Alder

Do tell

In the Pink

Feeling Blue

Glancing about the room like a herding sentinel scanning for errant strays, Alder was surprised at the realization of his surfacing sense of loyalty to this his new family. He recounted the inventory of humanity with which he had ventured upon these shores. Slumber had seized a weary few where they sat; others were still engaged in lively debate, a confident lad engaged in the prospect of lecherous pursuits. The cardinal object of Alder's distraction was steeped in the lanterns gentle glow. The image warmed his senses. Alder traced her path as she traversed the room toward the staircase. He surmised with some measure of relief that she would be resting this eve in the safe confines of the inn, duly noting that she was unaccompanied in her ascent. Mesmerized, his eyes followed the gentle sway of fabric against her roundness. The idyllic vision was abruptly quashed by the meddling interception of a performer who had accompanied her melody earlier. Her response to this interloper seemed initially perplexed, though when met by a kiss upon her hand turned ultimately responsive. Alder rocketed upright, sliding the chair back form the table with a scrape noticed only by the few at his side. No one was more astonished than Alder. He felt the warm flush rise beyond his cheeks and the raised brow of the gent beside him and returned again to his seat. Even in repose, he was aware of the still bristled hairs at the base of his neck. He struggled to nullify the significance of his reaction as paternal or brotherly, but was unconvincing even to himself. He scoped again a last glimpse of a well turned ankle as she began climbed the stairs. Fingering his scant remaining coins and disenchanted, Alder gained the attention of the innkeeper and beckoned him closer. Patting the hammer that never left his side, the carpenter negotiated a barter to shim a loose banister in exchange for an evenings respite at the base of the same steps that carried the damsel aloft. With a handshake and a nod he set to the task. His labors timed to mesh with the thumping rhythm of the hand drum, the chore closed without evidence or the distraction of fellow patrons. Preferring added measure, the capriciously grinning craftsman pried gently at the stair five removed from the base adding just enough play to carry and audible warning of passage. A minor adjustment would return the step to silence upon his departure. Alder was assured that no languor on his part would permit circumvent either by maiden or musical ne’er-do-well.

nitroglycerine

The small boy within Alder cringed at the whirling motion of the company on the open floor. The expectation to dance at a cotillion or other like affair was steeped in the morays of his social ranking. With some distain, he recalled the gangly girls, years his senior vying for the few lads in awkward training. Wrenched from the covey of his unfledged brethren, foot found misplaced foot, arms wrapped in stranglehold and legs grown long in adolescence possessed a mind and direction of their own. Alder endured the necessity of the humiliating exercise until an agile grace replaced his former ineptness and responsibilities had been met. The Wenge family would no more consider breaking a social pact than denying their faith and thus it was in this endeavor. This well scripted system had framed his life, once again giving pause to the speculation of his future. The evening’s fair revealed much; his shipmates skills in dance or lack there of and likewise exceptional talents. Alder was moved by the glorious melody, though bewildered by the shrouded lament that clung to the nightingale’s cheek. He arose toward the opposite side of the tavern, drawn to console, though the maiden was whisked once again onto the floor. He resumed his place, heaved a contended sigh, and admired from a distance. How lithe was her step with her well matched partners. They shared time and place beyond the festivities of the moment. Their world seemed in order and at peace. The pleasure of the emerald-eyed lass was unmistakable. Alder mused as he caught the glance of the lass peeking furtively over the lads shoulder, scanning the room as if for a misplaced article. In that instant, he returned a hearty grin and hoisted his well appointed tankard in her honor.

Contrail

She stood at a distance from him, but was nonetheless a remarkably compelling figure. Her face glowed with a caressing smile in his general direction though Alder was uncertain it was intended for him. A lass of what must be a decade his junior, he surmised. How gentle she appeared alongside the brusque companions. He did not recall her name, but was sure she had mentioned it when she appeared like a specter to report of his work to the Captain. Alder recalled the plucky courage in her address of him; an outsider aboard the Watch Dog. He rose from his works; somewhat annoyed at the melodic feminine interruption of the voice calling his name, and towering over her petite form. His heated gaze abruptly mellowed as he paused, transfixed by the forest of greens and amber in her eyes. Alder had never been gifted with the recall of names in person or even in text. A keener memory of facts and faces was not to be found, but of names he was sorely inept. Although a God fearing man, he liked to muse that this misappropriation of memory resulted from repeated encounters of the veritable horde of humanity with each incarnation. Yet this encounter, with the hazel-eyed lass, seemed matchless. Alder still did not consider this consortium aboard a vessel prudent. Even for the sake of contributions to work alone, the shared company of the sexed would be fraught with challenge. How could one, not even to some degree, shield oneself from sins of the carnal mind alone? He recounted back to his last act of penance in the chapel of his forefather. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned…” he fought; as he spoke to keep the works from tripped like meaningless, rote babble. Above all, Alder sought a life of grace, no other was worth living. He regained his place in time, but not his composure. Alder struggled with his thoughts of the impending respite ashore and his desire for camaraderie, the prospect of which was now so feverishly enticing him.

