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About Literature / Artist Josh BarbeauMale/United States Recent Activity
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Tyrants Cover by FrostedHarbor Tyrants Cover :iconfrostedharbor:FrostedHarbor 1 0
Literature
Walk the Night
The frost-bitten air of a windless night
Acts as my refuge from your song
That sings to my forgotten soul,
Forgotten by all except by you.
On this ashen path, I walk the night.
The cold, I hope, shall cure this blight
As it has encased my soul so long—
Too long since I have been whole,
Whole to you, who I walk from and to.
In this fashion, I walk the night.
The icy chill that blinds my sight
Is that which I, for now, belong—
Far gone from your love's sweet toll,
A toll where no more fees are due.
From this passion, I walk the night.
For the breeze of autumn began my plight
Whispering to me all I have done wrong—
Rending my heart with this tragic stroll,
A stroll that tells the story true.
From these actions, I walk the night.
Perhaps the spring leaves might set me right
And I may find a worthy way back to your song
That sings the end to my sorry woe—
The woe that may bring me back anew.
For you, I shall no longer walk the night.
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Literature
Timeline Marker
Plumb the slick interior of sweaty ringlets,
boa-constricted around that quivering fourth finger.
Let the death rattle seep in so absolute that
waking moments are perverted by cycles of dreams
stuck in the unconscious haunting.
Pluck the biting glass from denim blue,
shouldering the responsibility of shatters
while a lifted head responds to no stimulus.
Note the scramble to trace back and imprint
beyond doubt the specific timbre of vocal chords.
Procure from vaulted border some wild insight,
definite in its perception of sealed providence.
Sleep with the transition between fading and permanent,
where form and blinking eyelashes confer their weight
to palls and the solitude of a single against a double headboard.
Pinch out of reality a designation for this flash,
grasping at no less than a timeline marker
beset by vain elsewhere moments in the sky.
Seek the hand and lift it to the rigid part of your chest,
pretending it moved of its own forgiving volition.
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Literature
Steppenwolf Tides
Around here, the ghosts give compliments freely, and I don't shy away. I wait for the fun house of Anna's mind to right itself, which comes after she intentionally shatters a pot of coffee on the kitchen tiles. She sits on the floor with a handkerchief on her head. I tell her the lock on the bathroom door is broken. The nest outside hasn't chirped in two days, and I think the Seattle wind got the best of it. Nostalgia keeps me, but the nature of my days with her turns faded moments slowly bitter.
Four nights after then, she says she could cry if I gave her something for the pain. I only hear her a little. Anna wanted to be a dancer. Leaning in arabesque, she was as close to perfect as I'd ever want to have. When she opens her closet, I only see her old, long-unused pink slippers.
I find myself tracing the origins of my family tree in a book left to me by my grandmother. I follow the ink branches with my fingers and stare at the space between my cousins and me. These lines will keep str
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A Spectrum of Ice and Fire by FrostedHarbor A Spectrum of Ice and Fire :iconfrostedharbor:FrostedHarbor 317 63 Thaumaturge by FrostedHarbor Thaumaturge :iconfrostedharbor:FrostedHarbor 0 1
Literature
Catacombs: Prologue
PROLOGUE
Finn McCauley had never forgotten how Wyoming smelled of deep sage. When he was a kid, the thick scent and the heat of summer would chap his nose raw. He would taste the spice of it in his dinner and would wake up to it with heavy breaths. He had thought the sagebrush was all there was for him, but a mind like Finn's had won him an acceptance letter from a college on the East Coast and a job as a consultant for the last fifteen years. Now, he didn't have to deal with it except for trips home.
He didn't hate coming home, and he didn't hate the sage, not anymore, but he did hate returning for this. Finn dropped the cigarette he was smoking—he wished he could summon the will to quit—into an outdoor ashtray, watching the Mazda find a space by the hospice. It was early, and the grog on his father's lawyer's face showed him to be a night owl. The lawyer, Henry Joule, closed the driver's side door and waved. Finn had heard many a time from his father how Joule whispered abo
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Literature
Questions
Where are you tonight,
when the knot tightens
around my stomach,
hanged and spine-broken?
Body, my own self,
snaps in half—half
to dangle, half to stare
out into blank neutrons;
gone, gone: you.
Are you coming
and then as spectator
to see the missing,
my loss of it all—
it; all?
To see the misted
real suffering, the audience
you fade into to feel
it all you do.
Will you claim me,
to say your wreck-crush deeds,
the epitome of crimes
to risk villain
and take the cords
and junkyard scraps
and the spandrels stretching
through the lobes of
my brain—or, will it fade,
passing fancier,
to the stage curtain
and I left to vile
and my bile as it
hardens in my throat?
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Literature
Quasi-Omniscience
I know things. That's pretty much the best way to put it. My kids think that I know everything, which is true to a certain extent. It's handy; I essentially know the answer to every question. Someone asks me something and I know the answer. This is a fairly recent occurrence (if only this had happened to me while I was still in school), and my wife thinks it happened because I willed it to happen. I did always have an inclination to look up tidbits that eluded my prior knowledge, but when she asked me if that was how it happened, I knew that the answer was no. On the whole, I'm pleased with it. When I go to a restaurant and the waiter asks, What would you like?, I know it. Sometimes a waiter will ask, What can I get for you? That's frustrating because then I know the whole menu, only complicating my decision.
It doesn't work if I ask myself questions or if I read them on paper or anything like that. Whatever greater good bestowed this upon me obviously realized how easily it could be a
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Literature
Treetops
