From the Uncollected Thoughts of:
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About this ebook
Revised and updated! Featuring four new, never before published works, this edition of L.E. Harrison's poetry and short story collection features the edited text of the previous edition, along with commentary from the author.
L.E. Harrison's poetry and short story collection spans four decades of writing and publishing. It begins in 1983 with the poem, SHADOW (written when she was fifteen), and ends in 2019 with A WRITER'S LAMENT. KNOWLEDGE OF THE GODS was written in 1997 as an homage to horror writer, Stephen King. The stories I and FAST FORWARD/REWIND reflect collective, as well as individual, spiritual journeys. The stories NINE DAYS, GUILLOTINE, DELUSIONS GRANDER, and THE OTHER ARTHUR: PART ONE blend dark humor and magic realism with touches of surrealism.
Each poem is a snapshot of a thought, an exploration of an idea, or a deeply personal attempt to answer a universal question. This collection is an intimate look into the mind and heart of one of the most unique voices of a generation.
L.E. Harrison
L.E. Harrison is the author of the award-winning contemporary fantasy trilogy The Children of Corvus, From the Uncollected Thoughts of: L.E. Harrison a collection of previously published poems and short stories, and Kindle Vella serials Reyna (The New Order of Corvus), and Jarren (The New Order of Corvus). She lives in a one-hundred-and-sixty-year-old farmhouse in rural Pennsylvania, where she is working on the next chapter in the fictional universe of Soluna’s children. Sign up for L.E. Harrison’s Author Newsletter and get a free ebook copy of Cadie and Samuel: In the Interim (A Children of Corvus Short Story) - https://storyoriginapp.com/giveaways/5da0fd94-fe67-11e9-86d5-17b66e2d9bb6
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From the Uncollected Thoughts of: - L.E. Harrison
DEAR READER
I'm not going to cry, beg, or plead
to get you to read.
I may hide secrets in there
Do you care?
I may open your mind
when you'd rather be blind
Say what you will
I won't ask you to be kind.
Just know that every word perceived
as hackneyed drivel now
Will, instead
seem brilliant
when I'm dead.
PART I
FRONT: 1983 – 1998
SHADOW
There was something
like a shadow fleeing swiftly from the dimness
of the evening air
he was crying, from what I recall
with something waiting in the wings
but the air was present
I remember it well
thick like fog
it wrapped around the stairwell like
a protective mother
over her child
who is trying to find his way
back in her womb.
There was something
like a shadow fleeing swiftly from the dimness
of the evening air
he was crying
from what I could tell
but I know his sadness
was sadness so deep
that it eluded even him
until he couldn’t feel at all.
October 3, 1983
RAINBOWS
I don't think of rainbows
anyway
A rainbow does not hold me close to the day
but a rhyme without reason,
a silly cliché,
leaves me lingering longer
for something to say.
Voices with words
that I don't understand
pull me back to reality,
meaningless plans.
Others at work with a reason to be
make me wish harder
for something to see.
Artists that bloom with a song in their midst
capture the feelings I know don't exist.
And somewhere, an owl keeps time to the beat
a soft, lulling melody
everything's sweet.
I don't think of lovers
anyway
Lovers do not keep their feelings at bay
But they touch me so tender,
I can't walk away
With their classic embraces,
so sweetly they sway.
Uninspired
Undesired
Afraid, and alone
Those feelings have weakened
the strongest I've known.
Then again, many others
who hadn't seemed strong
had the courage to fight,
and never belong.
1984
KINGSHIGHWAY MOTEL
The cars pass me by on this dusty, dirty road
as I watch from the window of my mind.
I try so hard to tell myself, You aren't really here.
But I fear
I know the truth.
My imagination isn't that good.
I see the woman carrying the sheets that I will sleep on.
She drops them by the door and turns
with some kind of knowing look in her eyes.
I don't get why.
I think
she doesn't like me.
Alone again, I pick up my notebook, remembering how happy I'd felt when I had an
extra dollar to buy it. But it's red, and I
don't like the color.
Anyway, I sit and write of nothing, nothing.
There's nothing to say.
I feel no connection to this world, these people
Even the children, black and white—
so pretty, with their delicate features and tiny hands.
The next morning, I wake up to find two twenty-dollar bills on the
end table.
One for her. One for me.
There is also a note
which says
a lot of things—mostly misspelled, and with terrible grammar.
I feel my respect for him slide down a notch
or two.
But at least I have money.
I get dressed and go out to buy a pack of cigarettes.
Despair, despair grows like a fog in my heart.
It clouds my mind.
I don't belong here, I tell myself.
Did I say that already?
I sit down on the steps outside the door to our room. The sun reflects off the glossy red cover of my notebook, and my mind whispers, harsh and insistent.
Write something! Do something! Be something!
I can't imagine anything except this lost highway motel,
cold concrete, and dust on cheap furniture.
The janitor walks over
and asks me something about Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Do I want some?
Yeah
I think I do, but I don't have any money.
Oh, I'll buy it,
he says.
He sends her to pick up the chicken, and she comes back
out of breath and hysterical
a bucket of chicken and a bag overflowing with biscuits, coleslaw, and gravy bouncing as she runs
toward me.
He was there. He followed me. He says he knows where you are!
Oh.
Well, so what?
