What the Wind Brings

Maritime witch stories, updated every friday

[whatthewindbrings]

I wrote a novel! You can find it online pretty easily, so please give it a read. It has friendship, betrayal, and monsters both human and not quite human.

If you like my poems, you’ll like this story even more, and there are a bunch of illustrations inside. 🎉✨

[whatthewindbrings]

'Wave Hello' Illustration from 'What the Wind Brings'

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Locations from the village of Crail (2018) - What the Wind Brings

[whatthewindbrings]

My pitch for a children’s cartoon is available upon request! Inquiries to [email protected] What the Wind Brings - "Emily and June don't fit in, even in a fairy tale town where retired gods and talking animals are welcomed. Will they find their own way over the cracks and weeds in their path?"

[whatthewindbrings]

Hope you're doing okay. I've missed your posts!

Awww, thanks for asking! I’m working on a cartoon pilot for What the Wind Brings, and I can’t share that material publicly yet.

That said, I am so grateful to you for following and sharing my work. It has really kept me motivated, and it still does!

If you’d like to hit me up with a name and an occupation, I’d be happy to make a one-off poem and drawing for you.

Also, when the pitch is finished if you like, you can help me prepare by previewing it.

Anyways, thanks again internet friend! Hope you’re well too.

[theamazingsallyhogan]

Wow, really hope your pitch goes well (it certainly should, your stuff is great)!  Would certainly love to help in an way possible.  The name/occupation offer is very generous… would “Kate” and “Math Teacher” work for you? 

Keep well and good luck!

[whatthewindbrings]

Kate

The power of numbers Has held sway over Kate, Since she worked out the width Of the world at age eight. They helped her cross canyons, And grow gardens in the air, And Kate liked to count the Birds that made their nests there. Their wings were perfection To Kate’s eager sight. And so, she set out to Find the formula of flight. But Kate had grown old, and though the numbers were true. She couldn’t build the wings. Her strength was all through. So Kate returned to the town, But she never did cry. She teaches kids to count, So one day they can fly.

[whatthewindbrings]

Hope you're doing okay. I've missed your posts!

Awww, thanks for asking! I'm working on a cartoon pilot for What the Wind Brings, and I can't share that material publicly yet.That said, I am so grateful to you for following and sharing my work. It has really kept me motivated, and it still does! If you'd like to hit me up with a name and an occupation, I'd be happy to make a one-off poem and drawing for you.Also, when the pitch is finished if you like, you can help me prepare by previewing it.Anyways, thanks again internet friend! Hope you're well too.

[whatthewindbrings]

I’ve been working on a more complex painting that will take a little more than a week. Thanks so much for following! Here’s the first sketch I did for What the Wind Brings. :)

[whatthewindbrings]

All Covered in Chalk

The players wear a hat, and a long purple gown, and are chased through the streets, to the heart of the town, There to be judged by how many a hand, Has been laid on their gowns before they reach the strand. In the story it's based on, Esme never got caught, So the winner’s decided by how few hand prints she’s got. Every year, it’s the fate of those less agile girls, To be patterned with chalk from their feet to their curls. Then one fateful year, a girl with hair like red fire, Heckled the chasers, and ignited their ire. She ran along rooftops, and down narrow braes, She knew all of the short cuts, and secretive ways, But, catch her they did, and before they let go, Her cloak was all white as the pure driven snow. With chin tilted high, she strode onto the stage, But although she had lost, her face showed no rage. There stood her friend, who'd been slowest for years, She was laughing, and smiling, and wiping at tears. The red-head strode past her, to the end of the line. “I guess that I lost," She said, "And that's fine."

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A Monster A hero will save you from monsters, or trolls With crooked old teeth, or a boil on their nose. There's nothing to fear from pirates or crooks, Or villainous black hats, with their sinister looks. One above all, carries honour and fame, With his sword and his smile, he has won great acclaim. No jail can contain him, nor prison may bar, The slayer of dragons, this freckle-faced star. The scent of the chase fills his finely shaped nose, While he’s keen on the heels of his uglier foes. He tracks them, and hunts them, and runs them to ground, Until their accomplices give them up, and their lairs are all found. Until one fateful day, a young woman cried, "Shame!" "You've got murder, and thievery, and worse to your name!" The man, took aback, said, "Who are you to object, For whom I have risked my life to protect." "No one asked you to!" The young lady said with great heat. The handsome man flushed, and he got to his feet. "I've a mind to punish you, you ingracious brat!" He advanced on the woman, and pulled off his hat. The young woman clenched her fist, "I'm sure that you can. I am half of your height, and you a grown man." "But as long as you live, and as far as you'll go, You'll remember your deeds, and your head will hang low. This curse I lay on you will travel with you, inside, In the loneliest places, and in the dark it will bide. In your final prison, it will be an unbreakable bar. It is the knowledge that truly, a monster you are." His grin, at once fixed, just slid from his face, And the woman ran away to her family's place, And all of the stars above the man turned, As the man sat alone, with the truth he had learned.

