Author Archives: Lee Dunn

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

Lay down all thoughts, surrender to the void. It is shining. It is shining.

 

Previous stories:

https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/09/27/paved-with-good-intentions/

My little Miss

Silver seeds

The yard

Don’t fence me in

The neighbours

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her name, as near as I can make it, is Khostra, and she “spoke” to me in symbols, visions, and insinuative emotions.  I will liken it to a dream, where an unseen player wishes to impart something of great import to you.  Your mind clears of all the mundane.  You wait tensely, for you know this is a key.   The words are not remembered, lips do not move, a face is not seen.  Symbols appear, seemingly without meaning at first.  Wide vistas may come, in psychedelic vision.  The hissing of primal rains.  The tallest of growing things,
strobe lit in twilight thunder.  Movements in the deep.  Arrivals in the virgin desert.  The teachers come, and then… and then.  Building blocks.

As in dreams, I swam for the light.  What had been shown was shown.  My eyes were opened and the immediate world flowed in.  Khostra bowed her head once more and gently released me.  I was overcome by an insistent urge to lie down and sleep.  She put her hand on my shoulder and guided me through the sundering wall.  I looked once more into her face, and saw the smile within her eyes.  She and her companions then left us, in the full night, and Raymond took me to sleeping quarters in the mushroom house.
There was little talk, and no questions.

Most all of them knew, I suspect, what had transpired.  They were the initiates.
I was the new guy.  I slept, and had a dream of knitting.

to be continued…..

Crazy house

All is soft silence, save for a ringing in the ears.  Afterimage of thunderous chaos.
Mister Puss, saucer-eyed, meows a sick meow.  Looks this way and that, as if to say-
where is hammer?  Booming boots?  Cracking tiles?  Thuds and drags?  In the fourteen days, he had become inured, comfortable, expectant of the next morning’s assault.
As our savior, he had taken on our very nerve endings, mirrored our anxiousness, and transformed all into a metered purr.  If he was alright, then so were we.
And now, in this vacuous day, we trust he will show us the way.

The renos are done.

The neighbours

previous stories are:

Paved with good intentions
My little Miss
Silver seeds
The yard
Don’t fence me in

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were tall and olive skinned, with startling eyes.
I had fallen asleep beside the peoples’ perimeter, and was awakened by the sound of Raymond’s voice.  “Look, Joshua.  They come.”

Five figures approached us in a glide-like walk, and stood before us in a V formation.  The shortest of them was some seven feet, and their stature was even more enhanced by the odd but beautiful headdresses they wore.  Their long arms and many-fingered hands, their silent dignity, their benign manner all gave me pause as to how to proceed.  I turned to Raymond, and he said “You will know”.

Their “spokesperson” stepped slightly forward, and performed what I can only describe as a curtsy, with a bow of the head.  I will call her She, as that is the impression I had.  She  held her strange hands in a praying position, then slowly opened them to me,  as a butterfly unfolds its wings.  Taking another half step, she extended these hands, palms up, as if to offer something.  I felt that what she desired was contact,
and so I timidly laid my hands upon hers.  She then raised her head from its bowing posture, and looked at me full face.

I could not, and would not, look away.  All of my surroundings faded, as if I were staring at the proverbial dot on the screen, and I tasted the flavor of her mind only. It must have looked odd to the bystanders, and the time it took was uncertain, but in that small space, with joined hands, and without speaking, she told me the story of their Years.
to be continued….

Don’t fence me in

previous stories are
“Paved with good intentions” https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/09/27/paved-with-good-intentions/
“My little Miss” https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/10/18/my-little-miss/
“Silver seeds”   http://secret-lifeof.com/2019/01/10/silver-seeds/
and “The yard”   http://secret-lifeof.com/2019/01/14/the-yard/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The children kept up their play, as children do.  As I approached the perimeter of the yard, the group at the table noticed me first.  They alerted some of the others, who walked curiously toward the grassy area I stood upon.  These were people with whom one could blend easily- a ragtag group at ease with themselves, seeming to have been lifted from any suburban neighbourhood.  A man clad in what once was a dress shirt and pants, now soiled and without a belt.  A Mexican woman with two shoeless toddlers tugging at her sun dress.  Some few who were surely couples.  All looked to be in good health, save for those who had telltale sores.

As I came closer, the man in the white shirt faced me and made a curious shushing motion, palms out and towards the ground.  I stopped short, and he began to speak.
“I am Raymond”, he said.  Then, jokingly, “Welcome to heaven!”  “I am Joshua”
said I.  Raymond laughed, but did not step onto the grass.  “It’s a biblical day, Joshua!”
Seeing my confusion, he said “Come join us, if you like.  Walk slowly, if you will.”
I shouldered my pack, and made to walk up and shake his hand, whereupon I ran face first into a solid (but soft) wall that was not there.  I fell backwards, more surprised and embarrassed than anything else, and, dusting myself off, I returned their smiles.

“We are held here, for a time” said Raymond.  “I think it is more for their protection than for any fear of our escaping.”  Seeing my questioning glance, he again spoke in riddles.  “We are, I think, part of the harvest of those remaining on this Earth.  We were picked up, rescued, or captured if you like, in our various states of misery, and brought here to this compound.” “The people of the ships- they have shown us that we are to prepare for a great Leaving in due time, as the world’s survivors are collected.  You will meet them soon…some will visit us at dusk, and you will join our numbers.”  Seeing my rough appearance, my burned and flaking skin, my unlaced boots and scraggly jeans, Raymond asked how long I had been on my own.  “Some years, I think.  It’s hard to tell.”  “We know”, he said, and asked me for my story.  I sat on my pack, and a group gathered ’round to listen as I told them of trials in the wild, desperation and despair, my meeting with only one speaking person in that time (the little girl), and of her death.  They gave me food and drink, tossing it through the invisible barrier, and I gratefully warmed up to them as the sun began its evening westering.

