An In-depth Look At Cliches in Poetry- By Liam Acornley, Kim Wildish and Katy Garnham

Cliché: To me, Cliché is the act of using a term, or saying or idea that is overused in consumable text or media.  Anton C. Zijderveld, a Dutch sociologist, defines clichés in his treatise “On Clichés” as: A cliché is a traditional form of human expression (in words, thoughts, emotions, gestures, acts) which–due to repetitive use in social life–has lost its original, often ingenious heuristic power. Although it thus fails positively to contribute meaning to social interactions and communication, it does function socially, since it manages to stimulate behaviour (cognition, emotion, volition, action), while it avoids reflection on meanings. 

When writing, it is generally thought of as a good idea to avoid clichés, to prevent things from becoming predictable or mundane, however, unlike a grand omnibus of tales such as Lord of the Rings, poetry is less a service to the reader, and more an expression of ones latent emotions, making the act of using a cliché much more acceptable. However this isn’t to say there is no such thing as cliché in poetry, the opposite really.

One of the most read and reimagined lines of poetry of all time is found within ‘Gammer Gorton's Garland’, a 1784 collection of English nursery rhymes, where we can find the lines “Roses are red, violets are blue, the honey’s sweet, and so are you.” Numerous satirical versions have long circulated in poetic lore, and before long the overuse of these lines created a very well-known cliché.

The segment is copied in thousands of examples and formats from serious renditions, to satirical versions such as Benny Hill’s “Roses are reddish, Violets are bluish, If it weren't for Christmas, We'd all be Jewish.” The lines of poetry gained so much traction and became so well used that other forms of media soon followed, “Roses are Red” is a American film-noir made in 1947 and “Violets are Blue” is an American romance film from 1986, clearly referencing the cliché that is the original lines from poetry. 

The use of cliché can either make or break a piece of writing. Sometimes the use of cliché can work and we would read and continue on our journey, however in some instances the use of cliché can make us pause and rethink, because people can often have a different interpretation as opposed to that of another person. What you might read into a line, when asking another person what they thought of the matter, you might get an entirely different response. Sometimes the difference in interpretation can come down to where you’re from (country of origin, etc.) which is usually why avoiding a cliché could prove useful in your writing. Avoiding a cliché gives way for you to expand and write out what you’re intending to say, instead of leaving it down to the reader’s interpretation, which could end up being the exact opposite of what you’re trying to say. However, occasionally it can be important to use a cliché in your writing.

Clichés have always been a way of expressing something that was once new, as an example; “It’s raining cats and dogs.” The expression was formed as a way of explaining bizarre weather and has continued to be in use for quite a long time. We’ve come to rely on this as a cliché, as it’s one that everybody recognises for having that singular meaning. Typically, I would usually refrain from using obscure clichés with multiple interpretations or ones that could only be understood by a niche audience. But I do understand the use of vague clichés and their use to use as writers. Sometimes the point and joy of writing is for the reader to come up with their own interpretations of your work, even if it’s nothing close to what you originally had in mind.

Clichés come in all forms, be it story arcs that have been recycled from the oldest literature we have, pop songs using the same four chords and lyrics, plays that have the same “shocking” twist that can be predicted before you found your seat or tv tropes that are unfortunately clichés. “Bury your gays” trope, looking at you here. Even your favourite fairy-tale follows a formula that breeds clichés:(A princess as a damsel) + (a circumstance for distress) + (a charming prince to save the day)= A Classic Original Fairy-tale ™.But in poetry, a more intricate literary art form- where do we find clichés? Well, it’s not surprising that the same phrases of description, metaphors and similes get re-used.

The reasons why we reuse the same phrases are obvious- we have the same feeling and meaning when writing the poem, so it only seems natural to use the words that first come to thought. Cliché phrases in poetry, although repeated to the point the emotion is lost, do originate from an emotion conveyed by words. It only makes sense someone feeling the same thing reuses the phrase (either on purpose or by accident) because they feel it too.

Who uses clichés? Inexperienced writers? No- everyone uses clichés. Even professional writers. Writers who perhaps need more practice don’t usually stray from the cliché they used. More experienced writers utilise a cliché by calling upon the emotion they convey and the words used in the beginning of a cliché. Then find their own more unique way to phrase and convey the emotion. Sometimes they don’t, there’s little wrong with using a good cliché in the right way so that it still has power. Sometimes it’s used for irony. So what’s a cliché in poetry? A cliché in poetry can be found in recycled metaphors and similes that describe something or someone in the same vast and expansive way that holds no ground for the reader to relate.

