Surf
The solid world fades before the fluid
reality each wave holds in its heart;
Escape with us, they whisper. Leave your truths
upon the sand, to wash away as all
such castles will. Yet I shall build anew.
Build until I once again grow weary.
Stephen Brooke ©2025
this is what surfing means to me and why I have no interest in contests and wave pools and such
Programmatic
It’s certainly uncertain
and probably problematic;
undoubtedly quite doubtful,
statistically meaningless static.
Possibly just impossible,
but the doggedly dogmatic
must insist insistently
progress be programmatic.
Stephen Brooke ©2025
playing with words again
A while back I decided to go the Cory Doctorow route with all my books, i.e. make them available as free ebook downloads. These are all at the Arachis Press site (arachispress.com) alongside the print editions — which, of course, I hope some of you will purchase.
But I lose nothing by giving away the ebooks, most of which are offered in both EPUB and PDF format (or at least one of the two). It may be noted I do not, unlike Doctorow, make these available under a Creative Commons license. They remain thoroughly under copyright.
It matters more to me that they are read than that I make some modest revenue from them. Nor do I particularly wish to pass on part of any profit to Amazon or some other corporation. All my completed short stories, whether or not previously published, may also be read for free at my story archive, https://storiesofstephenbrooke.blogspot.com/
Rambling
This old rambling house
rambles on at odd hours,
conversing with the rain
and wind and ghosts of those
who lived here before me.
It whispers nonsense, I know,
murmured memories
I can not share; yet
I listen, try to pick
out a word, a meaning.
And one of these days
I too shall ramble on,
being none the wiser,
understanding nothing,
my house fading to silence.
Stephen Brooke ©2025
Incidentally, the inspiration for this piece came from a Frank Herbert short story titled 'Old Rambling House.' Mostly just the title.
The novel ‘The Eyes of the Wind’ tells of how the Jewels of the Elements were reunited after centuries of separation, but not how each came to be where it was found. It is to be noted each found its way to a location suited to its nature: the Sky Stone in the mountains, the Fire Stone near a volcano, the Earth Stone in the court of a king, and the Sea Stone in the possession of pirates. How each got there has not been explained.
My current novelette-in-progress remedies that for the Sea Stone. It is the tale of how Tes — later renowned as Qala the Pirate Queen — found it and fought for it, carrying it back to Pirate King of the time. As to where it was before, none can say. Unless, to be sure, I write a story about it.
The novelette is titled ‘Storm Stone.’ I should have it fully polished shortly and may post it somewhere. Or save it for a collection or both! I may write more tales of Tes but there are also many other projects requesting my time.
As for the Fire and Sky Stones, we have not explored their whereabouts through those missing centuries. The Earth Stone, however, had long been held by the rulers of Sharsh as an emblem of their dynasty. But I can’t say how they got hold of it originally.
Ride
The last bike ride of summer
carries me once more into my youth.
Then I had places to go; each stroke
of the pedals carried me toward new destinations.
Now I have only the sun
and the memories I pass along my way.
Stephen Brooke ©2025
As more than a few of my poems, composed in my head as I took my morning ride. The longer they get, the harder it gets to remember them!
This is a passage from Kipling’s KIM, and an example of what I would call ‘dynamic description.’ This, I feel, is far superior to the sort of static description one more commonly reads. It immerses one. I admire the way it is done and have attempted to learn from it, but recognize I have my own style.
The hot and crowded bazars blazed with light as they made their way through the press of all the races in Upper India, and the lama mooned through it like a man in a dream. It was his first experience of a large manufacturing city, and the crowded tram-car with its continually squealing brakes frightened him. Half pushed, half towed, he arrived at the high gate of the Kashmir Serai: that huge open square over against the railway station, surrounded with arched cloisters where the camel and horse caravans put up on their return from Central Asia. Here were all manner of Northern folk, tending tethered ponies and kneeling camels; loading and unloading bales and bundles; drawing water for the evening meal at the creaking well-windlasses; piling grass before the shrieking, wild-eyed stallions; cuffing the surly caravan dogs; paying off camel-drivers; taking on new grooms; swearing, shouting, arguing, and chaffering in the packed square. The cloisters, reached by three or four masonry steps, made a haven of refuge around this turbulent sea. Most of them were rented to traders, as we rent the arches of a viaduct; the space between pillar and pillar being bricked or boarded off into rooms, which were guarded by heavy wooden doors and cumbrous native padlocks. Locked doors showed that the owner was away, and a few rude—sometimes very rude—chalk or paint scratches told where he had gone. Thus: 'Lutuf Ullah is gone to Kurdistan.' Below, in coarse verse: 'O Allah, who sufferest lice to live on the coat of a Kabuli, why hast thou allowed this louse Lutuf to live so long?'
