!  Sometimes he won, and sometimes he lost.  Sir Little still swears that the goblins cheat at marbles.

While Sir Little could go just about anywhere in the kingdom, there was one place that he didn’t go, and that was only because he was a good little knight.  The Cave of Treasure.  It was said that there’s a treasure for everybody in the kingdom behind its iron door guarded by a fierce red dragon.  As knowing that you’d have to face a fire breathing dragon wasn’t enough to keep adventurers away, before they even got to the dragon, they had to climb a long and winding trail of stairs, each step up a chance to turn around.  At the very end of the trail waited a wooden sign, a lone sentry standing before the dragon’s lair with the polite warning, “Please ask the dragon for the key.”

After losing a game of marbles to a friendly goblin who was defiantly (well, probably not) a cheater, Sir Little handed over his best marble like a good little knight saying, “Enjoy your treasure, you won it fair and square.  Allegedly.”

The good natured goblin giggled gleefully, “Golly good sir, it’s not my fault you’re no good at marbles.”

“I’m plenty good at marbles,” Sir Little insisted.

“Then why don’t you win?”

“That’s the question.”

That giggly goblin giggled some more, then he patted the knight’s shining armor, “I have an answer.  You’re good enough to get this treasure, but not good enough to keep it.”

Sir Little looked longingly at the lost marble, “I wonder if you’re good enough to keep it.”

It’s quite a curious thing to see a serious look from a goblin, and Sir Little saw one as the goblin said, “I’ll never risk this treasure.”

Sir Little was struck by this, so he said, “Then treasure it.”

They parted ways then, and Sir Little got to thinking.  “What’s my treasure?” he asked himself.  Sir Little thought to himself for a little while, and then he answered himself, “No, it’s not my little sword…”  He thought to himself a little longer, and answered himself again, “No, it’s not my little shield…”  A little more thinking to himself before Sir Little answered himself again, “No, it’s not even my little horse…”  An indignant neighing interrupted his thinking, so he said, “Sorry Apples, I treasure you, but you’re not really mine.”

It just so happened that Apples took Sir Little to the start of that well known staircase.  “A treasure for everybody in the kingdom…” he muttered as he looked at the sign pointing up the stairs.  Almost as if in a trance, Sir Little read the sign aloud, “The Cave of Treasures is up the stairs, every step should be your own.”

Sir Little thought about the sign for a bit, and then he slid down out of the saddle saying, “I guess if the treasure’s mine, then so is the journey.  Wait here, Apples.”

With a look over his shoulder to his little horse shaking its little mane in a little goodbye, the little knight took a very big step.  The second and third steps were just as big, too.  So were the fourth and fifth and all right up to the thirtieth step!  Fortunately for Sir Little, that thirtieth step was more of a landing conveniently shaded by a pine tree.  Sir Little gratefully leaned up against the tree and wiped the sweat from his brow, and a little gray bunny hopped up the steps behind him and flopped herself flat on the shaded flagstone.

“Hello Ms. Bunny,” said Sir Little.

“Hello Sir Little,” said Ms. Bunny.

“Are you on your way to the Cave of Treasure?”

“That’s right.”

“Me too!”

Ms. Bunny looked up from where she lay in puzzlement and said, “But you’re too little.”

Sir Little puffed out his chest and answered, “I’m bigger than you!”

Ms. Bunny smiled a crooked smile and explained, “That’s true, but I am big for a rabbit, where as you are not big for a knight.”

The expression on Sir Little’s face was definitely not a pout as he indignantly insisted, “It’s never stopped me before.”

Ms. Bunny stood up and stretched before she said, “That’s a good point, but there wasn’t a dragon before.”  With that, she hopped on ahead, and Sir Little watched the little bunny’s little ears bounce up and down until its little tail disappeared around the bend, and the little knight picked up his little foot and took another big step.

Up, and up, and up, and up the little knight took big steps, until he found another landing with another pine tree.  While Sir Little was thankful to the tree for the shade, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for how the wind had bent it over and twisted it into knots.  He sat down on one of the knots, and was surprised to meet Bill the styre there.

With the clattering of hooves the shaggy old ram nimbly jumped down from a large boulder saying in his braying voice, “It’s strange to see you on this side of the mountain.”

“I’m going to the Cave of Treasure,” answered Sir Little between pants.

“You’ve still got a long way to go.”

“I can make it.”

“It’s okay to turn back you know.”

Sir Little frowned at Bill and retorted forcefully, “I can make it.”

The styre just laughed and said, “I believe you.”

Sir Little definitely wasn’t pouting when he asked, “Then why mention turning back?”

