A Tale of Apples

•October 1, 2016 • Leave a Comment


*Image found HERE


A Tale of Apples

You know the truth, sugar;
the spring of me
is nothing but bleeding skies,
syrup over wounded layovers.

To put it simply
it is a thin circle
with a red wildheart in.

Your father is sleeping,
Eve, you and me.
Date. Now.
Under the apple tree.

All will worship.
All will beg.
Tooth and claw.
Tooth and claw.
(it is how apple trees are born)

My acquaintance says
love is an oratorio
of noise and silence
in a theater of cashmere,
fleeing from Autumn.
I reply love is disagreeing
and sharing apple pie.

The willow is yawning
under the setting sun,
I pay 2 euros and 33 cents
to watch your puckered lips
bite into October.

You idiots, the jewels are for chewing!
Emerald, ruby, pyrite, opal.
Hanging like tears.
You idiots, the jewels are for chewing!

And when you are most alive,
we will lay you down on a silver casket,
we will smother you with souvenirs
made of lights and shadows,
paint you as you’re heaving,
commemorate your death.

Valley, take heed,
the cider is heavy
with too much innocent dreams.
A rivulet goes through cheap cotton,
my blouse soaked, my touch fermenting,
my body pinned to the grass
by the weight of my grandmother’s life
that I have yet to live.

Have you seen her suck
the marrow of a Calville blanc d’hiver
that’s how I wanna hurt!

The lovers are many,
your skin is few.
Names and glue.
Names and glue.

I will eat you,
I will leave your mother
bereft of an orchard.
I will love.

I like to believe that
all that is good of me
will be diced and stirred
in caramel,
seasoned with cinnamon.
That my boneless house is marmalade
and it sticks
to the smiles of the children,
as everything atones
to either lust or rest.
I will wait too long.

*Written for a prompt at dVerse, hosted by Björn. I think I missed the point, but I am grateful for the inspiration and am looking forward to reading other entries which hit the mark better. I find it hard to distance myself from abstractions and allusions when writing, hence why this prompt was very challenging for me.


•September 22, 2016 • 42 Comments

In the past two months, I have to admit I was not writing much. I have too many writing projects that all desire to be written at the same time. This chaotic interlude of ideas however did inspire me in another way and during July, August and now September, I have been working a lot on creating artworks. This urge has been sitting inside me pushed out of the schedule for way too long and now it came to occupy me for what I hope will be a long while🙂

I got inspired to share this piece by the Photography Prompt at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie (This is what I mean when I say their prompts are very inspirational and enjoyable. This same prompt already inspired me to finish my latest poem!) Besides the inspiration, I also felt a tingle of synchronicity, of how the theme of my artwork and the photograph chosen for the prompt could complement each other so well.

I think I bored everyone enough, so without further ado, here it is:



Mixed media / September 2016

This artwork, and others that I will share, whether I make them fully digital or however (except pure photography) will from now on be found in a new category on my blog called “Dribbling Nightshades”

Do let me know what you think, what does the artwork remind you of, what does it wake inside of you?

Have a wonderful day, and, Welcome to Autumn!


•September 20, 2016 • 12 Comments


– illdispose.deviantart.com


Everything did everything,
I praised the outing of a lip, the clatter of teeth
plots with the eyes,
schemes with the sockets wet and drowning.
The mind is nothing, my heart knows what it wants,
it borrows the river;
it runs low, slow, stretches through murk and reeds,
corrupted, like a stein in a pretty valley,
an ill-begotten renegade vein straining
like iron through porcelain,
it borrows my body, it borrows wholeness,
the children of my children’s children wear it,
I am black cataracts in green painted plastic,
a fevered ancient with each passing second
towards distant futures, a contrast
of legs preserved in dirty emerald and nanocytes,
jerking the tomorrow’s self.
Do everything, heart, now
while the sea finds it’s way through your bones.
Everything is nothing. Everything is borrowed.

