Letters to Somewhere: September Snow

My Dearest,

The boughs hang heavy laden, brushing the ground in submission by the clumps of snow that cling to them. Like beautiful conquerors, a blanket of death that slowly crushes with masqueraded tranquility. The trees, they didn’t even have time to slumber to endure the relentless descent of winter’s herald. They were still alive, fragile in their hues of green and yellow. And like a merciless entity, winter descended early, unsuspecting. Some would call it cruel, as the hues are engulfed by blankness, and the boughs to finally crack in submission.


But cruelty is merely a word we use in our own masquerade.



The Solitary One – Anhaga


The Mirepytt

That feeling. It was nagging upon Iril’s mind again, the ever-present sense of something

Perhaps it was the lengthy shadows of a fast-falling twilight, or perhaps it was due to how far his path plunged into the Shaeden. The Spirit Groves were long past now, and it had been many hours since the light of a village had flickered through the trees.

The sensation grew, until it caused a babbling within his head. He adjusted his focus, stemming the tide back from becoming a torrent.

Solitary was its presence, a cobbled well in the middle of a small glade. The coalescing nature of vines had long since subdued it. A small family of ferns protruding from the earthen cracks.

Still, a simple well was the cause of this nagging. That was evident, it seemed to flow from this spot. 

“What in Ilothan’s name…” Iril spoke, confused by the nature of its presence. This couldn’t be right. 

“It is a mirepytt,” the young boy’s voice offered in reply to the unspoken question. “A guardian’s well.”

Iril shook his head. No one had ever spoken of these. Was it something new? Like the recent twisting’s across the plains? Did it stem from the sudden crawl of The Deep Shaeden?

“I thought your kind did not have osticai?” The daemon hunter frowned, leaning over the edge of the well. A swirl of murky water, dappling ripples from breezed ferns, that was all he could see.

“Not in the same sense. A solitary Nyhian lives here, guarding something,” the boy responded, he seemed cheerier today.

Iril paused, weighing the thoughts in his mind, muddling through the deeper waters of the babbling.

“Then we shall pay him a visit afterward. We have more pressing business to attend,” the hunter shook his head, and the babbling receded.

He stepped away and continued, off and alone while the young daemon continued chatting away in the back of his mind.


Letters to Somewhere: Part II

Dear Mr. Green,

I rather regret that it has taken me this long to write a letter. I suppose you can understand in the complex, but single word of: anxiety.

After opening Tumblr this morning I found myself becoming, once more, annoyed. I suppose that is the double edge to the blade that is The Internet. If we allow ourselves a little too far, we end up becoming annoyed, or callous, or any other amount of embitterment.

At first, the annoyance was due to someone feeling need to be dismissive in their rudeness, and crass in their assertions on your tumblr. It took a moment, but the annoyance dwindled into a sigh.

Annoyance will never be a companion to open dialogue, and intelligent discourse. An unfortunate symptom that is difficult to bypass, but if people want a discussion we will have to get over inherently selfish tendencies and natures of discomfort.

You see, Mr. Green, I write to you because discouraging words are a hindrance. I realize that the community you and Hank have built is large, and that encouraging words come from many places without and within, places that matter and places that don’t. So I decided to finally chime, though I realize I am in the “without”.

You and Hank set an important example, whether you see yourself as examples or not. As de Saussure would say, the community has decided to attribute the signifier of “example” and made you a signified. Personally, I think that is a good thing. In a digital age where social media drives constant conversation over a chorus of billions, trending millions, of voices it is difficult to have open dialogue at times. You would think open dialogue would be inherent within social media, after all, it is a cross-continental, cross-cultural platform. That is the difficult part though, overcoming the inherent tendencies in humans that inhibit that.

But that doesn’t stop us, or, it shouldn’t really. It’s a learning process, and that is the best part sometimes. Learning. Some of us are going to have to learn to get over our vainness, or discomfort at certain topics.

So please, never stop talking about what matters to you. Sometimes those things matter to a majority of the audience, and sometimes it is words seeping into a niche. That is okay. That is wonderful, even! There is a love for language, and culture, and the nuances of uniqueness in human thought.

At times, The Internet is a scary place to talk openly. I know it scares me. However, thanks to people like you and Hank, otheres can see what it is like to foster a dialogue that welcomes learning, and openness, and inclusion rather than exclusion.