“Because you have to decide to keep going just as much as you’d have to decide to turn back.”  With that, bill tapped his little horns and leapt with his little hooves further down the mountain, and the little knight furrowed his little brow, tapped his little boot, and adjusted his little visor.  Then, he took a big step up the mountain.

Up, and up, and up he climbed, and this time he was even more determined.  He was so determined in fact, that he did not stop to chat with anybody he met along the way.  He didn’t stop to chat with the happy farmer.  He didn’t stop to chat with the friendly family of little mice.  He didn’t even stop to chat with the noble fellow knight.  Sir Little just focused on the next step, and the next one, and the next one, and the next one until he stumbled at the top of the stair because he was so used to them that he expected another

There at the top of the stairs was a little alcove in the mountains, something like half of a funnel, with a winding path at its end where that lonesome sign stood silent sentry.  Sir little read the big, bold lettering aloud just like the one at the bottom of the stairs, “Please ask the dragon for the key.”  Then, he was suddenly possessed by a desire to turn around.  When he did, he saw the kingdom’s  patchwork of little farms and big cities stretching out as far as the eye could see.  “That’s a whole lot prettier than staring at stone stairs,” he said wistfully.  Even though he didn’t realize he was looking for it, Sir Little’s little eyes picked out his little castle of their own accord and he reached his little hand out toward where his little bed was waiting for him safe and warm by a little fire.

Sir little was quite surprised to find that his little feet had taken little steps quite on their own to the very edge of the first stair down, but he shook his little head and made a big choice, “I’m deciding to keep going!”

The little knights armor clattered as he performed an about face and marched right on past the sign and down the twisty path.  He rounded the final bend and in front of an iron door, there she was.

The dragon was at the same time fearsome and beautiful, her ruby red scales glinted in the sun, and her emerald green eyes burned with sharp, hot wisdom.  Her voice was like a gale tearing through a forest, and cut into the heart as easily as a good knife into an apple, and with that voice she demanded, “Why are you here, Sir Little?”

Sir little tried not to shake in his armor as he answered honestly like a good little knight, “T-to go into the C-Cave of T-Treasure.”

She raised a scaly eyebrow and questioned him further, “And what do you want inside?”

Frankly, Sir Little hadn’t thought of an answer beforehand because the question had never occurred to him.  Images of golden chalices, diamond necklaces, ruby encrusted swords and other such riches flashed in his head at her asking.  Then, like the good little knight he was, Sir Little answered, “I… I don’t know…”

“Come back when you’re big enough.”  The  judgement fell on Sir Little like a hammer on a tin can, and he crumpled inside.

The little knight preformed another about face, and began to go back.  He hung his little head, hunched his little shoulders, and dragged his little feet along the twisting path weeping big tears.  When he got to the top of the stairs, Sir Little simply couldn’t bring himself to step down the first stair, so he sat himself down on it.  He dried his eyes, and was surprised by a visit from a crow.

The crow perched himself on Sir Little’s helmet and looked into the knight’s face upside-down, and asked him, “Why the long face?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Sir Little morosely.

Undeterred, the crow asked, “If you don’t talk about it, how can you get any help?”

“Maybe I don’t need any help.”

The crow cawed indignantly, “I know what crying looks like!”

It was Sir Little’s turn to ask a question, “Does it look like I’m crying?”

The crow turned his head and answered, “It looks like you just stopped.”

Sir Little was good and caught, so he confessed, “The dragon won’t give me the key.”

“Do you have a treasure in the cave?”


“Is it yours?”


“Then go get it.”

“How  can I?  The dragon won’t give me the key.”

“The dragon has to sleep too.  Wait for her to fall asleep, and just take it and go in.”

Sir little didn’t answer, so the crow flew off into the setting sun to leave Sir Little alone with his thoughts.

By the time the stars had come out, Sir Little had made his decision.  He had stripped off his armor to make no noise as he crept along the path in his tunic, and ignored the accusation of the silent sentry.  Once he got to the end of the path, Sir Little peered around the bend to make sure that the dragon was asleep.  She was, and the silver key glinted in the moonlight on a cord around her neck.  Slowly, on tiptoe, on bare feet, the knight snuck up to the sleeping dragon.  Then, he held a little breath, reached out a little hand, and plucked up the key with his little fingers and took a big gulp.  His heart raced as he fled toward the path, and the silver key clattered against the dragon’s scales.

Sir Little returned to his armor, and the dragon met him there saying nothing.  She simply stared at the little knight’s little face with his little weeping eyes letting big tears roll down his rosy cheeks.

