Yesteryear Fiction

Runesounds
By Rodney Horne


hands entwined they we dance, they we dance,
and the lines of light twist and whisper beside us them
the twist and angle-shiver of diagrams, the sacred
geometry of
the whole
of nothing
rotating endlessly
on vertices of
life
of love
arcane symbolism which transcends our their words
transcends doubt
leaves
the great golden void
open
brilliant
carven of
Runesounds
which carry meaning only
in our their minds


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Dr. Rodney Horne lives on a hillside with his wife and his two cats. Having retired from technical writing, he has been published in Neometropolis Magazine, The Opinion Magazine, and Armitage Hand (AHNR).

Wings
By Rodney Horne


There are times when I look at my life and I forget who I am.

I put my head down beneath the waves. I get lost. Currents of hate and confusion smash against my nose, my face, blind me. Anxieties rise up to cling at shoulders, bite and hook into muscles, dragging, always dragging. Long cords of responsibility and tradition wrap themselves around my ankles, pull me deeper, deeper, until all I can see is the darkness, the murky nothing and the pains of the present.

And then I remember my wings. I stretch them, feel them catch air. In an instant, I turn to light, slip graceful through the chains, the hooks, the cords. Anxieties fall away, my eyes clear, and then I am flying, flying. In a single realization, a single smile, I rise above the waves, remember who I am, remember. . .

And take flight again.


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Dr. Rodney Horne lives on a hillside with his wife and his two cats. Having retired from technical writing, he has been published in Neometropolis Magazine, The Opinion Magazine, and Armitage Hand (AHNR).

The Fire
By Rodney Horne


The fire within my tears is born of fear, desperation, terror. I have been here before, been to the edge and looked down and over into the abyss where the heart leaps burning, dragging me along on gilded chains. I have seen this precipice, and the thought of tumbling down it to yet another death leaves me reluctant, afraid to face the fire.

And yet it is the fire that warms me, that brings magic to my life, my being. It is the deadliest arrow and also the sweetest balm.


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Dr. Rodney Horne lives on a hillside with his wife and his two cats. Having retired from technical writing, he has been published in Neometropolis Magazine, The Opinion Magazine, and Armitage Hand (AHNR).

Lips of Rain’fa
By Rodney Horne


When the lips of Rain’fa purse into the first notes of song, worlds form, rise out of the ethers to coalesce as earth and stone. His words come across eons, and with each breath he sings a new epoch, a new period that rises, falls, lives and dies on the movements of the music. When the song finally ends, when lips rest and reality seems to take pause, those same worlds created with the song fall away again, fade, vanish. Nothing lasts forever, nothing but Rain’fa and the echo of the song.


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Dr. Rodney Horne lives on a hillside with his wife and his two cats. Having retired from technical writing, he has been published in Neometropolis Magazine, The Opinion Magazine, and Armitage Hand (AHNR).

Cosmic
By Rodney Horne


The bear reared up, roared. Spit flew, hit hands as I tried to block my face, did what all humans do right before they die. The bear dragged my corpse back to its cave. In a vision, I saw my skull, broken open, cracked edges polished and white. Death begets life.

When I am awake, I stare at the ceiling and watch the moons and stars tingle past each other in the shadows that creep from cobwebbed corners. Cool air brushes my skin, and I am naked on a bare mattress. I think of the bear, and I know, this is where I belong.

This is my heaven, my hell, my limbo, my second shot.


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Dr. Rodney Horne lives on a hillside with his wife and his two cats. Having retired from technical writing, he has been published in Neometropolis Magazine, The Opinion Magazine, and Armitage Hand (AHNR).