Who cares?
I feel strange—kind of nervous about it, but not really.
I mean, life is over anyway, so who cares if he finds me and beats me up and insists
that I love him?
I'm not really here anyway.
How can he find me?
I wish someone would love me for real.
That would make things better, I think.
But who could ever love me?
Even if such a man existed, he wouldn't look for me in this
rundown motel.
King’s Highway, my ass.
Like any king would ever stay here.
Or even me, for that matter.
Then I remind myself,
I'm not.
Oh yeah, keep forgetting that.
I follow her inside and close the door. The room smells like chicken.
I grab a piece, and sit down on the floor.
Old, ugly carpet, and it's blue.
Just like me.
The next morning, I take a shower and wash my hair.
I can't see anything but the sky
out the dirty kitchenette window as I try
to dry my hair in the wind.
But there is no wind.
So, I take my pathetic little notebook, and stuff it in my bag.
Down, down deep, where no one will ever find it and see
that I was here, after all.
I tuck his little note inside, as well.
Maybe I'll find it years from now and remember
who I am.
1985
Published In: WRITE THIS, March 2011
GREY RABBIT AND THE BEAR
I will,
said the Rabbit
Begin with a song.
You can't,
growled the Bear.
You're singing it wrong.
"I am not!" the indignant grey Rabbit exclaimed.
I've a voice that of angels and blubells in song.
"It's bluebirds, you idiot Rabbit."
The Bear
Fixed his companion a glowering stare.
"If you dare to impose on my ears with your voice,
you do not leave me any choice,
but to—"
What?
the grey Rabbit broke into his threat.
You scare me not, Bear. I will sing my duet.
A duet is with two,
he corrected his speech.
With whom are you planning to cackle and screech?
"With you," said the Rabbit.
He smiled at the Bear
And their voices in harmony sweetened the air.
March 19, 1986
IMAGINATION (THE MUSE)
A vague and hazy shadow somewhere secret by my side
Dusty, abstract instrument which I cannot abide
Nothing I feel is as real as the night
Somber and cryptic, it steals my sight
I may sense in its shadow, mysterious mind
But truth in the daylight is less than kind.
Some powers, buried, may try to break free
Not so, the coward that's shadowing me
Contented to rest in illusion it stays,
and bends me softly to its ways.
Imagination, fragile toy
Capricious friend, and subtle joy
An instrument I cannot play
It makes what melodies it may.
Published In: BEGINNINGS MAGAZINE, June 2000
LINGER ON
Of dreams we whisper in the night
And shadows cross our paths
But only
Looking, looking for the light
We linger on.
Lost in colored fabrics, somehow
seeing only what is there
A distant echo sounds from somewhere
Calling, calling
Linger on.
One heartbeat mixes with another
Eyes of onyx stare me down
Like dreamers lost in something real
We search, and somehow
Linger on.
As one we whisper in the night
And visions blind our eyes
But only
Knowing what is wrong
Or right
We linger on...
January 20, 1986
NARCISSUS AND THE WRITER
Restless and ageless
Serene and secure
Strange and sincere, I am not
Anymore
Open and honest
Surreal and alive
Secret and selfish, what else
I contrive
Substance is sticky and wet
'Tis my soul
Might have been useless, but yet
I don't know
Strange cat staring in my eyes
I think he cannot guess
My lies.
FRAGMENTS
Once upon a time.
Twice upon a time.
Once upon when I did not know what time it was.
Twice upon a time that was a really long time ago.
Once upon a clock.
Once upon a second hand.
Once upon a timeshare property in New Mexico…
Prologue
Once upon a timeshare property in New Mexico, there lived a full-blooded Native American man named Hector Runningspringwater. Hector was ninety-nine and three quarters years old. He couldn't walk very well, so whenever he had to go to a meeting or public appearance, his great-great granddaughter pushed him around in a wheelchair.
One day, Hector Runningspringwater had to go to a very important meeting in a town sort of far away. His great-great granddaughter was unable to get the day off from work, and so was not available to push him to this very important meeting that he had to go to in a town sort of far away.
So poor, old Hector Runningspringwater was stuck all by himself on his timeshare property in New Mexico, unable to make it to his meeting.
Interlogue
I love you,
she said. She didn't know why she said it. It just slipped out.
I shouldn't have said it, she thought. What will happen now?
There is romance,
he said. "And romance is the beauty of love. Or, perhaps, it is only the soul of love, and you are the beauty of love."
An eloquent speech, she thought. But very corny.
Yeah sure,
she said.
For in the running water, the spring of life—
Excuse me,
she said. You’re in the wrong story. This story's supposed to be about love. The story up on the top of the page is the one about Runningspringwater.
Oh,
he said. Sorry.
Up to the top of the page he went, to finish his speech.
Afterlogue
A fine work of art was placed upon the window ledge.
A fine work of art it is, thought J.P.W Giltenheimerstein.
He was the guy who had put the fine work of art upon the window ledge. It was a perfect place for it, he knew—because having just paid twenty-seven million dollars for it, he wanted to put it somewhere where everyone could see it.
The maid walked into the room. Would you like something to eat, Sir?
She asked.
No thank you,
answered J.P.W Giltenheimerstein. How do you like my fine work of art?
Oh!
Exclaimed the maid, seeing it for the