Oh how that fearsome guardian towered above that little caught knight, but she did not accuse him even with her eyes.  But still Sir Little found himself taking a position of defense until she finally asked softly, “What were you doing?”

“When I’m big enough?!” he shot back at her accusingly, “What does that even mean?!  I’m big enough to go anyplace in this whole kingdom!  I’m big enough to party with the king and queen!  I’m big enough to wrestle giants!  I’m big enough to dive with mermaids!  I’m big enough to do all sorts of things!  I’m even big enough to stand up to you!”

Softly, gently, the dragon asked, “Are you sure?”

Sir Little shook the tears and defeat from his little eyes, took up his little sword, and hefted his little shield before he said in a big voice, “Yes!  So you might as well roast me now!”

The dragon sighed, “Oh, alright then,” and turned her back to go back down the path to the door.

Puzzled, Sir little asked, “Alright you’re going to roast me?”

“Alright I’m going to open the door,” she answered.

“Oh,” Sir Little said meekly as he followed her with his sword and shield hanging in his hands.  When they reached the door, the dragon took the key in her talons and turned it in the lock.  The lock made a loud clang, and the hinges creaking sent a chill up Sir Little’s spine, but the dragon sighed out fire into the Cave of Treasure to light a hundred candles all at once.

Sir Little’s eyes were dazzled by the light dancing off of gold and silver, off of gems and jewels, off of treasures of all sorts.  However, he himself could only stumble inside.  He stumbled past a golden chalice, he stumbled past a diamond necklace, and he stumbled past a ruby encrusted sword besides all other kinds of riches.  None of it was his though, so he couldn’t even touch it, of course.  That is until he stumbled upon it.

It wasn’t gold or silver, but brass, and didn’t have gemstones in it, but glass.  It was a little brass spyglass, covered in dents and scratches which would have looked dignified and respectable just about anyplace else.  Here though, here in all the gold and silver splendor, that little spyglass looked rather shabby.  Well, you or I might have said so about it, but not Sir Little.  To Sir Little, nothing in that room was more beautiful that that dented and tarnished spyglass, and what he said about it was, “This belonged to my dad.”

“He left it here for you,” said the dragon.

The little knight’s little finger trembled as he took up his little treasure as his little heart filled up to bursting with big, big feelings and he asked, “Why this?”

“So you could see where you’ve been, and where you’re going.”


I know it’s an older piece, but it’s new to this blog and I haven’t posted in a long while.


Plugging away,

Productive day,

Had a say,

Liking the way,

The pieces lay,




Look a,




Somebody has,

Noticed me,



Where was I?





Working through,

Staying true,

Parts due,

Something new,

Nothing askew,




There’s another,

Some hate,

Some love,




Noticed my,



Where was I?





Gotta go,

Not slow,

In the know,

High and low,’

Work to show,




Now at,

The worst,


Don’t you,

Know I’m at,



It’s a whole different world out there pal. We’ve got these fantastic little rectangles in our pockets that do something amazing, or rather a few amazing things. In the first place they grant all of us, from the genius in the ivory tower to the idiot in the academy access to the full breadth and depth of human knowledge, and some of our wisdom and lack thereof besides. They also give literally everybody the chance to communicate with the whole connected world at large. Which has had mixed results. Do your best to manage your pocket miracle and not allow it to manage you. Lord knows I’ve had my struggle of it.


There is upon the sea a ship,

She’s leaking and her sails are torn,

Her mast is splintered and her rigging may slip,

Her paint is chipped and her figurehead worn,

She sits upon the glassy sea.

Her crew pilots her from harbor to haven,

They do what they can to repair her broken parts,

To neglect her would be craven,

But it’s hard to tell where the job starts,

She sips upon the choppy sea.

There is sailing upon the sea a proud vessel,

Her mast is varnished and her sails are stitched,

The gaps sealed and the rigging sessile,

Her paint shines and her figurehead’s fixed,

She sits upon a favorable sea.

The captain orders to prepare for a gale,

Store up what the crew shall need,

Take care of every sail,

The crew his word did heed,

She sits below a darkening sky.

The waves beat upon her sides,

The wind at the stitching her sails divides,

Precious cargo hither and thither slides,

The captain and the pilot are who the fool derides,

The crew can hardly keep their own insides,

Lightning takes one and leaves those he’s besides,

This is the test of by what the crew abides,

At the mercy of merciless winds and tides.

There is upon the sea a heap of wood,

Her crew is battered but still alive,

The way forward is hard but understood,

Despite her fragility to sail her they’ll strive,

She sails under courageous hands.20171203_211504

I’m afraid I haven’t much to say besides what’s said in the poem.