Listen for the ease of sorrow beckoning remembrance,
like a knave falling for homeland,
like a sinner lowering knees for forgiveness,
a drizzle of echoes that never abstain,
no guilt for the fuel, no guilt for its red,
I refrain from nothing, my thoughts are borrowed
from the dreams of dead I’ve never even seen,
my heart wants what it wants;
bluebirds tidying about their nests, to be like oysters,
like a fire set to kerosene
where the hills are treacherous, the seas are adulteresses,
slaves for pantomime between guts and spleens.
I inject the bleeding horizon, distress it, undress it, for a death bed,
my heart wants what it knows it wants;
a lullaby of factory smoke spoken softly,
it borrows myself, it borrows a messiah
and weds me to the body of the world,
a body of words,
teaches everything to barter for a salve,
a pinch of whiteness that could mend all broken halves,
their weight in water, their everything disdain.
I do anything with my heart,
it knows what it wants:
the all of nights where the fireflies dance
to be pushed to the stomach;
a journey of a swarm of moths around a rusted lantern;
the gulp of inanimate objects choking on circles and squares.
Do everything, heart. Breathe. Clatter your teeth. Drink from the tongue.
Entombed in the body. Unleash.
I am nothing. I am borrowed.
All the pain is borrowed from everything I love.

*Written for the Photo prompt at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

Legends of Windemere: Charms of the Feykin is Live!‏

•September 18, 2016 • 5 Comments

Return to Windemere in Charms of the Feykin!

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

To make a champion fall, one must wound their very soul.

Nyx is leading the charge to rescue Delvin and Sari, who have gone missing in the southern jungles of Windemere. Battling through the local predators, the champions are surprised when they reunite in the Feykin city of Rhundar. Instead of captives, the missing heroes have become the city’s rulers and are on the verge of starting a war with those that want to exterminate their new followers. Even with such a noble cause, Delvin and Sari have changed into brutal warlords that may kill each other and their friends long before they step onto the battlefield.

Have Delvin and Sari really changed for the worst or is there a greater threat pulling the champions’ strings?

Grab it on Amazon!

Add it to your Goodreads ‘To Read’ List!

Excerpt: Broken Bonds

Sari draws two daggers and sprints at Luke, slashing at his sabers in an attempt to cut his hands as he unsheathes his weapons. Instead, the forest tracker unclips the scabbards from his belt and spreads his arms to avoid the gypsy’s attack. The swords still sheathed, he does his best to deflect his former friend’s strikes while harmlessly smacking her in the sides. When a dagger slices his arm, Luke kicks out to knock Sari back. A hint of a grin on her face causes him to slow his attack, his foot aching as it bounces off her immovable body. Knowing he has to trick her, the half-elf runs backwards to get the gypsy to charge. Before she falls behind, the warrior lets her gradually catch up while remaining out of slashing range. Once Luke reaches the riverbank, he lunges forward and aims a swing at the sprinting woman’s knee. Forced to decide between taking a blow that would surely break bone or risk a similar injury by turning her power on while running, Sari tries to twist out of the way. She lands on her back at the forest tracker’s feet and curses when he pins her arms by jamming his sabers against her wrists.

Before Luke can tell the gypsy to stop struggling, an arm of water bursts from the river and bats him away. Phelan leaps out of the rapids and sprints at the prone warrior, his daggers lengthened by keenly edged liquid. The weapons sink into the muddy earth when their target rolls away, the ringing of drawn steel revealing that the champion is no longer restraining himself. With a flurry of stabs and slashes, the half-elf drives his new opponent back and whittles away at the watery daggers. Trying not to kill the Feykin, Luke delivers an echoing hilt punch to Phelan’s head every time the other warrior attempts a counterattack. Faced with the full speed and skill of the agile forest tracker, the outclassed hunter has various watery weapons fly out of the river. None of them hit the champion, who remains close enough to continue his barrage of muscle-rattling strikes.

Ducking to the side, Luke slashes at the other man’s exposed flank in what he hopes will be a crippling, but non-lethal, blow. The saber clangs off a patch of icy armor and a freezing tremor makes the half-elf’s arm go numb. A searing pain erupts from his lower back and he whirls around, the motion preventing Sari’s dagger from doing more than a long cut across his side. His first saber swings an inch over her head, but his second weapon leaves a gash up the middle of her chin. Enraged by the pain, the gypsy moves out of Luke’s reach and summons a massive hammer of water. She freezes the forest tracker’s feet to the ground before he can move, which allows the large weapon to connect. It repeatedly comes down on the warrior, breaking several ribs and one of his arms. Sheathing his sabers and remaining on the ground, the half-elf draws the stiletto and hurls it into Sari’s thigh. A look of shock is on her face and she stares at Luke’s battered form as if seeing such injuries for the first time.

Need to catch Legends of Windemere from the beginning? Then click on the covers below!

You can start for FREE . . .

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Or grab the $4.99 ‘3 in 1’ bundles!

