Out From Bree: Part One

Since J.R.R. Tolkien intended for the lore and history of Middle Earth to continue beyond his own works, I have decided to step into the world he so thoroughly described and tell a tale of my own. 

Enjoy!

Out From Bree
The Tale of the Brothers Hamel & Bernus

Part One

It had been a long while, quite long, since the town of Bree had bustled with visitors. Not since the roaming dwarves had deserted the Hills of Evendium to the north (as it turned out they did not possess any such treasure as dwarves would deem worthy of their effort). And not since tales had spread like cobwebs over Middle Earth of the curious goings on in the Old Forest on the town’s western edge. And, of course, very few, fewer each year in fact, were coming and going from the Shire beyond the Old Forest.

The town of Bree had its purpose, and all long-term residents within its walls knew it well and were proud to serve it. Travelers would enter at one end of town weary, hungry, tired and in need of provisions, and would leave out the other end satisfied, rested, and a little fatter for the next leg of their journey. But too few now were found to be enjoying Bree’s hospitality. Yes, without the welcomed traffic of passers-through, life had slowed much in Bree. This dainty trickle of travelers had the town’s folk feeling much like an old dog waiting through long days on the porch for its master, watching for any sign of movement off down the road, and unsure of how it ought to busy itself in the meanwhile.

This week, however, was the last week of June, and even in slow times all of Bree knew that July was a month of promise. First there were, naturally, the varied summer travelers, summer being the gentlest time of year to make one’s way across the fair places of Middle Earth. Rangers, too, seemed to be especially on the move in the summer months, and while they weren’t any too social, they did require room and board while passing through.

Then there were the small groups of young men making their pilgrimage north out of the smaller outlying villages of Gondor. As was still the custom in some of the more “traditional” villages, it was a rite of passage for a tween to make his own journey north to the old fortress of Fornost to pay homage to the long-lost capital of Men, which lie one hundred Numenorean miles north of Bree.

And finally, there were those remaining friends and kindred kin of hobbits who would still make their way along to the Shire each year to celebrate Midsummer’s Day. It was this crowd which seemed to brighten Bree beyond any other. Perhaps their cheer was owed to the anticipation of a grand hobbit party, for to those who knew of hobbits (much of the world in those days was still ignorant of their existence) no greater celebration could be had than that which was hosted by the Shirefolk.

Aside from their gardens, hobbits have long prided themselves on their merry gatherings. The halflings’ masterfully brewed ale was never in short supply. Their food was so plentiful that it seemed their bowls were without bottoms. Then there were the presents, which were passed around more freely than ever would be found at a party of men, or certainly of dwarves. And the pipe weed! Well, the pipe weed was shared and shared alike by all who could pack a pipe (and by any who could not, for that matter!)

It was just such a party that, in the year 2897 of the Third Age, brought a wizard through the gates of Bree.

cardstock

Peacelovehopejoy arrived early for the holidays,
on the wings of a cold white envelope
sent regular mail for four dimes and six not quite copper pennies.
I turn to thank the good Lord for these fellowships,
the force of a life's work surmised on card stock.
And as I turn, I angle just right...
and I miss the air... and I hit a wall.
But I will thank Him nonetheless,
for faithcouragekindness and a second chance.

pan cake

griddle's hot
stomach's vast
think its time
for break o'
fast

drizzle syrup
on empty plate
hurry'p mama
with my pan
cake

heap butter
lips savor: smack!
bring me another
stack-a' flap-
Jack

fork quick
jaws be quicker
goes down right
like sweet corn
liquor

hunger's gone
the platter's clean
flown like bullets
from a
magazine

late t'work
so i gotta roll
belly's filled
wit'at pan fried
gold

Your Lonely

Your Lonely.

Now when we go out
you no longer scream and shout
you just sit there quietly
looking everywhere but me

we dreamt of scattered stars
and rock and roll guitars
like we'd find America
you the Lewis to my Clark

but it's been such a long time
yeah such a long time
and your lonely
makes me
lonely too
yeah your lonely
make me
lonely too

you say I never see
all that could have been
I just see things as they
broken down and torn apart

you offered me the world
said that I would be your girl
you spoke in poems and songs
and they carried me along

what does it take
to raise the dead
how can we shake off
all the voices in our head

but it's been sucha long time
yeah such a long time
and your lonely
makes me
lonely too
yeah your lonely
make me
lonely too