Examples sourced from http://literarydevices.net/cliche/:

Common Cliché Delete repeated word

Example #1
In describing time, the following expressions have turned into cliché: in the nick of time – to happen just in time. Only time will tell – to become clear over time. A matter of time – to happen sooner or later. At the speed of light – to do something very quickly. Lasted an eternity – to last for a very long time. Lost track of time – to stop paying attention to time

Example #2
In describing people, these expressions have turned into cliché: as brave as a lion – a cliché to describe a very brave personas clever as a fox – a cliché to describe a very clever personas old as the hills – a cliché to describe an old persona diamond in the rough – a cliché to describe someone with a brilliant future. Fit as a fiddle – a cliché to describe a person in a good shapes meek as a lamb – a cliché to describe a person who is too weak and humble 

Example #3
In describing various sentiments, a number of expressions have turned into cliché e.g. frightened to death – to be too frightened. Scared out of one’s wits – to be too frightened. All is fair in love and war – to go to any extent to claim somebody’s love. All is well that ends well – a happy ending reduces the severity of problems that come in the way. Every cloud has a silver lining – problems also have something good in them. The writing on the wall – something clear and already understood. Time heals all wounds – pain and miseries get will with the passage of time. haste makes waste – people make mistakes in a rush

Example #4
Below is a list of some more common clichés:
They all lived happily ever after.
Read between the lines
Fall head over heels
Waking up on the wrong side of the bed
The quiet before the storm
Between the devil and the deep blue sea

Katie Thomas Year 1: The Smoke

First time I've ever actually finished a poem so here goes:

The Smoke

There is a city that never sleeps,
But I know of one that does.

The darkness and bleak of a shadowed town.
Quiet and still as the trees dream.

The motionless monstrosities
Painted blacker than death;

Finally at peace from the day,
Yet another lies ahead.

There is a place called the City of Light,
But I've seen them only at dusk.

I gaze down at them, at you, while you sleep;
So tranquil, content, at peace.

You'll never know what beauty I endure.
What magic you find at night.

We all know the City of Angels,
But my one if far from that.

The city I look at from dusk till dawn
Is unique in itself, alone.

An old English town, beloved by many.
Most commonly know as The Smoke.

Seldom Scene - By Adam Archer - Year 1

Light penetrated the stained, yellow blinds in bars, as those same heaven rays pierced the clouds outside, staining them an equal, yet more pleasant shade of yellow. He set to work in physical ambience, sweeping through those rays, his dusting cloth and hand gliding atop each surface in that old, particle infested room. Each particle glowed and fluttered as it fell to molasses tinted furniture, before being quickly swept up. The varnished oak that littered the room held the scent of tobacco, spirits, must and firewood; a scent that was disturbed, and proceeded to fill the room with each fluid removal of dust. With every step the man took; the green, patterned rug kicked up more dust, filling the room and causing him to hack as he continued his work, eventually releasing all its contents within the room.  With cloth in hand and a newly found rattle to his young lungs, he continued to work, eliminating every speck of dust in that forgotten space.

   His cloth and hand moved on once more, and with his newly found whoop and a final sweep of the room complete, a door creaked to its close, and he was gone. Silence purveyed the scene, as the now highly glossed, yet remarkably stained furniture remained still and embalmed, now only watched by the portraits hung jauntily on the damp, printed walls; their eyelids constantly unfurled.  As sun set and moon rose, the scene fell under low, iridescent blue, and slept. The eyes of the wall based guards remained in a position of vigil, sleepless and stinging. They never questioned the position of the sun. They were the stand man took against a system that is universal and endemic. Yet, without care, even they would fade.

   As time allowed space to move in parallel, yellow light flooded into the room once more, once again capturing the particles that littered the stale air. Day after day this ritual would take place. Sun rose and light flooded, only to be drained and replaced with an effortless moonlight that highlighted everything and allowed it to glow. With each day, a new layer of dust would fall to the furnished surfaces. Each particle dancing and jostling to find a place in the soft carpet that its kind had created. Each day, the air had forgotten more of its passengers, as the old, embalmed oak gained more insulation for the winters that could no longer reach it. Each day, the room fell from memory, one particle at a time…

   As tradition entailed, light visited that room for another day. It poured atop each set of oaken drawers, and positioned itself between the decorative table-wear that had found its resting place on the dresser. It lay atop the unmade bed, and set the dust that rested on the bed-end aglow, as a door slowly groaned, and a man entered. Fresh air breathed its way around the room as the dust families that lay in carpets shot up, and began to flutter and dance once more.

