Sonnet 1: Forgive me Brother

So this is my first sonnet that I've done. It's a piece I wrote for lokisredemption , a group that is getting together some Loki art and poems to send to Tom Hiddleston for Christmas. (Oh, hey, so I'm both a fan of Tom Hiddleston, as an actor, and the character/god, Loki, in general--myths, comics, etc.) I wrote this out and colored it (with a crow quill pen). I originally didn't like that Loki "signed" it, but everyone seems to like that addition, so whatever.

It reads:

Forgive me brother, flying high in cheer,
I sicken, knowing I, that rightful heir
To throne of ill repute, do grossly fear
That all of this you hear is not my care.
For oft I do despair that time will show
My words are all but lies, that you will think
Me just another monster that you owe
To win against, defeat, to bring to brink
So please know I speak now with utter truth
I still do love our years of boundless youth.
         I wish I could rebuke the hate I feel
         And be your brother, not in this despair.

Theatre Magic

So I have a new project. I'd rather like this one to see publication one day, but here's what it looks like (ha) right now:

This is how I work. I have these three books in my lap, listen to music (get distracted by internet), and eat crisps. Then I doodle and sketch out the panel layouts per page as I write more detailed descriptions in the notebook. (I later then enter them in "official" manuscript form).

 This would be my favourite character. I do love the others, but sorry, this arse gets it first. (Er??) I'm posting this because I want to say, I'm PROUD of this. That hair. His hair... I sort of have problems with drawing, so all of my sketches of him are crap. Except this one is marvellous.

This project is called Theatre Magic and it's a comic. There's something I've always loved, and that's theatres. They're like raw energy to me--raw creative energy. There's actors ambling about, playwrights and dramaturgs, a mish mash of costumes and props that do not belong together, and the world in a set of scenery. So many minds take part and so much creativity flows through. It's ever changing. Props get sacrificed into new forms and costumes are ripped apart to make wonders. The stage is an age-old form. I would say it most likely transcends the written word, for in its own way, verbal tales are their own acting and theatre. Everybody acts, everybody pretends, and the theatre is the temple of human nature. And so, that is why I am writing this.

(I know I haven't said much on the project, but sorry, I'm keeping it that way for now.)

Daily Races

Sometimes when Aric had trouble working, he entered his grandfather's studio—a dead, preserved land in his house. He would dig out some old CDs and play his grandfather's favorites. As he listened to Andrews warble, “No one knew me, no one knew me, Hello teacher tell me, what's my lesson?” as he would look over the reports a second time before sending them to the main office. Time passed by as he shuffled papers, studied photos, and connected observations to truths.

Eventually, he heard a key enter the lock to the front door and the familiar shuffling gait of his housemate, James. By now, the CD player spout out “You know I used to live alone before I knew you” and he remained sitting, staring at a particularly photograph of white and red. His housemate called out as he walked around the open main room of the house.

“Ah, there you are,” James said, “We've got a reservation at that new wine house you've been raving about.” The music track jumped and regained its place, “Love is not a victory march, It's a cold and it's a broken...” James disappeared, most likely heading to the closet to put away his coat, calling out, “Give me a half an hour, though.”

Aric tossed the photo on the desk, leaning back with his hands behind his head. His mind wandered off as he stared at the white wall—it beheld the century of life that lived here. A telltale dent in the wall, when his grandfather pushed a particularly heavy microscope against the wall—an accidental scar that would last forever. It was lined with a black smudge. Aric contemplated on the photographs in front of them, the story they told through simple details. He wandered through the facets they brought to light, every so often taking a small note. The minutes ticked away.

Aric turned of the CD player and exited his office. He wandered into the kitchen and took out an opened bottle of orange juice, drinking straight from the bottle. James was there, sitting at the table and reading the newspaper, and looked up in disgust, “Oh, see? That's why I don't drink that....” Aric smirked and capped the bottle before placing it in the fridge.

“Closing walls and ticking clocks.”

“Ready to go?” Aric asked. 

 

James shrugged in consent and stood. “Sure, nothing good today anyways.”

“Too bad,” Aric said, exiting the kitchen, heading to the closet.

“For you, perhaps,” James said dryly.

Aric raised an eyebrow, handing James his coat. “Perhaps...”

“Am I a part of the cure? Or am I part of the disease?”

The two put on their coats. James held the door open as Aric exited, placing a cabbie's cap on his head, looking around with his sharp eyes.

“Blackbird fly into the light of the dark black night.”

James locked the door and the two headed to the Lincoln sitting in the driveway.

 

James remained silent during the drive. 

Aric continued to think of the photographs on his desk and the report he would complete, the mysteries he had solved. He moved on to the next agenda, the painful idea that James was unhappy. They rarely spoke; they rarely joked. 

