Frank Wayne

Frank Wayne

The Cumberland Tales

The Cumberland Tales

The Cumberland Tales

Mythmoulder Publishing

Beaufort Mountains' Voiced Winds


Beaufort winds,

highs and lows

climbs green firs

follows falls.


Fictive winds,

seeks and finds

stories told

those declined.


Veering winds,

illumes all

tumbling down

never palls.


They spin and turn,

pivot, hook,

into crannies,

into nooks.


Glancing off,

from one to one,

adieu, they leave,

as they had come.


SamYik was the last Chinese gardener.

He awoke clear headed and focused on straightening out his old legs as he stared at the brass nightingale perched on the spirit lamp. It sparkled in the shaft of sunlight that seeped through the slit in the curtains. The rest of the room was dark. The sparks of light off the brass nightingale illuminated the set of opium tools: the pipe stand with five bowls, the pair of yen-hok needles needed to manipulate the opium over the flame, the scraper for cleaning the pipe bowl, the sponge for cleaning the tray, the scissors for trimming the wick, the set of scales for measuring out the opium, and the doll house dresser that held the paktong oil and gave the tray the feeling of a miniature room. It was a cozy spot to curl up in. Each small implement had its own resting place, but the nightingale lorded over all. It was the only room in the world where Sam Yik felt safe.