   The man slowly moved towards the bed, surveying his task as he made his way to sit. His knees cracked as he rested at the head of the bed, adjacent to where his pillow once sat. He turned his head to face the bed, staring through age worn eyes, yellowed and lost. His gaunt hand fell to the spot on the other side of where his pillow once lay and caressed the fabric lightly, sending another small amount of dust into the air around him, causing him to whoop, as his yellowed eyes became a deeper shade of red.  

   With wavering breath, abruptly and without notice, the man swept at his eyes, stood with a readied, yet slightly jaunty position, turned to face the molasses tinted furniture, and began his work.

Thief In The Sky - Harry G Clark - Year 1

When I thought of the sky,
it was like dreaming of a jewel,
A blue sapphire by day, obsidian by night
and I was the thief,
yearning for these precious and impure stones

When I thought of a plane
it was like the musings of a bird,
the gift of flight and liberation of speed,
I was only human,
though that didn't define me

When I thought of war
it was like a glorious duty,
bound in uniform, marching for honour,
we were only flesh and bone,
like proud lambs to slaughter

Now I'm feeling death,
the cold creeping in,
my crimson fuel seeping out,
I was just a lamb, come to die,
The daring thief and patron of the sky.

The Witch Next Door by Kevin Kissane // Year 2

The Witch Next Door

It was a dry summer. All that was once green, turned gold in the harsh sun. Trees bowed like slumped shoulders, and all the bird song was quiet. All that broke the stillness was the chirp of the cicada, clicking like castanets. The homes were dry. Inside the clay hovel of a newlywed couple, the air was stale like a brick oven. Dust motes leapt up in little puffs every time a step landed. Every window and door was propped open, but no wind blew. Onion braids and drying wheat hung stilly from the ceiling. A basin of water sat on the counter, grey from reuse, and meat cured on the window sill, as flies crawled on the red membrane, tonguing the little puddles of blood.

The people too were dry. The pregnant wife lay naked in an undressed bed, the husband fanning her swollen breasts with an open bible, the only book in the house. They hated to light a fire and add to the heat, but because nothing grew in the coarse soil, meat was all they had, and fire their only choice. The husband sparked a flame and prepared a small stew of pigeon and onion. The bird, having fallen from exhaustion, was found dead at the front door. The husband spooned the brown liquid into his bride’s mouth, but her jaw hung slack and the broth dribbled down her cavernous cheek.

“No more,” gasped the wife. “Can’t you find something else husband, something green? Has nothing grown in the garden?”

The husband walked to the window and peered out. “Nothing in our garden.” He looked again. “But by some miracle, Gothel, the hag next door, grows plenty!” The husband gagged on his own breath. “That sly witch.”

“Husband I need those greens. Our baby needs them,” she pleaded.

“You know what she is don’t you? She is a whore of the devil. There is nothing I could bargain for with a creature like that.”

“But you must husband. For our sake, you must.”

The husband peered again across to the garden abundant next door. He swiftly shut the bible still in his hands and laid it upside down on the table.

As night fell on their home, the husband snuck his way over, carefully jumping the wattle fence, stepping gingerly to avoid leaving a trace. In the moonlight, he could see the abundance of Gothel’s garden; Tomatoes plump like an infant’s red rump, cabbages the size of wagon wheels, pumpkins as big as bathing tubs, and rampion, crisp and green. It was the rampion he knew his wife craved most of all, and it was this that he stuffed into his waiting satchel. So eagerly he cut leaf after leaf that he did not notice the witch appear from the shadows behind him.

She grabbed the foolish man and pulled him by his ear all the way home. The door to their home collapsed under Gothel’s force. The wife jumped out of bed and ran to her husband’s aid. The pair pleaded for mercy, but the witch demanded remuneration for the theft of her precious rampion.

“I see you are with child,” spoke the witch. “It is no secret I am past the days when I could bear my own. You will birth this child and when it arrives you will bring it to me.”

“No you mustn’t,” shouted the expecting mother.

“But that is the price, or else I will take your lives as my payment,” snapped the witch.

So, the tortured couple relented. In a few weeks’ time the child was born. The babe did not cry when she was brought into the world. Her eyes were dry, and her hair was so like the golden sun which shone above. The witch came without warning and stole the babe away. The parents never saw her again.