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen 3D Conversion by Bestt_graphics

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen
3D Conversion by Bestt_graphics

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen







Also Available in Single eBooks:

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Cover art by Jason Pedersen

Cover art by Jason Pedersen













Interested in a new adventure? Then grab your Kindle & dive back into the world of Windemere! Don’t forget an apple for Fizzle.

Author Photo

About the Author:

Charles Yallowitz was born and raised on Long Island, NY, but he has spent most of his life wandering his own imagination in a blissful haze. Occasionally, he would return from this world for the necessities such as food, showers, and Saturday morning cartoons. One day he returned from his imagination and decided he would share his stories with the world. After his wife decided that she was tired of hearing the same stories repeatedly, she convinced him that it would make more sense to follow his dream of being a fantasy author. So, locked within the house under orders to shut up and get to work, Charles brings you Legends of Windemere. He looks forward to sharing all of his stories with you, and his wife is happy he finally has someone else to play with.

Blog: www.legendsofwindemere.com
Twitter: @cyallowitz
Facebook: Charles Yallowitz
Website: www.charleseyallowitz.com

Nights with the Ocean

•August 26, 2016 • 13 Comments


*Image found HERE

Nights with the Ocean

Sister Darkness,
I fear my beloved fears me,
I am not sweet, I rot like no other,
a granary of cobwebs and spiders,
a body of water anything and anywhere,
but none to drink,
he is wet lace across the misery of my bones
which I do not arrange in triangles,
no above and bellow,
a sisterhood of deep, dark holes
and strident veins.

I can hear the women talking,
echoing throughout my voids,
they toil away in their flowery blouses,
they wander away and return through such patterns,
their chests silent, never cackling,
pilling up years;
secretly they stockpile pomegranates in their hips,
I see them not descent.
I hear them rosy like aftersex poetry,
I hear them brimming like milk on a cold January morning,
I hear they fix the world
and Death does not notice.
They turn dead roses into poultice,
I see them cry, I see gold,
gold sprouting in their tears,
so much gold a digger could retire after minutes;
they talk and talk and talk
about him,
and sing and lure and hum
around him
and raise children from the stains of coffee grounds
and whisper and gossip and whistle
like answering machines,
they hiss for the bliss, like hounds
under the clouds, while they wait for the bus;
they would slit his throat with a train,
as sunlight dolls with bone dust on their lips
and give him cherubs for each pair of hands
that he would grow,
and desecrate the solace in the city of sand,
those concrete prophets of an invisible man
that convince the day into existing
and talk, and talk, and understand;
and talk, and talk, and wail in joy,
their heads sunk inside his chest
like it’s a cathedral,
smelling like jasmine and jewels and takeout steak,
they talk, and talk and ring like bells,
and every new love will last as much as the cell,
as much as the last buried body,
in the music, in the lie, in the bed, on the street –
in each arm of Sun’s tireless fleet,
in much more than me.

But what do they know
about the sea?

It does not talk, it does not debate,
about how long a skirt, or pain, can be,
it screams for dogs of light begone,
it screams they are not needed here,
where nothing is soft and puffy
and gentle serene,
or a dazzling , unforgiving dream
of amputated wildness.
It does not trade, it does not serenade
sadness for second hand lightness,
mistress for murdered darkness.
It does not talk, nor circle or bemuse
like porphyry, slipping its tongue into abstinence
It seeks to swallow, split through, find a use
for marshmallow boats, it gurgles silk
to wrap the wounds it nibbles with
salt and twilight and Moon,
it towers above love,
it seeks, it destroys,
its chronically allergic to the noise
of beauty that does not know
the gurgle of its gut,
it does not talk, and talk and talk and murmur
last thoughts of Aphrodite
before she drowned,
it does not leave one sate and hollow,
innocent and guilty of life,
to the seashell’s meat its waves-like knives
carve rock-a-by-babies for moss covered ladies and soothe the night.
It does not lust like wound up toys
and curves like gifts,

it silences, and silences and rests with a cerulean voice,
it takes his messy hair
into the coldness of its underwater lair,
it dies
whenever it must.

I will lower down a glass atop his body while he sleeps,
I will descend to it my ugly, darkened ear,
I will listen for the dead ocean of his blood,
I will listen, no matter what I hear;
Sister Darkness, do you think
that that’s enough?

The Makings of a Bread

•August 8, 2016 • 27 Comments


*Image found HERE

The Makings of a Bread

At five o’clock in the morning
in the household, reclined
In the grey belly of the city,
Only me and her
An hour maybe,
Before our loved ones
Chirp like newborn sparrows;
Around two hours
Until bakeries unfold
Their pastries ‘fore the mouth of the street.
Years gaze from within her sockets,
Stirs and spits from mine.