Jade stood on the treetops looking down at her feet. They were her feet, but they were also her mother's feet. The smell of California fire was still fresh and the ash and cinder clung to her shirt. She ignored the sensation to go back for shoes. Blitz, her Rottweiler, had preceded her into the smoky ruins of the forest, and he needed no shoes. She didn't call his name, but she listened for him.
Time kept away from the forest these days. The smoke blotted out the only hour glass in the sky. Jade took shallow breaths so she could continue. Her bare feet, her mother's feet, eased their way over charred logs and scorched underbrush. She heard a familiar growling and the sound of grating wood. Blitz had picked out a fallen tree and was fighting to snap off the top end of it with his teeth. His paw scratched at it periodically while he bit, as if that minute effort would somehow make all the difference.
Jade bent down beside him, the feeling of suffocation decidedly greater between the few
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Literature
Big Ernie
I had only been in my car a few minutes, long enough only to realize my coffee was still too hot to drink, when I got to the bridge a mile away from my house. A line of people were standing on top of the concrete edge, looking over the side and into the depths beneath it. In the thirteen years I'd driven this route, I'd only ever passed three cars this early in the morning, so it wasn't as though I could let someone else investigate. I pulled off to the side but didn't see any transportation that had brought these people to this tiny, farm-surrounded corner of my neighborhood. I edged up to the row of people and peered over. "Somebody fall in?" I asked a timid, pot-bellied man next to me.
He glanced down at me from atop the barrier. "Nope," he said with a fast shake of the head.
"Somebody jump?" I asked.
"Not yet," the timid man said.
"Who's trying?" I asked, surveying the line for the potential suicidee.
"We are," he said.
"All of you?" I asked.
"What's that guy saying to you, Ernie?
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Literature
A Brush with Space-Time
Nothing in the universe, I,
Not a person, an instant,
A fraction of a sigh
From some celestial giant.
Clipped into a wedge of a mosaic
Piece, unseen from afar
And chipped from the archaic
Landscape of a cosmic star.
A brush with space-time is all I get
To throw my rock and hope it skips
So I become more than a subset
Briefly eclipsing until forever eclipsed.
Still, there is no niche to be found
Where the galaxy calls resound.
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Literature
Counting
I.
The art of accounting
Without the air conditioner.
II.
To count;
To own land and be noble about it.
III.
Ten, says the referee,
You're pinned.
Like his pinstripes.
IV.
My eggs have hatched,
But I counted them anyway beforehand
To pass the time.
V.
Putting it before down.
Rockets to the moon
And back.
VI.
On a friend.
Little more is needed.
VII.
How high can I count?
I wondered as a child.
To my moon, I now realize.
And back.
VIII.
This little construct
On my arm that never lets me
Forget that I am.
IX.
Until the end of days,
Or the days of humans,
When it doesn't matter anymore.
X.
Pendulums keep track,
But who knows which one is right,
Or are they all the same,
Set to the synchronicity of gravity.
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Literature
Ode to a Pen
The blackness in your confines
Spills out to found infinite
Lies and truths and
Perspectives. A single rod of
Hope, of deceit, of opportunity.
How many worlds you create
Or could create.
An instrument used by mortals
So they may become gods
In a world where that sort of thing has
Meaning. No greater power to be
Achieved than what you can provide.
Buildings are shaped, artists live, and writers
Die trying to wield what you bear.
In my hands, though, you will find no greater
Swordsman, no faster motion than my slice.
Others are adept, but because of you, I am
Authority. Millions fall before your might,
And I will be your herald. We will venture as
One, I your agent,
And you, translating the words of my
Fingertips.
When my strength fails,
Not by choice, but by death,
May you find another such as I
To command. May this new chronicler
Hail our epic as the first step.
May you bestow upon my successor your
Wisdom and your fortitude to make the plain
Beautiful and the ordinary
Divine.
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Literature
Lie With Me
Lie with me in the copse, in the cool springtime of our minds;
echo together the nearby rills, the sun tickling our eyelids,
dripping through Spanish moss. Friend, come with fever and rest calm
'neath cypresses and the sufferings of sparrows.
Lie with me in the grotto, against the backdrop of summer;
stretch dimly on boulders, a whistled breeze in our ears,
etching against rock and slab. Foe, come with rancor and fall easy
under den and the frailty of sleeping bats.
Lie with me on the bluff, atop a fading autumn outcrop;
lounge unruffled on the crest, the salted waves tossing incense,
clattering between promontories. Lover, come with envy and break serene
before seaside and the dreams of minnows.
Lie with me on the heath, within the confines of winter;
still from the silence, the frost clipping our wonder,
burrowing into oaken trunks. Stranger, come with worry and drift tranquil
among leagues of flurry and the refuge of bobcats.
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Literature
Phoenix in the Twilight
You kept me calling out in the winter of my time.
Oceans of snow and me, buried below,
muffled in the dark, and you melted it all
and washed me out from the sickness of myself.
The muzzle flashes of days made me recoil
while you prodded me, gentle and mean
to take the shots and heal, patient of the eventide.
And by the by, and by the by, I did and I did and I didn't.
And you, a cherub, became a seraph and more to me,
a great hand of redemption clutching the little imp,
my me, shaking it loose of the filth and the folly.
But they don't let the angels play with the demons
for fear of getting soiled by the soot and locked out
of their rightful and worthy and humble place.
They don't let the labor of heart toil on the brink
that is my brink—never fall, never fall, they say.
Your delicate wings held me up on your flight,
a phoenix in the twilight. And you resurrected
the stream inside and sipped from the water.
But they don't let the angels play with the fiends
for fear of bestowing so
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Activity