Gothel named the girl child Rapunzel. She took her far away to a secluded forest glen. Brick by brick the witch built them a new home, and in the meantime, the infant Rapunzel suckled from a goat, for even the witch was dry. A tower soon grew up from the ground, a skyward fallacy. Rapunzel would grow up high above the rest of the world where none could ever steal her away from the covetous witch.

In the tower, there was not much to fill little Rapunzel’s time. She often looked out the window and let the wind catch her yellow hair. She cared for the hair often which she determined never to cut. Most of her days from then on were spent brushing out the long strands, or singing from the balcony. The hair grew longer with each passing year, her voice became clearer, and Rapunzel grew ever more beautiful.

By the age of thirteen Rapunzel’s hair had grown so long that when she let it run wild out the high window, the ends swept about the ground at the base of the tower. Mother Gothel took full advantage of this. The doorway which she had used to visit Rapunzel was soon covered up with brick. A large thicket of thorny shrub grew around the base, and ivy climbed to cover the wall. It became so overgrown with briars that the fault in the brick where Gothel had patched the door was no longer visible. It was so discrete that no passer-by would ever suspect.

From then on, when Gothel came to visit, Rapunzel would wrap her hair around the window hook and dangle the rest over the edge. The mother witch would then climb the golden hair as if it were rope, all the while ignoring the gasps of pain which escaped Rapunzel’s mouth. Five years more would pass before Rapunzel would ever have a thought about leaving her tower.

Rapunzel often sat in the window, singing. Bluebirds nested in the cracks in the upper eaves of the tower. Together, Rapunzel and the birds would whistle or warble happy music. It happened that one day a prince was riding nearby when Rapunzel sang from the tower ledge. So moved by the sweet melody, the prince sought out where the sound had come from. When he arrived, he saw Mother Gothel appear before the tower. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel” she cried, “Let down your hair to me.” And the golden locks did fall, and the witch did climb her way up.

The prince watched and waited, and when at last the witch left, he made his own advances on the tower. Standing below, he called out as the witch had done. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel. Let down your hair to me.” And the golden locks did fall, and the prince did climb his way up. When he reached the heights of the tower, Rapunzel gasped. She unhooked her hair and fell back inside the tower. 

“What are you?” cried the young woman.

“Why, I’m a man,” said he.

“What is a man?” asked Rapunzel. Spending her life in a tower, Rapunzel was very ignorant of the ways of the world. The prince explained to her that in some ways men are different than women. He also told her of his home, his kingdom, the childhood he spent by the sea. He told Rapunzel that she was beautiful, and he said that he would like to kiss her if she wanted the same. He taught Rapunzel how to kiss, and before long, hours had passed.

The prince had business with his kingdom and had to leave with haste. Rapunzel let down her hair and the prince climbed back to the world below. Each blew the other a kiss and the young prince rode off for home. In her tower, Rapunzel called the bluebirds to her side. She pulled from her head a lock of golden hair. She wrapped the strands into a braided chain which she tied to the leg of a bird. She released the companion, and it flew to the Prince’s side. The prince accepted this token with gratitude and kept the chain as a bracelet around his wrist.

The prince returned to the tower many times, and Rapunzel gave him many kisses, but soon the visits would not be enough to satisfy the young lovers. “Come away with me,” begged the prince. “Leave this tall tower and join me where you can be queen and I king. I shall steal you away from this witch, and you shall be my ward to keep.” Rapunzel had never felt so cared for, and she wept.

“I will go,” said Rapunzel. “Return tonight after Mother Gothel leaves. Then I will join you in your kingdom, and at last I will know the world as others know it.”

So, the prince left once again, leaving Rapunzel alone to collect her thoughts. The prince rode a short distance into the woods to wait. He sat by a stream and fondled the yellow strands which clung to his wrist. He became lost in day dream and hummed Rapunzel’s song. It was then that Gothel happened to be passing by. Hearing Rapunzel’s song she became worried and found the prince laying in waiting. She caught the golden glint of twilight reflecting off the hairs, and knew in an instant he had been to see her precious Rapunzel.

Enraged, the witch took off at once for the tower. Rapunzel let down her hair and the witch climbed. “Hello Rapunzel,” the witch feigned ignorance.

“Hello mother dear,” cooed Rapunzel.