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With goods from up river, all lashed to their lumber,  The frog people work, while the city folk slumber. As the oarsfolk keep rocks and the sandbanks at bay, The trademasters tally the trade for the day. The sails are brought out, when the wind starts to blow, The progress is steady, stately, and slow, If the wind isn’t friendly, or the currents aren’t right.  The oarsfolk will paddle from dusk until night.

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Ripples

With a swish of her pen, She puts ships out to sea, She can organise anything, For a nominal fee. Her name carries weight, Like a taught trebuchet, Can cause kingdoms to crumble, From miles away.

In her head, fly the figures, Of a thousand accounts. She stores them all up there, In prodigious amounts. Oh, the power one wields, Who can make numbers their friend. Sending out ripples long after, She has put down her pen.

[whatthewindbrings]

They Cast Her in Copper   They cast her in copper, And hid her away, With plans to unveil her, On her victory day. The day came around, And the plans were all laid. The stalls were set out, And the banners were made. And one little girl, Holding a large fair day biscuit, Glanced around for her bullies, And decided to risk it. She ducked, and she weaved, Through the thickening crowd. The people seemed too big, And their voices too loud There stood the great statue, With a ship on her shoulders, Her teeth gritted with effort, And her muscles like boulders. Just like the real thing, She'll keep the sailors alive. Protect them, and lift them, And make sure that they thrive. The girl looked up at first, then, For the first time in a while, She looked down at her tummy, And broke out in a smile.

[whatthewindbrings]

I had an amazing time last night selling my stuff for What the Wind Brings at Atomicon in Vancouver last night. Sorry there’s no update this week, but instead, let me recommend two other amazing artists.

Rachel Errede a Vancouver based designer also working at Atomic,

and Marla White, an amazing artist and is currently an animator here.

Thank you so much to my followers for encouraging me to keep going with this stuff! Let me know if you’d like a copy of the 8 illustrated poem volume I made for the event, and please do keep following, I’ll be back to it next week. :)

[whatthewindbrings]

The East Wind The wind from the west whips up sand from the bay The tide grabs the boats, and it takes them away. A sough from the south brings you air that is warm, but if it hits the north wind, you're in for a storm. It's the wind from the east that has the most range, It gallops through barley, and makes young people go strange, And if you're not careful, when the wind changes tack, They'll leave with the East Wind, and never come back. And that's the wind too, that brings us the wrecks, With seaweed for rigging, and crabs on their decks. And unspeakable horrors alive in the hold. Their eyes on stalks, and their skin wet and cold.

Sometimes there are people, now nothing but bone, Who all promised their loved ones that they'd come safely home. We bury them on a hill, looking out to the sea, In the hope that they look out on where their homes used to be.

The young in town wonder why the aged ones mutter, When the flags on the rooves take on an easterly flutter. They look to the hill, then hide their faces in their glasses, And hold their children's hands, until the easterly passes.

[whatthewindbrings]

The Dark Water

Wax and grow, spreading, slow, Trickle and wend, around the bend. Gurgle and flow, up we go, To laughter's death and smile's end. Seep, creep, up the wall, Grip the pipe, grasp the gutters, Up to the highest windows tall, To parch the life behind the shutters. Bubble and creep, quick and steep, Ooze and pour, onto the floor, Through the window, in we seep, To the light blue room with the painted door.

[whatthewindbrings]

The Historian’s Apprentice

By the light of the candles, And the smell of the must, I wear out my elbows, Shifting cobwebs and dust. And fetching the ink,  For the Grey Hat to scribe, But for me to be near her, Is enough of a bribe. She babbles and mutters, As she wields her straw broom, As the long candles flicker, Her words fill up the room. She drawls about medicine, And mutters in verse, And her opinions on maths, Come out clear and terse.

When she lectures on love, A tear shines in her eye, But, I'll never have the courage, To ask her just why. When her broom is hung up, And the ink put away, And the last of the chores, Are checked off for the day. She looks at me then, Through rheumy grey eyes, As the last of the sunlight Reflected there dies. And I take her gnarled hand, And I lead her back home, Where she sleeps like a bookmark, In a bed-sized old tome.

[whatthewindbrings]