one last hop for joy
button rings more poi
hot pot of green blood
fills memory, good
since he left the bog
glad for the birdcage
up down all the rage
stillness deep wellness
pin drop break silence
Big and warty, and not so much green as a sick yellowish brown, he almost vanished into the woodwork around him. What fabulous woodwork it was, though. Fine walnut panels, stained clear grained red oak floor, and hand-floated plaster-work above the wainscoting on the walls and ceiling. Even the paint was exquisite, a base color rag rolled with several lighter tones gave the walls an interesting depth and left the eye unsure of its actual color. This was not the room of a poor frog. But then, the old toad was anything but poor.
He’d made a fortune twice over from his tales of an imagined faraway land filled with feuding families, warring tribes, magic, mischief, dragons, and thieves. But his readers always wanted more. More bloodshed. More treachery. More surprises. More chances for the lost to be discovered and reclaim their birthright. He had spent a lifetime on his stories, and he no longer knew how he had intended them to end. If he ever had intended them to end, even.
But the millions of fans demanded an ending.
And here he sat, an old toad at his typewriter, trying to find the knot that could tied up all his loose ends and put an end to it all.
At first there was one resonating through the night, bold and strong taking the lead. Then a second joined in, followed swiftly by at least two more.
The singing was unsure at first, but swiftly fell into a pattern that was more familiar than chaotic as the voices warmed to their task.
As the night wore on, they would sometimes pause. Sure, individual voices had come and gone from the chorus. But once in a while all the voice would fall silent together. It made their return, often in unison, all the more surprising.