“Wretched girl. Speaking to me as if you were innocent. I have seen him Rapunzel. That prince has had you hasn’t he? I’ve seen him skulking below our tower. How many times has he laid with you here in our own home?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rapunzel did not know of such things.

“You wouldn’t would you? You stupid, ignorant girl. I have done all I could to protect you, but I see you are an ungrateful child. Now I will put you where no one will find you again.” Mother Gothel took a pair of iron scissors from within her blouse and cut Rapunzel’s hair below the ears. Taking Rapunzel by the arm, she pulled her down the stairs, which were long out of use, and knocked down the brick wall from within. Muffling Rapunzel’s screams, Gothel dragged the girl off into the night, abandoning her to the wilds.

Much later that evening, the prince came calling at the tower. As usual, long golden hair fell from above, and the prince made his way up without difficulty. He threw his legs up over the tower bannister and entered the darkened room.

“Rapunzel,” he called, and a pair of soft lips met his own. A tongue slid along his gums, and a sharp bite drew blood. The prince pulled back in surprise. It was mother Gothel who wore Rapunzel’s cut hair like a wig.

“Hello, my prince,” said Gothel. “Are you surprised? Is it because I am not who you thought I was or that you are surprised you enjoyed it?” The prince scoffed. “Rapunzel isn’t here as you can see, but I am. Why don’t you love me instead? I shall wear Rapunzel’s golden hair on my head and you will scarcely know the difference. Look at me prince.” Then Gothel undid the ties of her corset and her breasts slipped loose. Two orange nipples stared at the prince, and a third mark, brown and hideous, sat on her left shoulder, the mark of the witch.

“Hag,” shouted the prince. “I would never love you. You are ugly in face and heart. I would sooner die than spend a lifetime looking upon such a foul creature as you.”

“Well my prince, you will never have to look upon me again, nor anything ever again.” And the witch pushed the prince from the tower. He hurtled towards the ground, colliding with the briar below. Sharp thorns tore at the prince’s eyes, blinding him.

For a year, the prince wandered. With no clues to guide him or eyes with which to see, he sought Rapunzel. Then at last he came to a swamp filled with black vipers and snapping crocodiles. At its centre Rapunzel lay like a babe and wept.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” called the prince, and she heard him.

“My prince,” Rapunzel called back. She stood and pushed her way through the muck, casting fear aside. She took the blind prince in her arms and cried over him. The tears on her cheeks rolled like dew on a coiled rose and slipped into the prince’s eyes. Blinking, the prince opened his eyes to the light once again. He could see Rapunzel before him, and he held her closely.

The couple set forth at once back to the prince’s kingdom. Rapunzel was married to the prince and he taught her many things about the way of the world, and the way of the body. During the day, her husband rode off on hunts, or met with his generals to discuss plans of war. At night, he sat by the fireplace and stared blankly into the trembling flame. Now that he was king, he was more aware of the ways of the world himself, and for this he suffered. Rapunzel’s duties kept her busy in the palace. Although the witch never showed her face again, and her garden stood abandoned, it was decreed that for her protection, the king’s guards were to keep to Rapunzel’s side always. She bore a daughter of her own and raised her as best as she could, and as the girl grew she asked her mother if she was happy to live here in the castle. This Rapunzel spoke, “I was so eager to leave my old life, but it seems that all I have done is replace a brick tower for an ivory one.”

Twins - James Lancaster Year 2

They were nestled behind a gathering of gray rocks, the feathers of their Arrows fluttered in the wind. The breeze sailed over them, and their breath faded into its noise. It was the extension of their hunt, as was the earth and river below them an extension of their bones and blood. All they owned was the energy within themselves, and like any tool they had practiced its use until its expression was seemless.

Downwind, mountains of fur and horn pressed across the horizonless grasslands, massive jaws worked the fields with massive teeth and a battery of stomachs. The taste of this grass was fresh to them, and the ground new to their hooves. Antelope moved beneath them, their steps guided by an informed wariness. They had learned well the way of the buffalo, and the buffalo has always been been a callous teacher. Only recently did they have equally callous pupils.

Striped faces moved in the corners of herd, the wingbeats of the Wakinyan cracked and rolled overhead in the roiling ocean of grey above. They were not surprised to see feathers in the breeze, but they had not yet guessed their wearer. Nor did they intend to to find out. Grazers on the outside of the herd looked up, and their attention turned to the yearlings, who were quickly hurried into the centre of the wall of flesh. They grumbled through their lips as they turned their attention to the rocks upwind of them.