“We’ve not long to wait now” said Raymond, and I fell into an expectant silence.

to be continued….

 

The yard

The heaviest of the fog was burning off, as quickly as clouds in a time lapse.
The sun, westering towards zenith, cast a kaleidoscope of blinding beams on the silvered mirrors below.  I had no guide, no precedent, to tell me how to proceed.  Wary, at least, I must be.  In the glare, I could make out little, until presently a water-coloured cloudbank approached.

In the dun light, vision was sharpened, and the ships (for so I thought they were) took on a sepia tone and a strange air of unreality.  There were hundreds, in seeming shapes of domes and standing bullets.  All was still and silent, as the world here had been since yesterday.  The clearing in the valley was otherwise featureless, save for an oddly shaped structure which resembled a bisected mushroom head .

I was partly down the steep slope, keeping to the camouflage of brush, when I spied movement in the shade of the structure.  Figures.  People.  The first I had seen alive since my sojourn with little Miss.  Some were gathered in groups, talking, while others sat at a large round table.  I crept further downslope, and saw that they varied in description:  young and old, men and women, even small children.  The scene was peculiar in that they all kept to a semicircle of bare earth, about the size of a baseball infield, around which there was no visible fence or boundary.

I halted to consider what to do next, when my inhibitions were put to rest upon hearing some laughter from the group, and the sounds of happy children.

At this, I stepped out from the forest gloom, foolishly perhaps, and showed myself.

to be continued……….

….previous story is “Silver seeds”

 

In a night’s fancy

Oh, Enceladus!

Ocean moon enrobed in ice.

Eccentric orbiter of a God.

Your showering geysers

an accretion to Great Saturn’s gravelly rings.

Herschel spied you from out the blue.

Cassini caught you unawares and showed you forth.

In flights, our curious fingers find life’s beginnings

in your nineteen mile deeps.

You hold, I fancy, surprising secrets,

complacently waiting.

But never comes the day, my love.

Never comes the day.

The line in winter

It’s faded white, and broken.
The night’s blizzard fills in the cracks, and covers all.
And so, slowing, we search the snow.
The brighter the lights, the less we see.
On the unwelcome curves, just our best guess.
And now, it shows itself with intermittent hints.
We relax, loosen our grip a bit.
Toe the line, straight ahead.
Now, the road ahead shines with mottled ice.
We drift
Adrenalin pumps
Keep control now, no sudden moves.
Compute in instant calculus,
Millimeter motion on the wheel.
The billowed heart slows and shrinks.
We breathe.
Home.

Silver seeds

I am come to warmer climes now. The smokes of the world subside. My grief for the Little Miss had led me to despair, for a time. I found that one cannot survive for long on frozen candy bars. Although the sky is a clear turquoise today, there are bright glints that I see, always peripherally, gone in an instant. A trick of the mind, I think. All is noiseless now. Stark in silence, windless. Waiting. As night nears, I curl up in a dried bed of reeds, their crinkling sound a brazen assault on this stillness. Even the crawling and flying things have abandoned these parts, and I sleep deeply, without fear. I awake in a morning chill, looking about stupidly and rubbing my eyes. It is just getting dawn, and I am on an island in thick fog. From my canvas bag, I pull out a sweater and warm socks, then my last bit of roast rabbit, a joyful thing to taste. I join the waiting world, hoping for an early burn off to the mist. Shouldering my pack, I set out once again on my westward trek. There are still small remnants of fog in the hollows, and it is hard to make out the lay of the land. Now comes the moment that will stay with me as long as I draw breath. I have been on a plain for a long time now, the land as flat as a prairie. Of a sudden, the brush gives way to a steep drop, down into a valley still shrouded in the fog. The gaining sun has warmth now, and I sit on a stump, guessing the valley’s girth. I make a fire, and boil some water for a precious cup of instant coffee. I sit and read from the stuck-together pages of an old paperback. “The King in Yellow”. Coffee done, I rise and stretch, and there, below, is a thing I cannot encompass. Above the shrinking mists, in the vastness of this valley, I see an army of standing ships, their chromium domes throwing silver back to the sun. In my short crazy life I know, for the first time, what awestruck means.

….to be continued

Finders keepers ***graphic***

In this year of China’s moon,
there ends a life too soon.

On the cliff’s outcropping I stand,
not yet daring the mile-down view.
I wait for the scene seekers to disperse,
then pin this sorry note to the grappling tree.

You see,
I cannot shake them.
Like brain bees they buzz.
Dark stories they tell, without end.

All help seemed too busy with life.

Now, I will walk backwards,
fixing on the air’s horizon,
leaving no room for second thought.

I will count the paces.
Ten, twenty, thirty.
I will wait for the surge of crazy strength.
I will run, arms wheeling,
and be gone.

Good person,
I hope to make the river,
winding in the sun’s silver,
to spare you the sight’s abomination:
my pile of jellied bones,
entrails of pastel,
abalone membranes.

If the punctured eyes contrive a stare,
it is not accusatory-
only a mirror
of a hell that slowly did go by.