Through poetry and confession, I remain.
Walter Red is a Seattle-based author and artist creating mythic, emotionally resonant poetry and hybrid literature. His imprint, Walter Red Books LLC, explores themes of memory, grief, transformation, and queer longing through deeply personal narrative forms. His volumes form a literary cathedral—typed with trembling hands and bound in memory.
“Walter Red writes grief like gospel—terrifying, intimate, and holy.”
“Typed with trembling hands. These books are not fiction—they are exorcisms.”
What Is “The Black Book”?
It is a toolkit to write the unspeakable, the unprintable, the part of grief that never asks for beauty.
Do not open unless you are ready to bury something alive.
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Raised where the hills soften into prayer, the Cathedral of St. Alwyn was not only built—it was listened into being. Every arch repeats a silence the land already knew. The nave shelters breath. The transepts point like compass arms toward roads we have yet to travel. And the rose window—ember at the heart—reminds us that light is a circle we walk inside of, even when we think we’re outside in the dark.
ST. ALWYN’S BELL TOWER REDUCED TO ASHES
Lightning Strike Shatters Belfry; Historic Bronze Bell DestroyedSt. Alwyn, February 21, 1894 — In the small hours of Tuesday morning, a sudden and violent storm beset our town, bringing with it a dreadful calamity to the beloved Cathedral of St. Alwyn. At approximately 2:17 a.m., a bolt of lightning struck the bell tower’s spire, setting the upper timbers aflame.
Witnesses report that the fire spread with unnatural haste, casting an orange glow across the square. Parishioners and townsfolk alike formed a bucket line, yet their efforts proved in vain as the blaze consumed the belfry. With a terrible groan, the great bronze bell—cast in 1748 and rung at every hour for nearly a century and a half—fell through the burning floors, shattering upon the flagstones of the nave below.
No lives were lost, though two were treated for smoke inhalation. The Reverend Elias Gray has declared the tower a total loss, and questions linger as to whether it will ever be rebuilt. Some whisper that the strike was no mere act of nature, but a sign to be heeded.
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Erected in the waning years of the Third Winter, the Cathedral of St. Alwyn rose upon the foundations
of a smaller stone chapel lost to fire. The first bell, cast from the salvaged iron of the town’s fallen gates,
rang only seven years before the great collapse of the western tower.
In local memory, St. Alwyn is less a saint of miracle than of burden — a keeper of watch during the long
famine, whose prayers were said to hold back the Hollow. When the famine lifted, the villagers carved
his likeness into the lintel above the nave, face weathered and eyes downcast, so that all who entered
would remember the cost of survival.
Even in ruin, the Cathedral stands as both sanctuary and sepulchre. The stones bear smoke-blackened scars,
and the nave floor is marked with the pale outlines where pews were once bolted. At vespers, when the wind
shifts just right, it is said the echo of that first bell can still be heard, carrying over the fields —
a reminder that some vigils are never truly ended.
Architectural plan of the Cathedral of St. Alwyn, drafted in the late 18th century. This design reflects the officially recognized structure following the Basilica’s redaction from civic memory. Sections such as the nave, choir, and twin towers are recorded in meticulous symmetry, intended for public distribution and parish records.
Beyond the last wildflowers, the ground dips into a shadowed swale locals call the Hollow Verge.
Air currents here are erratic—sometimes warm, sometimes freezing, even in summer.
For those trained to notice, the Verge is less a boundary and more a membrane: step through, and the field behind you may not be the same field at all.
The air folds over itself here. Step one pace forward, you’re still in the field. Another pace, and the sky feels different — thinner, heavier, both. I never trust my own shadow when I cross this place. Sometimes it lingers when I do not.
This crumbling shell of stone arches and fractured nave has been a point of fascination since the earliest 1973 notes.
On hot afternoons, a low resonance can be felt through the walls, as though a hidden swarm still nests within.
Traces of wax, char, and pollen collect in the cracks, defying any simple explanation.
If you put your hand against the stone at noon, you’ll feel the hum. It is not wind, nor insects, nor echo. Some call it memory, others an after-swarm. I call it a heartbeat that refuses to die, even when the body is dust.
A fringe of wild fruit trees and unkempt hedgerows marks the unofficial border of Yellowfield.
Here, petals fall on packed earth, masking faint sigil impressions and shallow caches.
The orchard’s seasonal bloom is said to disguise entrances to smaller, forgotten paths—some leading back toward the Cathedral, others dissolving into the open plain.
Beneath the blossoms, something always waits. Not hostile, not kind — just waiting. A sigil pressed into the soil loses meaning until the wind clears the petals away, and then you realize it was never meant for you in the first place.
Perched atop a gradual incline, the Mausoleum is a lone sentinel in stone, weathered by centuries of wind.
Inside, its alcoves hold empty reliquaries and deep-carved names, many struck through or re-chiseled.
Field records suggest its hilltop location was once used as a signal point—fires and lanterns flashing to unseen allies across the valley.
The hill remembers fire. Lanterns once flared here, and I swear sometimes a distant answering flame still flickers back across the valley. No one speaks of who those signals were for — or whether the watchers ever came down from their post.