“CHAAAAKKKKKAA KA-KA-KA-KA-KA-KA”. As soon as the call was heard they were upon them. Full face paint and snarling teeth chattered their call as they whipped the buffalo into a frenzy. The herd cracked from stillness into a tornado of stampeding bodies, they had become little more than a mess of brown and grey, their sound was matched only by the flying Wakinyan above. New hunters ran into the fray, seperating the herd as the old and sick revealed their weakness. Runts and injured elderly fresh from the season were lagging behind healthy bulls who ran for safety. As soon as the hunters singled out a target, arrows sailed in its direction, always on one side, for the claim of the kill brought rich rewards.

The swift hunters peppered the beast, after one made its mark upon the neck, the business was done, and the buffalo had moved on from the killing fields. Part of the hunting party continued on to bring more buffalo, while the rest moved to claim their kill.

A great man, who wore long tracks of bone armor, painted in the old style, and a head dress of long Wakinyan feathers. His body a canvas of scars and callouses, written on by many strange and ancient teachers, a work he intended to stay unfinished. He observed the bull, and called to companions. “It was Chichimeca's kill, I saw his arrow make the mark.”

Chichimeca stood just behind his tribesmen, six of them disputed the claim, and yet, not one gave a glance in his direction He was used to this, and did not expect the kill to truly be his, he stood, shaking, unable to believe that the hunt was truly over, or that he had actually been there.

His kinsmen approached the kill, a wide man with a long nose and fierce red and black paint, scoffed at the claim.“You favour your own too strongly Maughkompos, my arrow brought it down.”

Maughkompos took it without protest and replied, “Maybe we will settle this when I dig it out of its neck, flint shall speak for itself Ts'emekwes.”

Maughkompos pulled the arrow from the beasts neck with a quick pull, but the fletching had been visible as soon as the two of them closed in on the body. Ts'emekwes relented and called out to the rest of tribe, “He brings food for us on his first hunt,” Ts'emekwes said with a dry voice, “Perhaps the spirits favour him after all.” He gave the boy a pat on the back and moved on without dwelling, His eyes searched the landscape for the rest of their hunting party, bringing their own kills in from the hunt.

Maughkompos ignored Ts'emekwes' remark. “Come claim your kill boy, the meat must be moved before the earth claims it.”

Chichimeca hardly had words to say, he simply acted. He strolled over to the buffalo, the hunters behind him bore into his back with cold stares. He took no heed, he felt his father would have done the same thing, perhaps he'd killed on his first hunt when he was young? Chichimeca was almost certain that he had. He could have even taken two buffalo.

Chichimeca grabbed the buffalo by the ankles, hoisting it over his shoulder, the lifeless body hit the skins on his back, he was careful to not let the horns dig into the flesh, and carried the body carefully.

Maughkompos went over to him, and faced his boy, who now stood with the future of the tribe on his back. “The spirits have blessed you my son, you will have the best cuts, and sinews for a new bow that will strike death into our prey and our enemies.” He smacked the body of the buffalo and felt its muscles, “This is strong prey, you will have mighty weapons and rope from him.” He turned to the tribe, who gathered around the boy and his beast.

Chichimeca felt a swell of pride within him, almost enough to stop him from replying, “Thank you, father.” The promise of weapons excited him, for the other boys had yet to make their own from a buffalo they'd taken themselves, but as much as he tried to drum his enthusiasm for war, he found it wanting.

“Come, for today we have much to say.” He led the tribe out of the grasslands and into the forest, his head cleared the tops of the trees to watch for danger through the canopy. The other men of the tribe also watched, a healthy paranoia of Witch-Buffalo, Giant Lizards and the Unktehi kept their eyes sharp and their steps swift. They often pressed the taller branches out of their way to get a better view, disturbing the birds that nested there, who flew out into the distance in small clouds of panic.

Chichimeca was not yet tall enough to look over the trees like his father. He still lived in the green world of his childhood, while part of him wished to be strong like his father, and give Ts'emekwes a piece of his mind. The birds and bears that scurried along the forest arrested his attention, he looked for glimpses of Yeitso and Tse'Nalyahe roaming through the streams and coursing over gnarled branches. As a child he had played here, chasing the deer and catching birds that flew overhead. He had no time for such games, for now he walked and hunted with the men.