like mountains

we hold back until we can't run away

like mountains over years waiting to be a volcano

there's something here i'm not to sure of

and to be honest it feels better than before

and it feels better every day

Unfinished

I arrive to the wind blowing sand into my eyes. I've wandered here, not knowing where here is and where there begins. The air is dry, and so are my lips. In fact I’d say the creek and my flask are the only two things dryer than my lips. And a self-issued slap to the face catches me as my hand finds no smokes to be had in my pocket. I’m outta everything and far from anything. Lying all around me are pictures of lives once lived but no longer. It’s as if I find myself on Mars finding evidence of Martians. And I may as well be for all the good it’s doing. All the trees are dead, standing at a measly five feet or less. Their shape seems to indicate every inch of their life was unrelenting anguish, all twisted and thorned like the heart of Bonnie or Clyde. These are the trees that resemble the hands of the Reaper; crawl in and you’ll never leave. I pass by bits and pieces of broken humanity hinting at others wandering this dessert too. I’m not the first, and I pray I’m not the last.

As I look toward the horizon it seems almost laughable. I watch it white out as it meets the sky, as if someone doesn't want me to see the horizon at all; convincing me to move no farther. The only thing I can make out are the squiggly heat lines dancing to and fro. The tempo to their song seems to quicken, keeping pace with my patience thinning out. I have to admit it seemed pretty pointless to get to this point, and seems almost cruel to make it so. That being said, I’m here and you know why. This was the plan after all. This is where this dance of ours ends. Go ahead. Please bend low, reach out, and draw your line in the sand. I won’t move. The die has been cast.

It’s here in this wasteland we meet. Here. Where nothing else walks, where nothing else lives. All alone in the void of life; alone in the absence of existence we meet. It had previously occurred to me you might not show. You know…I can’t stand it when someone doesn't keep their word. Even so, I guess I shouldn't have doubted. You’re rather good at showing up when I’m past the point of reason. I’m here for blood; let the games begin.

So listen, let me cut the shit and just lay it out there. One of us isn't walking away, and you’re packing air in your holster, while I have a cocked one-way ticket home; curious since you set this up. You stand there, waiting in a mirror like fashion of myself. Ready for whatever hell I think I have left to muster in my self righteous reckless quest for truth. You  only smile in that cliche deafening silence. My mind turns into a white walled safe room when I think it should be rioting like cellblock C. It’s time the silence ends. I can’t afford anything more than a scuffle right now, and if there was an option I’m too dumb to see it. A smile won’t settle me this time. It may be cheap, but it’s time to crack those lips and let it flow. For a talker, you sure are quiet. Regardless I heard it’s time for a couple of voices to cause a little trouble. Speak! Can’t you see the creek has run dry?! I need you to give a damn.

I’m done talking, you had better raise a fist. Either you take me out back and finish me off quick, or my hands will find that throat, and wring that towel out. The dove and crow let loose.Between the flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder I knew it was over before it began, but I tighten my grip as my breath matches my resolution to hold fast. I pathetically resemble a wannabe cowboy trying desperately to hold onto the bull for a few more seconds. But I have no one to impress, no one cheering me on, this is just you and me. I will not yield, I will not succumb. Not this time. This time you are going to know you have to answer, that you will not leave here without holding up your end of the deal.

With a cherry red smile, I lie here staring into the sky. I think the feeling in my legs is returning. You’re right, simple answers won’t do. I like to think I got a few good licks in, and for a few seconds was on top. There is a simple yet profound gratification to be lying here, exhausted, doing a back float in my blood, sweat, and tears. I have my answer, and I’ll lie here in the pleasure and the pain of my victory wrapped in my own defeat.

ology part un

The head and the soul, two travelers stuck in the same vessel.  Inseparable and completely unintelligible to each other.  I picture them sitting in a fancy leather apportioned train car.  They sit opposite on drab couches.  Unable to converse. One of them has a language of sorts but no voice, and the other speaks but only in wispy dry leaf crackle, in the smooth pale skin high on the inside of his lover's thigh, the full moon's reflection on a calm midnight lake, or fresh new socks on cold feet.

These strangers often agree, although they never know it.  More frequently they are grievously offended by that which the other loves.  So much so, that in a panic or rage one of them will try to leap from the train only to be violently hauled back to relative safety by the other, for neither could bear to go on alone.  Blackbird and bread.  Sand and cloud.  Element and ungent.  Earth and embrace.  No couple  has ever loved or hated as well as these intimate strangers.

Is it so strange?  When they come to a book of religion how can they proceed?  If one is thoroughly pleased the other most certainly is bound like Prometheus on the Rock.

When they meet another it is not one but two more that they must meet.  All four grasping and struggling to walk together and know even the simple truth about the other.  When they are intimate who touches who, and where?

I have no answer for this.  The strangers inside my train rumble slowly on.  They sit across from each other in a finely built and comfortable private car.  They watch. They wonder.  They wait.