I know this may seem like a lot of “oh just praising”. If it makes you feel better, sometimes I do think you are a bit wrong. Then again, I am too. The point is not to wallow in wrongness, but to aspire in learning.


So thank you for your example, Mr. Green. I am grateful for it.


Yours Sincerely,


Andrea Tuckey

p.s. “The Fault In Our Stars” translates roughly to þá gnyrn inúre rodor in Old English. Rodor meaning “the firmament of fixed stars”.
I felt that was fitting.

Letters to Somewhere: Part I

Dear Lilac Bush,

We seem to get locked into a staring contest at times, don’t we? You, rising over the cusp of the second floor window and swaying under snow or breeze. Me, blankly staring and hoping you will bequeath a measure of inspiration to me. You’ve always been there, curtains drawn or curtains pulled. On days when you are bare, or days where you dress yourself in blooming hues. 

It’s a strange relationship, you and I. Silent in your growing, the most I’ll get is a sway, or perhaps a breath of fresh flower. While I stare at your existence, hoping it will impart something to me. 

We do that, humans. It’s a rather strange habit we have at times. We stare off into the distance, gazing upon unique vistas with a numbered, rotating cast. There’s only so many plants, and so many seasons to stare at. Yet we keep doing it, thinking that somehow you presence will impart a spark upon us.

I’ve had some strange thoughts, the ones that percolate for ages in the back of my mind before coming to fruition in my pass time of staring. Unfortunately, the finale of thought in how you drive this process still has not come to me. 

Perhaps there is a measure to the sudden breeze of fresh flowers.

Your Most Humble Gardener,


A Canvas

My Darling,

I write you a line to tell you that I am doing well. We depart for France on the morrow. From the talk I have been hearing, I expect to be home by Christmas. The war will not last long.

It is empty here.

White walls. A blank canvas.

Bathed in the crisp light from above.

Reflected in the polished floor.

I wonder if they will stop,

at least long enough to read a line.

My Dearest Husband,

I write you a line to tell you that we are doing well. The girls loved the postcards you sent back, and I keep your picture with me. I quite like the mustache, darling, you should keep it. My aunt says it makes you look like a young officer!

I wonder about the brush strokes

How will we portray simple letters

By those who were simply people?

How will we remember you?

As a collective,

Or by the single moments in a letter?

April 9th, 1917

Return to Sender

It was the only letter in the bunch I noticed.

Crumpled at both ends.


I wonder if people will notice it.

Among text panels

and facts

and the mechanized designs that tore landscapes apart.

In country and in memory.

I wonder if we notice the simple nuances

In that which we simply call History.

Overcoming History Barriers



Possibly the most heartbreaking factors of The Great War is the Living History Barrier that we now must cope with. The living resources that were once available to us, the real people who witnessed much of it, have been lost to the course of time.

History too easily becomes a subject to textbooks and scholars and multiple choice questions when we lose these people. We tend to forget. It is rather easy to do so.

So I am grateful that there are those who create content so people of younger generations may enjoy. May learn from, and may feel engaged when partaking in them. Video games are not just about first person shooters, and the short sighted approach that is often abused. There are moments when, just like a good book or movie, they make us laugh and cry and think.

These are the moments in which we take a long breath. The moment where we realize that the world is much larger than us, and yet it is shaped by the men and women just like us.

We are not so different than the history we immortalize.


There is a silence

between the gaps

A place my father warned me of once

A place we fill with thoughts of money, of appointments, of to-do lists

2:15 Doctor’s Office

It is a fatality of becoming an adult

A symptom of adulthood, of becoming mature

So they say

The trill of email notifications

                                             The honking of late horns

The supermarket checkout line

                                                                   I forgot the tomatoes…

                                                                    Was trying to remember if I paid the phone bill…

My father told my once

When life was still full of hues and lights and sound

To never let the gaps consume

That was the beauty of life

The balance of short gaps with long breaths

Sometimes the gaps consume

Other times they are just hiccups

But I try and remember the places

The places my father told me I was blessed with

Where hue and light and sound still live

And breath

And wait for me…

On days like these

When the lilacs are in bloom

And the air smells sweetly of summer

I take a deep breath

And my mind is full

Of that place

Of In Between

And Make Believe

I said I would come back

I always do