Ahead of them lay even mightier domains, barely visible through the trunks and branches of the forest, and dominating the sight of the elders. Grandfather-of-the-Trees pressed its roots deep into the soil. They twisted through the forest and surrounded the other trees like snakes that were poised and forever prevented from striking. They made their path around theirs, and the warriors made sure to touch its branches whenever they passed. Chichimeca could only imagine the size of it when the adults could see it, spreading above the forest and into the sky. Green clouds tethered to the earth by brown claws, clutching its splendor all to itself. All below it was new, old in it's own way, but nothing had seen the passage of time in more ways than Grandfather-of-the-Trees. Maughkompos pointed a thick and twisted finger in its direction, “What do you know about this, boy?”

Chichimeca, scrambled for an answer. “It is the oldest tree, here from before the Third world, some even say from the first world that came into being.”

Maughkompos knocked him in the shoulder, “Is that all? Too slow, tell me more, use less words.” He said, motioning for his son to speak.

“It marks passage back to our village, the Wakinyan nest in it's branches, Medicine men make powerful cures from its leaves and fruit.” He replied quickly, careful not to show pain from being hit. The blow had barely touched him, but the buffalo had stuck into his side.

“There we go,” Maughkompos snickered, “More like that, and Ts'emekwes may even let you look in the direction of his daughters.”

Chichimeca replied, with false obliviousness. “I don't know what you mean father.” Hoping to avoid any more comments, even if he knew he wouldn't.

“The whole tribe knows, the Yeitso probably know.” Maughkompos replied darkly, “Perhaps they will come for her in the night to get to you!”

“Very Funny” Chichimeca said dryly. Hoping for the conversation to end.

His father sighed at his sons lack of humour and continued, “Do you know why i've asked you this?”

“No, father.” Chichimeca replied,

“The tree is a part of your path, as is the hunting ground and the buffalo herd, the village and the people.” As Maughkompos spoke, they passed snapped branches, he gave them passing glances, taking them in but paying them little heed. They continued on, and he took a piece of rock from the ground.

“This is a part of our history, of our land, you must learn every rock, every tree, and read it's ways.” Maughkompos threw the rock back into the forest, “When someone disturbs that order, if prey moves through this land. You will know.”

Chichimeca saw gouges in the trees, marks the length of his arms. Ts'emekwes shot Maughkompos a look, and he nodded back to him. Ts'emekwes took point and moved in the direction of the markings. “Others will come, they will try to steer you from your path, you've met the tribes to the east.”

Chichimeca remembered them well, tall and hairy, not quite animal, not quite man. The Kolowa tribe was infamous for cannibalism. Maughkompos had made war on them long ago, a terrible fistfight had broken out between him and their leader Stiyaha, he still had scars from where Stiyaha had bitten him. He said the howl of the Kolowa tribe was like lightning from the Wakinyan birds, and they beat their chests so loudly the Thunderbirds would try to drown them out with their songs. As quickly as that visage had come, he connected it with the strange markings and his attention turned back to the trail.

“Do you think that the Kolowa or Giwaka could be here now?” Chichimeca asked.

Maughkompos waved a hand in dismissal, “Probably an angry Yeitso, or a Wakinyan who's gotten on the wrong side of the Unktehi, it is good however, to be sure.” He delivered that last line with a gravelly coldness that prevented Chichimeca from asking any further questions.

Ts'emekwes appeared from the forest, from the look on his face, Maughkompos knew that they had to follow him, he could feel the fear from his son, though he had taken care to stifle it, in this case, he gave no disparaging look or sneer. “We must talk later, something is very wrong.”

“Should I go back to the village? Look for the rest of the party?” Chichimeca asked. Half hoping for his father to say yes.

“You are no longer a boy, you are a Tatanka Warawalkin, you have carried buffalo for your people, now you will watch.” His father said, and turned instantly to the trail, the scentence and the motion were one.

Chichimeca cursed his own weakness and followed them. The twisted trees echoed with calling birds, but as they followed fewer and fewer calls could be heard, the tribe knew this was a poor sign, predators were in the area, though who, or what they were had yet to be decided. It could still be a Yeitso, but there was always the possibility of foreign hunters on their land, something that they could not tolerate.

“Here Chief!" Ts'emekwes motioned to a clearing, the birds calling in the trees had ceased, and an air of silence fell upon the empty greenery, the wind changed suddenly, and blew the smell in their direction, a pungent burning odor.