Slightly

Shaun of the Dead

As he caressed the well placed timber, Alder was confident the grain would marry well with its surroundings. He scrutinized every streamlined pattern and variation; sure of its strength in holding back the sea even as it once held its canopy aloft through both sun and storm. The texture and unique shade reminded him of the well-oiled sea chest that was hauled aboard the Heron under Captain Lasseter’s vigilant eye. The Captain shared an eye for the analysis of materials but was also gifted in the appraisal of men. In this instance it seemed however, the Captain was not unsure of the crew's due diligence as much as this article was a prized possession. Indeed, a sea chest held more than a sailor’s possessions, it was at the veritable core of his existence flanked by cradle and; fates willing at long distance, his coffin. It embraced and held sacred his common objects and his uncommon dreams. Aye, a sea chest was a haven in this seaward commune, which was a sailor’s own, private and sacrosanct. Alder had long imagined setting himself to such a project of the soul. He envisioned selecting just the prized offerings of lumber that had called to him craving this purpose. His hands tensed slightly as muscle mimicked thought, following the carving of each joint and intricate detail that he would engrave into each cleat. But what of the beckets? A carpenter second to none, but plying his trade outward bound was taxing on occasion. A sailor of any measure must have skill of knots and Alder held his own, though he admittedly, was no craftsman in this realm. His choice to assist would have been a clean one had his shipmate Marq survived the attack on the Heron. Marq was a veteran sailor who could fancy a knot like no other Alder had ever experienced. Alder exhaled his regrets, wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for his hammer. Thoughts of crafts and camaraderie must wait.

paparazzi

Frogger

Epcot

"Those who excel in their efforts to restore this vessel and improve both the Heron and the prize for sale, shall be remembered in mine and the Captain Lasseter's favor hereafter." The captain’s words echoed as Alder traced the path as the small band of crew exiting the Watch Dog. Although the matter of loyalty ranked high in his credo, Alder chose to stay aboard, not so much to gain favor; as to complete essential tasks of replacing timer sections far too damaged to be repaired. Thought his muscles ached to the very sinew in his relentless toil, Alder knew neither vessel nor allegiance were forged hastily or effortlessly and he sought to make both unyielding. Alder spied Miss McDonough as she ambled gently to shore, her garments belying the unmistakable femininity that had a brief time before caused him to consciously straighten his posture as he recounted to her his repair efforts. He felt her presence well before she spoke as his blade bit the span that he was tending and wondered uncomfortably if it was merely her uncertainty at her task that caused her to pause before addressing him. Alder was unsure of the wisdom in the company of women crew aboard such a journey, but gave the premise no further time, and returned to his work. Even as the parade of humanity bustled in the port, bartering any manner of good and services, he considered that which what had set him on this journey. Alder observed a amber skinned soul harassed by the burden of far too heavy a load. He pondered what negotiation in solemn silence this man had uttered toward the ether that forced this hand and not another. He recounted the actions of the trespassing villain that was now aloof. What had set one man to honor and one to set a blade toward others? The weight of the struggling man shifted abruptly regaining Alder’s attention as the man spat a unfamiliar obscenity and kicked toward a haggard young feline that scurried out of his path and paused. The tiny speck of russet cat turned toward Alder’s gaze and sat, staring out toward The Watch Dog with the same seeming curiosity of time and place that found these two cast in this moment. With an all too familiar crackle from the fissure, the wood yielded from his last pass and Alder turned from his distractions to resume his task.

enigma

Denver

My heartfelt condolences to you on the transition of your beloved. You are in my prayers. A. Wenge

"This looks like a job for...

Alder found himself anxious for the next watch having left a task unfinished to his degree of expectation. This incompleteness was unlike his nature or the nature of his previous supervision. Even the watches themselves had become an exceptional event, as he had never been assigned a watch, but was instead expected to toil consistently until vanquished by exhaustion. A convention that amazingly enough agreed with him. It was no surprise therefore that Alder found himself observing the drills of Mister Flint and the crew. Alder’s muscles involuntarily contracting as his thoughts mimicked the actions of the participants. He marveled at the unique, synchronous combination of axe and knife and pondered similarity use of adze and chisel. Alder had thrown a chisel once in frustration that; to his astonishment, found its mark on a slender column of the family’s carriage house. Since that time, practice had honed a skill that he had not exercised from the time he had set sail. Now, awaiting eventual landfall, the mental aspects of uncertainty gnawed at him for a physical release.

Maya

NMI

singular

same

bond