“Let us bake our own bread, grand-daughter”,
she rises, slowly.
“I never did.”, I say;
“I’ll teach you.”, she defies,
emptying the cupboards one by one,
laying the ingredients on the table
in a pattern
so unfamiliar to mine.

She splits flour, pours water, cracks eggs,
Two bowls, she says,
Two pregnant Sun’s, one for me, one thine,
Her wrinkled hands dive in
And grind;
I touch the mush gently,
She, a mother of years, a mill of her village,
I, alike a hungry artisan.
She says:” Think of your son, and squeeze.
Think of hearts, and stir!
Think of love, and rip and join!”
My dough, pale yellow, barely taking form
And hers is done.

We cover our raw to dream and rise,
It’s five o’clock and twenty
The birds hail from outside
As we cross eyes and I feel
Spoiled, rotten, useless
With gears in my core
And I whisper to myself
How she’s so wise and old;
Never ask her what she ate
When it was war.
Instead we talk about TV, and discount
And clothes,
About seaside and neighbors,
Cut down trees and parking lots,
About souls in row
Waiting to buy coffee
While our breakfast grows,
And after a while
She picks the dough
Like she used to pick me from my crib
And nips it,
Twenty thousand washed plates
Clenched within her lips.

“Mold it now, dear.” She says,
you are crafting a soft pillar
for the strongest of empires!
She kneads the unmade
To left and right across,
Like bridges;
She spins and rolls and then conjoins
Everything whole, back again
Until a loaf is formed
And I follow,
With my flesh – candid; childlike.
We cut three times
For breath,
We lay our breads on the brass
And close the furnace door
And wait
For the smell of it
To occupy the household.

Brown, yellow and golden.
Like the earth we thread,
Like the dirt under her fingernails
In the summer,
Like the sunsets spent swinging at the park,
Like each Autumn might be
The last one we share,
Like musk on her favorite skirt,
Like a womb of the white core,
Like my son’s teeth when he smiles,
Soft like his cheeks
Like hers no longer are.
It’s well past six o’clock
When two loaves await
For butter and knives.

But we break them, instead,
Two chunks of two
Sticky, dulcet lives,
Just like that – raw. Plain.
And my bread tastes like
Skyscrapers and dust
And electrical wires,
Like rust corroding a heavy sunset,
Like rain on the asphalt.
Her bread tastes like
Love. And Pain.

*This is a poem from my book “Colour Me In Cyanide & Cherries”, and was inspired by my grandmother who I love dearly.

Some parts of the poem are deliberately exaggerated or penned down wrong, in an effort to show perhaps how much my grandmother had to teach me about various things, cooking and baking taking the first place.

I know the poem might not seem like much, I certainly would not say it is of the finest word-craftsmanship, but the poem is very dear to me and I wrote it with much love and intention to preserve my grandmother in what I love to do best, and that is write. I can go on about her forever, but I am leaving those tales for some other days.

Hope you enjoy reading the poem and if you have a story of your grandparents that you once commemorated in your writing (or did not), tell me about it in the comments, because I would really love to read it.


•July 19, 2016 • 16 Comments


*Image found HERE

*The original on Serbian is below


My time in the deaf room ends.
The stalks of wheat sway,
they do not know teeth.
They rub their titter on the nettle.
My curtains are pale,
soul in a fever;
the river calmly pulls the fiddle bow ,
swallows penetrate the asphalt.
The boulevard is a winter without snow,
lips dried blueberries,
strung like laundry
between cheeks.
The stars pullulate patiently,
the heavens slouch between clouds.

What do I whisper,
to you,
unruly blue,
so in front of me, now,
you redden?


*It is a weird feeling when you are unable to translate the words you use/hear daily into your mother tongue, as well as realising that the translation we all use is just the English word, pronounced in a Serbian manner.


Moje vreme u gluvoj sobi je završeno.
Stabljike pšenice se njišu,
ne poznaju zube.
Taru svoj kikot o korov.
Moje su zavese blede,
duša u groznici;
reka smireno povlači gudalo,
lastavice prodiru u asfalt.
Bulevar je zima bez snega,
usne sasušene borovnice,
nanizane kao veš
između obraza.
Zvezde niču strpljivo,
nebesa mile između oblaka.

Šta da ti šapnem,
goropadno plavetnilo,
da se preda mnom sada

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