“You thought you'd found a friend to take you out of this place.”

James adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, glancing in his housemate's direction. He noted how unhappy he looked. How pained and lost. He wished he could help, be what his housemate needed to salve these aches of the mind.

“You know I can change I can change I can change I can change, But I'm here in my mold, I am here in my mold”

Aric knew that one day James would leave. James could be happy. He could find a family. Find love. He was unable to. He was broken. 

“And I'd give up forever to touch you.”

... 

This was a bit of fun with including music with writing.

The Maine House

I rambled down the cramped dirt road. To my right, there was a sheer cliff face. To my left, a row of Victorian houses, each with their own personality. Some had moss covered rock fences, others had wood sheds. Before I arrived here, I tried to remember what this place was like. I had been bogged down, always wistfully desiring to return to this summer home, but there was always a reason not to go—there was a new project due, I had just finished a project and didn't want the hassle of driving up here, my fiance and I had planned a romantic getaway in our house. I was just busy. Then she died. It came as a surprise. It wasn't like I thought she'd live forever, but she was 32.

I passed the white, the green, and the eclectically painted homes and reached the Maine House. It was owned by our uncles, but my sister loved it so much, they passed it down to her. As a sort of family tradition, we all held a share of the house. It was a family house. It was for childhoods and summer.

I pulled into the dirt and gravel parking spot. I looked out across the treeline and at the foggy and grey expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Waves roiled up against the beach. The three small islands were still squatting in the distance. I could hear the crashing. That soothing sound of the mysterious ocean. I stepped out of the car.

I placed a hand on the cool rock fence, moss growing out of the cracks. There was a metal gear stuck in a rock. The rock was warped. I sat down on it. When we used to come here as children, we arrived in a mini-bus. We'd stock pile the back with everything we needed for the two weeks and more. My sister and I would have our own seat. When we'd arrive, we were all tired—my dad was the worst off, of course, but as children, we just hated the sedentary blandness of driving for 8 hours. We wanted to scatter, run along the beaches, clamber up the cliff path, check out the local, yuppie hotel for interesting people, fellow kids, and when we were older, some hottie.

Luggage would stack up by the door as we lugged in our blankets and pillows—not because the house didn't have it, but we always brought a little of home here. It made us feel safer.

I pulled out the key to the house and unlocked the front door and entered the mud room. The house was strange, thinly built, as though it would whisk away like in the Wizard of Oz, and the rooms nestled together in odd angles. The mud room was a rectangular room, small, and opened to bother the kitchen and to the dining room. No one went through door to the dining room.

The kitchen was torn apart—there were no bowls, no flatware, no food in the fridge. There were two boxes on the kitchen table, something that was to be left behind, but beyond that, the kitchen was empty. The entire house was like this. The bare skeleton remained—the furniture, little odds and ends that didn't matter, but the charm was gone.

Tomorrow, the new owner was going to arrive. I would give him a little tour, even though he already had one with a real estate agent, but it would be one between owner to owner. It would be a silent passing of stories. The new owner and his family would make new memories and I would make my last one.

I wandered through the house, watching the waves and the three islands out the window, innocuous in the daylight, the fog dissipated in the sunlight. The second floor, filled with bedrooms, four to be exact, all in their silent state. Our parents always reserved the nicest room for themselves. My sister and I, we often shared a bedroom, and yet sometimes we'd brave the nights alone. Each bedroom had its own share of nightly terrors. In the attic, the effervescent presence of ghastly things seemed saddened today. There was always stuffy feel that mingled with that fear that you were being followed, being watched by some long past soul. The scorch marks in the one room never helped the matter. Neither did the despairing state of the attic bedroom and the murky red water in the abandoned bathroom.

Night would fall in several hours, so I left the house to visit the cliff path. As I left the house, the porch swing creaked goodbye.

The path was rather iconic—rocks, moss, pines, and rich brown earth. It was never a difficult climb. It was just a perfectly, friendly forest scene. The path leveled off and the pines always ended. Short, stocky blueberry bushes scattered around and I watched my step for the rocks formed nooks and crannies. It was always like walking into a barren land to me, despite the blueberry flora. It was the sky and the ocean. There was a harsh, glaring blue and grey. The world was bright compared to the pine walkway. Down this rocky and blueberry patch, the pines grew back. I always contemplated about this spot. Why so barren? My sister thought it was from a creature from beyond. Once, we found bones in the pines.

I walked to the pines up ahead and sat down on a rock ledge in the middle of the pathway. I used to bring an old laptop up here to write. It was usually a failed venture. The scenery was always more interesting than the screen. There were gauges in a tree nearby. Every summer, we'd find them up here. Only once we walked further among the pine path. We found a dense forest with two wooden slates forming an X across the entrance. Due to the thickness of the trees, we couldn't see far past the blockade. The path quickly delved into shadows. We never even dared each other to go further. We just stared into it, then left.

