Sky-Dice and a Little Book – First Monthly Post

First Monthly Post

For the first monthly post, here is the link to a project I finished recently: some creative online dice.


They have four sound themes and fifteen backgrounds!

Current Activity

At the moment I am working on a proof of concept for a first person Twine game, which is working quite well.


I hope this year to release the second edition of my book A Foreshadowed Way. So if you buy first edition print copies now, they will be rare later!

A Foreshadowed Way

I hope to finish another short Fantasy book, Jillah on Evening Wings, which is about halfway done already. There are also a few more Twine games I could work on.

Have a good month all, God be with you!

– Patrick

The Fallen Tower

The Fallen Tower

To know a human tongue from first to last,
To trace a trail of words into the past,
This mystery the blessed end to find,
The pure endeavor of the holy mind.
The gift of God at Babel when begun
Is set until the human course is run.
In this am I more joyful than to end
The work and see that tower reascend.
So on in work divine to gladly strive,
And seek the symboled line while yet alive.

 – Patrick Lauser

This Our Race

This Our Race

Now on the five wheels of this race
Turning to this distant place;
Four below touch, cast back the ground,
Whose hands that touch the one are found?
All the world lightly is the load,
The course of every heart the road;
Without a pause to stay the run,
To the stop when the world is done.
“Now” is the key to seal the mind,
“Then” is safely sealed and left behind;
In death and life one line for all,
That all may hear a single call:
The end of the road still unseen,
Unfeared by one whose hands are clean.
Oblivion’s fog shuts in our sight:
Our end is nearing through the night,
The judgment hasting to perfect;
Arriving bright, our God’s elect.
All flight is stripped from every crime
For all within the car of Time.

 – Patrick Lauser

So Glory Springs

So Glory Springs

This is the sound that brings to a halt
My wandering mind, and sends a calm
To put to sleep the wild, crying night.

Haunting heat vanishes in a sigh.

Yawning breaches close, and the floods dry.

Strident alarms break to dim pieces.

Feeling returns: my soul can face grief.

Designs of perversion are unframed,
Every shade returns where it came:
Destroyed by this sound are flames untamed.

When violent clamour lays peace low
It splits the thundering cumuli
And quenches the searing ejecta,
Casting beneath a veil the pyrrhic
War cries, that the seed of life may grow.

Small is the humble sound as it rings,
Yet tears the tangled rage easily,
For smallest roots raise the highest leaf:
Smallest flames burn the highest fortress.

Anthems mount from an unseen idea,
Every thunder from a mist has come,
And in quiet springs begins the sea.

Ground a rock for a foundation strong
Before the wall can thicken and climb;
Before Glory’s voice can shake the tomb
Glory is the sound of a child’s song.

 – Patrick Lauser

This was from a challenge in which the first and last letter of every line must be the same.

Mortality by William Knox


O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection that proved;
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream,and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, they too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumber may come;
They enjoyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

‘Tis the wink of an eye, ‘tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

 – By William Knox