Etching Against Rock and Slab

Journal Entry: Wed Dec 7, 2011, 1:35 AM


After a semester out in California, I'm coming home for Christmas break. In all likelihood, I'm coming home altogether. My current program isn't for me. I'll try some other places if I can. My gut says I shouldn't stay. Home is good for the soul.

Meanwhile, I'll still be writing. I'm sure my writing will be better because of my experiences out here.

  • Listening to: Mumford and Sons
  • Reading: A Song of Ice and Fire
  • Watching: Survivor
  • Playing: Settlers of Catan
  • Eating: Cookies
  • Drinking: Sweet Tea

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:iconmarkirwin:
MarkIrwin Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2015  Professional Traditional Artist
Thanks for the watch!
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joshhood Featured By Owner Aug 7, 2014  Professional Traditional Artist
Thanks for the watch!
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:iconfrostedharbor:
FrostedHarbor Featured By Owner Aug 8, 2014   Writer
My pleasure. Your work is phenomenal.
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sentienttree Featured By Owner Mar 16, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the fave!
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TrinityMathews Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the watch, it's appreciated! :thumbsup::D
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Theamat Featured By Owner Jul 29, 2012   Digital Artist
Thanks for the watch!
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The-Dormant-Sprite Featured By Owner Mar 14, 2012  Student Writer
hey, i just wanted to let you know i bowed out of your group since it seems neither of us were really invested in it, ha. if you want to start it up again, just let me know, and i can help out.
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IndigoSkyes Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for joining :iconthewrittenrevolution:, we're delighted to have you with us. Welcome to the revolution. :salute:

We're quite a busy group. We regularly post prompts for our members to try, and there's a contest running until February that you really ought to participate in.

And feel free to add us on Facebook and Twitter. :dummy:
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AzizrianDaoXrak Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the devwatch! :)
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FrostedHarbor Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2011   Writer
No problem!
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