I wandered the pines for a while, feeling whatever beast it was watching me. Usually I felt that trepidation—would I become its next snack? And yet this time, I wasn't afraid. It had been about 10 years since I've been here last. It must of wondered where I went. It must have been thinking about how I have grown. I thought that it would be getting older, maybe it had its own family now. Maybe it was the son, hearing tales of two little girls running through the woods and now it finally has seen one of them. A monster fairytale, just as it was a fairytale for my sister and I.

I left the pines, passed the barren blueberries, and clambered down the pine slope and walked down to the yuppie hotel for dinner. I made sure to grab a handful of mints as I left, just as I always did as a kid.

Night fell as I stalked the house alone. As the sun set, I sat on the screen-covered porch in a wicker chair. The porch swing continued to swing at a lazy pace, back and forth, creaking along the way. Every so often objects moved in the house. It seemed a beneficial or neutral spirit, more minding its own little business than attempting to harm the two little girls that would stalk its movements in fascination. We would camp out at night, watching the swing. Sometimes we'd leave little gifts on it. When it became too dark to see, I left the porch, ensuring to place a mint on the swing.

I threw two logs in the fireplace and lit the newspaper. We always kept plenty of wood in the outside basement. I watched as the wood crackled, reveling in the warmth. I stood, keeping my hands warm. After some time, I stood by the bay window, staring out at three ghost lights that hovered over the three islands. Our father always told us that they were lighthouses, but when my sister and I dug through some newspaper clippings in the attic, we found an article about three widows, their husbands lost at see.

The fire died down. I turned on the lights as I headed upstairs. We had a system, my sister and I, in order to never be caught in the darkness. We would turn on a light, turn on the next closest one, then turn back to turn on the first light. We kept up this chain. The shadows couldn't get us then.

On the second floor, I paused at the first bedroom. It was the white room. It held a double bed. I opened the door and peered in. Empty. The linens were gone. The first time we came here, we found a porcelain doll resting on the pillows. She had black hair, black, shiny eyes. She wore a white dress and black buckle shoes. She should be in some box somewhere on her way to a storage unit. No matter where we place her, she always appeared back in this spot.

I closed the door and opened the next one. The yellow room. It was small, very cramped, and the walls angled oddly. We always felt time was slow in here. Even the light seemed yellow in here. At night, you could hear a faint voice singing an indecipherable lullaby.

I moved on to the third room. There was a pair of twin beds in here. A dresser stood in between the windows facing the beds. We always found candy in there, like magic. We theorized that this room once housed a pair of young tricksters. I was going to sleep here tonight. I turned on the lamp and closed the door and walked to the window. The three lights were still flickering in the distance. I listened to the waves crashing. The sea was always beautiful at night.

In time, the lamp flickered and went out. This happened a lot in this room, only at night. The door creaked open. That never failed to send a shiver of terror down my spine. A stomped my foot on the floorboards. The lamp turned back on. The door closed. I smiled.

I slept on one of the beds. I had brought a sleeping bag for the one night.

I woke up to the sun shining on my face. I sat up. Today, I had to give the key away. After I dressed and brushed my teeth, I walked down the hall to check the white room once more. The doll wasn't at the headboard.

I packed my sleeping bag and my toiletries. I ate a Nutrigrain bar and sat on the porch. An origami lily made out of the mint wrapper sat on the porch. In time, the front door knocked. I pocketed the lily and answered the door.

A man stood there. He had horn rimmed glasses and a mustache. He smiled and somewhat unassuredly asked if this was 98 Club Rd. I invited him in. I gave him the tour. He asked about the pipes and about the fireplace. I told him they worked fine, ever since the house was built. After the tour, I gave him the key. I told him I was going to walk on the beach one last time before leaving. We shook hands and I left.

It was low tide and I clambered down the glittering and iron-red rocks. I walked along the beach for a mile. I turned back and walked along the base of the cliff face that the pine path perched upon. My sister and I used to collect crabs and sand dollars. I used to hate the beach; something in the sand felt like maggots burrowing into my skin. Once, we dug a hole until we found sand worms. They were terrifying, their heads reminding us of tapeworms. Their bodies were segmented and they were very long. In horror and disgust, we never dug deep enough to find them again.

After a while, I headed back. I clambered back up the rocks for the last time. I passed the house for the last time. As I headed to my car, I heard a howl. It was loud. I turned to look at the pine path. Standing among the woods was a furry wolfman. He was tan. We stared at each other. He left, the bushes and trees cracking and swaying as he passed.

