All posts by Daniel Perron

Winnipeg-based author, photographer, and consultant. Might even be seen playing guitar at local coffee shops.

The Reading Dwarf

Williamstown (17 of 51)

Must be short stories
If a dwarf is reading them
He can’t be grumpy

Maybe he’s making long stories short…

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Don’t Believe Your Eyes

Riverside Morning
Early morning along the North Raisin River

The sun’s rays bounced off the surface of the river, through the early-morning mist, painting the tree-tops in an olive glow. The morning dew soaked through my sandals (not an unpleasant feeling), cleared some of the cobwebs, and made me thirsty at the same time. When I reached the perfect observation spot only a few feet from the bank, I stopped, and shielded my eyes with my hand, as if I was saluting the river. I strained my ears, trying to discern the lyrical burble of the babbling brook—maybe I should call it a babble instead of a burble. I don’t know, I could barely make it out through the ever-present symphony, courtesy of the cicadas trapped inside my head, amplified by the remnants of last night’s drinks and cigars. Maybe they hadn’t particularly appreciated lying on the grass, staring skyward at the millions of twinkling dots made even more brilliant by the almost-absolute darkness of the “campagne,” for what turned out to be almost an hour. Well, I don’t care. I know I enjoyed every minute.

I heard the bullfrog’s song: its rubbery hollow vibrato that reminded me of my youth, and of the shoebox guitars we made with rubber bands. Only three or four beats of the amphibian mouth organ, not the usual “rrribbbittt” but more of a “vvvrrroooottt” if that makes any sense, or “mooootttt.” Then I heard the beaver slam its tail in a loud and deep “kasploooosh” to let me know I had invaded his personal space—sorry. I could imagine the top of its head, more than I could see it, at the leading edge of the arrow of water and trailing ripples, only signs of its presence.

My head cleared just like the fog lifted from the river and disappeared, carried away by an oh-so-soft breeze from the east. I stood still long enough to discern the sound of the downstream rapids. Not the kind of rapids you shoot in a canoe or a kayak, only a bunch of rocks that the low water level revealed around the bend. The water tickled the half-submerged rocks, creating an enchanting pianissimo symphony reminiscent of percussion instruments—mostly high-pitched glockenspiels, sopranos xylophones, tubular bells, claves, and wind chimes—echoing between the tall oaks on either side.

The entire scenery hypnotized me and lulled my senses into total forgetfulness; I forgot I was me, there (here, really), with all my baggage, my experiences, my confusions. For a moment, I became part of the landscape, melted into the scenery… Unable to focus, a retinal overload (if such a term exists. If not, well I just invented it). I closed my eyes. I blinked and saw the trees parade in front of me, their leaves fluttering, their limbs swaying. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifting down from the veranda pulled me from my reverie. What a way to begin the day…

Strung Up

DSC_8138

Inseparable hopeful desperadoes
Because together we make music
Always glad for one more song
Never tired just to play along
Exhausting the same worn-out lick
Zigzagged in reverberating echoes

Accomplice, you urge me on
Romanticizing the thrill of the stage
Trusted companion through major chords and minor keys
Carried along too many hopeless ballads and country ditties
Occasionally transcending the notes and the melodies
Revealing more than what’s on the page
Exposing the musician’s obsession

 

What’s Up With That?

DSC_7827 (1)

New Battlefield Sensor Technology”  —  An unnamed official from an unnamed country reported that another unnamed country led by an unnamed dictator has been using new battlefield sensor technology, pictured above (obtained from an unnamed photographer), to eavesdrop on communications and to collect electronic information—to spy, really—on citizens of countries around the world. It would appear their main interest lies in consumer shopping patterns, online gambling habits, and the brand of coffee they drink.

We are investigating…

Upon further investigation, it would appear the official photographer may have gotten too close to the hibiscus and triggered the shutter accidentally as he tripped on his shoelace, which had come undone while he ran to catch a better shot.

Version 2

Foxglove and Tiny Fish

Flowers_Jul17 (47 of 96)
The foxglove and the poem (story) are total strangers.

Early rays
Piercing through morning haze
Bouncing skyward
Off the blue liquid mirror

Lost in thought
Pulled from my reverie
Mirage or trickery

Like a gentle shower
Hundreds of tiny circles
Perturbing the water

Here one second
Gone in a flash
There with a dash

Breakfast for tiny pike
Watching, eager to strike
Tiny wings and legs above
All it took was one bite
——-
I really liked the foxglove

p.s. If you’re still reading at this point, you probably wonder what the foxglove has to do with the story. Well, nothing really.
I never took a photo of the lake… I wish I had my camera with me, alas I didn’t.
But I had a photo of a foxglove. That’s it.

Unforgettable

Flowers_Jul17 (58 of 96)

Hot sunny days
Gave way to moist windless nights
Millions of minuscule droplets
Condensing on her skin
For the lucky to admire
In the soft early-dawn light
Tiny goosebumps like shimmering gems

The gentle morning breeze
Had dried some petals already
Creating silky duvet-covered pastel-coloured petals
Reminiscent of the fine hair on the nape of your neck
Your intoxicating perfume
Made me giddy
How to take it with me
Steal it until the end of time
Inhaling endlessly
A futile effort; my lungs filled
Sniffing repeatedly only made me light-headed

One last breath
Reaching the depths of my body
One more look
Imprinting every inch of my soul
I fear your colours
Will have long faded
And your petals floated to the ground
When I return
Alas too late to see you again
Unforgettable…