The body lay in the center of the clearing, blackened, and peppered with holes. The cavernous skull was held open in a permanent gasp, the armour arching along his back still held some of the flesh, which hung in ribbons on the forest floor. No blood stained the killing field, the only markings were the gouges left by the creatures claws, which had been clipped and taken. All that remained of its glory were its mighty tusks and fangs. The tribe circled it, taking in its wounds and size, it was tall enough at the hip to meet their eyes, the trees barely covered its mass from the skies above.

“They have not gone far,” Maughkompos said, “The kill is fresh, I have seen animals burn like this before.”

Ts'emekwes shouted, “I do not think it burned to death,” He motioned to the holes in the creatures head and neck, “They are not natural, this thing was pierced by something that went through to it's bones.”

“How could someone do that with such small weapons?” Maughkompos asked.

“With great effort” A voice echoed from the trees.

Chichimeca felt something behind him, creeping up his back like the sun bearing down on him, but the sky above was dark and grey with the flying Wakinyan. The tribe looked at him coldly, fear started to creep into him, they grabbed their bows, while some took out their spears. Their faces contorted into visages of war, like masks from the dances he had seen that told of those exploits he had been told of as a child, he knew he was about to be in one of those stories, and he knew that they were not looking at him.

Behind him stood two, tiny people, too small to reach the branches on most trees, but they stood with an eerie stillness, and a warmth emanated from them in waves that pulsated towards them. They wore plain expressions, and wore no paint or tribal colours, they had left no tracks to show here they had come from, and held only a bow in each hand. Standing side by side they smiled at the tribe and the tribe stared back.

Maughkompos regarded them calmly, looking at the carcass and back to the two strange twins. Ts'emekwes moved forward, but Maughkompos stopped him, they were too close to his son, too calm in the face of a larger enemy. “Good friends, who are you?” Maughkompos asked.

“Nayainazgana”, the first replied, and motioned to his brother, as if passing a ball, who answered, “Tobadzaschaina”. They spoke in unison, “We are twins," They said.

Suddenly they appeared beside Ts'emekwes, who started backwards, "We come from the plains a long way from here." They continued, their eyes never leaving Ts'emekwes while he picked himself up from the floor and took his arrows in hand.

"They cross distance in an unnatural way Chief" The wide and powerful warrior said, his arrow shaking as its tip pointed at the tiny twins.

“You are passing through our land,” Maughkompos stated, he raised his spear to the sky and walked towards them, Chichimeca stepped slowly out of the way. “I must ask both of you to leave.”

“We have already left,” They said, “And we have come back, and left again,” Their voices echoed from distant places in the forest, echoing off of trees and from inside of rocks.

“You are funny, and bold for ones so small,” He chuckled, “Tell me? What issue do you have with my people.”

“None,” They said, “What issue does the storm have with the coast? The shaking earth with the pueblo? Or lightning with the forest?”

The tribe readied themselves, the tiny warriors would be easy prey, most of their senses made that apparent. But one, deep in their minds, sounded alarms, alarms they drowned out as the spirit of war came over them. But one Chichimeca and Maughkompos could not ignore.

“You speak of war little ones,” He replied, “Make yourselves ready.”

“No,” They replied, “We speak of the shape of things to come.”

Their bows erupted in a flash of sound and light, blue lightning coursed from their backs on their bowstrings. Little surging flashes, as if frozen in place and time, sat upon their quivers, ready to be plucked and fired at a moments notice. The tribe surged back, but Ts'emekwes for all his disbelief, would not go unrooted, and the others looked to him, their faces switched constantly from warlike to rabbitlike. Their minds filled with thoughts of taunts at home, and the glowing, burning arrows held by the strange twins.

Chichimeca stared at the arrows, and the body in the clearing, words flashed through his mind, “I've seen animals burn before,” His fathers voice echoed, “These are no arrow or spear wounds.” The gruff growls of Ts'emekwes called to him. Both were poised, ready to turn the Twins into smears across the forest floor. Chichimeca tried to call them, he put his arms out in front of his father, who pushed him into the ground as he made for the Twins.

The buffalo dropped towards the ground.

“CHAAAAKKKKAAA KA-KA-KA-KA-KA-KA!” The tribe yelled.

The body crumpled as it made contact with the floor, the tribe's feet pounded and sent streams of dead leaves and soil skyward. Chichimeca smacked onto soft terrain, covering his face with dirt and leaf litter. Maughkompos roared.

The Twins grinned.

They raised their bows, lightning arrows in hand. And their voices, clear as if being spoken, bounded in the chambers of Chichimeca's mind.

“This is the shape of things to come.”