Dinner with Vikings

    "Look how they poke at their food with sticks and knives," Hivgrith spoke from her shadowed place stooped beside the window.
     Crouched on the other side of the window, Fudskril gave his response, "Only the little pup in its mother's lap knows how to eat properly."
     "Look, what is that the tasty fat female is pulling from the fire pit?"
     "It looks like a goat leg. What a waste. They feed all the fat to Gorluk's flames, and dry up the tasty blood in His heat."
     "When we eat her, Gorluk will only get her bones to eat," Hivgrith snorted and smacked her lips, "We will chew her fat and lap up her blood."
     Fudskril licked his lips as they grunted in agreement. Inside the small house, as the humans spread their table with roasted meat and boiled tubers, they were oblivious to their observers on the other side of the frosted window panes. Beer and wine flowed in celebration of the males' return. Wooden bowls and baskets sat on the table filled with bread. Along side the bread in smaller bowls was golden smooth butter and honey brought back from raids on the southern coasts.
     Fudskril spoke, "Tonight they plan on stuffing themselves. We need to attack before they fill their bellies with that slop."
     "Then, let us attack now," said Hivgrith.
     She quietly chanted to Flinoh asking for the speed of the wind. Then with yells, that to the humans sounded like the roar of that strange animal they called løve, they lifted the roof off the house and set it to the side. Four pairs of strong ogre arms reached in and plucked the adult humans from their seats.
     Fudskril yelled, "Dorgnudt, don't forget the fat one by the fire."
     The human pups cried as Hivgrith pulled them from their mother's arms and set them to the side as proper ogre's do. Though the flesh of young is tasty, the loss of breeding stock is unforgivable.
     Kijldjun stumbled over the wall and landed on the table, "Ugh, I got their food on me. It will take weeks to get that smell out of my coat."
     As he wallowed in overturned soup and greasy meats, Kijldjun took hold of a man who was pulling a sword from the wall and hugged him to his chest. The sword clattered on the floor.
     Dorgnudt helped him up and passed him the fat female, "Take her and that male and get out of here, you've ruined enough of the pups' food."
     The four soon had hold of eleven large adults. They picked up the roof with their free hands, and placed it back on top of the house.
     As they walked away Kijldjun wiped human food from his haunches,"Listen, the pups are crying because I spilled their food."
     Fudskril laughed, adjusted his hold on his squirming humans, and said, "I wonder what the rest of the clan is bringing for dinner."
Hivgrith shifted the humans in her right arm over to her left, "What ever they bring, we're having it with these tasty morsels."

Charlie, tell me why they swoon!

I give you my heart.
I beg, do your part.
End my dream,
or just my dreaming.

-ror


I trust one day I will find my muse who inspires me in all things.


The photo that captures
you in such rapture,
to me, is only a glimpse
of joy undefined,
I'm hoping to find
   with you,
As your prince.

- ror

I like candid photos of people laughing and enjoying themselves.

No Regrets

Shoulda'-woulda'-coulda'
is the story of my life.
Shoulda'-woulda'-coulda'
will prob'ly be my wife;

And What-if and Maybe
will be my sons,
and I'll live life
gettin' nothing done.

-ror

A long while back I was sitting at home, wasting time, lamenting past mistakes, and realized I should just get up off my rear and change things.

Exceeding Faith is What We Need

Long before the fighting, the battle, it was won.
Helaman's young soldiers, was each a faithful son.

Bloody fights would greet them on jungle battlefields.
But God the Lord would save them from weapons that were
yield'.

Taught the truth by mothers whose strength was undefined.
They went forth to battle, with hearts and minds refined.

"Our, Mother's they have taught us.
We doubt not what they say."
And off they went to battle, not one would end up slain.

Each of us has struggles, from which we'd like to run,
But if we remember daily th' atonement of the Son,
Then we can be victorious before we've ev'n begun.

-ryan oliver roney

On Writing

     The pen lay still on the paper, cold and thoughtless without the warmth of a hand to guide it further along the blank pages, to further fill the void of white, to bring to life moments before unknown.
     Each formed line - the stark silhouette of burnt buildings left as reminders of past wars. The curved letters form the set chin of a lone survivor who seeks comfort in the hurriedly formed letters that become flames of a campfire. Letters swept across the page gracefully and love grows as two people are brought to life with each word of emotion. Soon sentences build paragraphs as people fill the world and events cause the pages to flip with rapidity.
     As leaves fill, and the ink dries, some people are left to the margins to be forgotten and others are crossed out like misspelled words, to never express their desires while other lives continue beyond even the last two words.
     "The End" sits on a field of white on the final page. The mind wonders how lives continue in the story. The cover is closed. Reader climbs out of his couch, her bed, her chair, his seat on the floor, and moves on in life - a course of events that will be written in the books in heaven, penned by the watching angels in their scrit to be read by all when the great story ends.

whenitrainsitrainsandwhenitdontthesunshines

I wrote this poem years ago, but this week's weather made me want to share it.

drip

drop,

water.

pitter

patter,

rain.

shreak

shrak,

lightning.

boom

burst,

thunder.

STORM!

After the storm,

water

drip

drops.

sun

smile-

shines.

wind

crisp

cools.

ground

damp

wet.

Translation of "Clarinete"

Here is the English translation of my short story shared in the previous post in its original Spanish.

Rigoberto, my four year old son and oldest child, runs to sit by my side for supper. In his excitement he almost falls as he lifts himself onto the bench. We wait for the food.  I wait with patience that only comes from fatigue, and he waits with a complete lack of patience as his feet kick at the table legs.  My father-in-law is seated on the sofa behind us, having already eaten because of his diabetes. I don't know what commentary I'll have to endure from him during my meal. As I contemplate the judgments of my wife's family about me I lay my chin on fisted hands and watch my wife putting the meal together. Today we are having beans and rice covered with spicy salsa and a soup made with yesterday's left-over chicken. Today there is no bread.

Early in the morning I got up, and without eating, rode the bus into town seeking a spot in the new band that plays nightly in the big clubs. I thought few people played the clarinet, but except for the trumpets, we were the largest group. I thought I played well, but as I bought my return ticket with the last of our money, I knew that was not the case.

As my wife places food on the table I feel Rigoberto's stare. I want to look at him and give him a smile, but I’m out of smiles to give.

“Papi, before we eat can you play your clarinet for us,” he says this with a desire I have never heard.

“I’m tired son, not now.”

“But Papi, people you don’t even know get to hear you play, and I never do.

I don’t know what to say in response. I place my hand over my clarinet. I pause to think

“Play for your son, dear,” my wife says as she places a full plate of food in front of me.

I lift the instrument; I lick my lips and then pass them over the mouth piece. With a deep breath I begin to play. The first sounds are weak, but soon augment to such strength that it feels like the bell of the clarinet may break. With quickness gained by much practice I let my frustrations fly in violent noise. As notes ascend and descend I see the surprise in Rigoberto’s eyes. The music soon looses its violence and takes on animated runs up and down musical scales. With a change of tone, the feeling turns to my sadness as flowing notes cause tears to build up in my wife’s eyes. Quickly, I change direction and play something to give all the responses I can never say to my father-in-law. With ugly notes I play out his commentaries, and then give him the responses from within my soul.

I stop suddenly as I notice the look on my wife’s face. I smile and wink at her, then return to play music familiar to Rigoberto. I invite him to sing along. Our daughter Clarín adds her voice to her brother’s, and I play rhythms that counter what they sing. As we finish the song I play a variation on a favorite family hymn, and with my last notes my family falls quiet.

The first to speak is my wife, “Dad,” speaking to my father-in-law, “could you say a blessing over the food?”

We all bow our heads and close our eyes. I open one eye and look at Rigoberto who has not stopped looking at me, even with his head partially bowed. I grin at him and he closes his eyes.

I’ll talk with the construction foreman tomorrow. I hear he needs workers. Maybe one day I’ll find an audience that can pay me with more than smiles, hugs and kisses when I play my clarinet.