I thought about the theories my sister and I had about the Maine house. The timeless room. The porcelain doll. The vigilant ghostlights. The trickster twins. The spirit on the porch swing. The wolfman. I wondered how much of the house was real. How much of it was fantasy. I ate at some crummy diner along the way home. By the time I reached my home, it was midnight. I threw my keys on the couch and headed up to bed. A porcelain doll sat on the pillow, her black eyes shining. She wore a white dress and had black shoes. Her hair was black and perfectly straight.

Dominus Caedere

This is something I wrote for my fiction class last spring. I just never put it up here. I think it was due to that this is not the finished version. I mean for it to be a lot longer, but I couldn't think of an idea for a short fiction, so I just shortened this instead. It's really what I would say a LOT longer. Probably book length, really. There's a lot in it, for one. I was writing this the night before it was due, and had to omit several things. For one, how Halcomen loses his eyesight. That needs to be explained, really. This is, at the moment, one of my favorite ideas. Dominus Caedere means 'to kill a king' or lord, or whatever you mean it to be. I prefer 'to kill a god'.

Note: I realized there are several mistypes. I don't know where all of them are, so just bear with me. Somewhere, I know, I use 'assignation' instead of 'assassination'.

...

“I am God. Those in my regime cannot deny this. I decree an action and it is done.” The man said, running his right hand against the wood-grain patterns of the table. He sat in silence, looking down as if to stare at his hand. The room was dark, a glow of light in the corner where a stenographer sat, scribbling down notes for his book.

The stenographer looked up. “How do you mean, Sir?” he asked. The man at the table smirked.

“Have you not witnessed what my campaign has done? It has passed, and not a moment too soon. But look at what I commanded, look at the thousands of countless deaths that I have dismissed without opposition. I was a god, back then. I stated what I wanted and I got it. My word was law.” The man paused, his hand still rubbing against the table. He continued to look downward, his eyes a black scarred strip—deep sockets where they had been. He continued, “Every day now, you pass the Forum. I know there is great talk of tearing it down, reducing it to rubble. I know that the common man wishes to salt the land and burn the city. No person wants to live upon the lands I have strengthened. The commoner is disgusted by my actions, by their own peoples’ lack of moral rights. No one denies they have done wrong in letting me live, but they cannot face with what they have let me do. What they do not understand is that I cannot find peace in my life. I have ordered the worst of atrocities and I will have to face to them. In due time, I will have to ask forgiveness to all those I have wronged. I will not be forgiven.” The blind man stopped. His hand stopped. He glanced away and sighed.

“I will not see tomorrow. This is the last we shall speak. If you have any last questions, ask them now.” The blind man said.

···

“When I met him, he was starved and in a gutter. He was good-natured and young. I had not seen him since. I went to one of his rallies last month and did not recognize him.” – Ludwig Haven, childhood friend of Halcomen

Lights flashed and smoke rose; the media swarmed as a man in an unadorned military suit stood with his hand raised to head level. The reporters screamed out questions and comments came from the masses past them. The man stood silent at his podium as the audience fell still in waiting awe. Halcomen breathed deeply, and then looked up, his eyes piercing and fierce—a deadly sheen of absolute fanaticism.

“People! I swear to you! We shall have our war! We shall have our liberation! If you believe that our freedom is short in weapons, I shall provide in willpower! Believe in Ezan strength; believe in our strength! For our oppression is at an end! Follow my command and I shall bring forth the war and the freedom we so desire. Those of the Valdingraad and Staltsk shall fall to our might. The eastern fronts are no longer safe from our righteous mark. Our bullets and bombs shall find their aim and we shall reign true to our hour! Fellow men, our Homeland shall walk and take command of what we deserve! The Union of the East, Aissur, is ours!”

Men and women screamed in ardor and devotion as they listened to him speak—his passionate voice spread over the crowd, the words lost on enslaved minds.

A lone man near the back watched in sadness. He pulled his fedora onto his head and shook his head as he walked away. He thought of the young man he found in a pub, passionate and caring. He thought of how the man aimed for peace and how his words then induced growth and thought. Now the man had grown, binding all who listen with his words and driving them down the path of blood and glory.

···

“How did you become… well, what you are?” the stenographer asked. The blind man looked up, empty sockets staring towards the voice.

“A general question, but I know what you mean. You want to know how I got into politics? It was a friend of mine. Once, when we were drunk, we preached in a park, talking about what great people we would be compared to the current president and what needed to be done in order to correct our failing country. He shrugged his beliefs off the next day. He was a common man. He went back to his work and his life. He had a fiancée then and was on his way to becoming an architect. He was in his last year of technical school. I… was not. My mother had died a month before and I had yet to pass the exams to enter into any sort of college. I had taken to sleeping in hostels and selling my possessions on the street. But the next day I took to the pub yet again, and not for drink. I argued in a debate with some of the men. Every Thursday, I went. The owners of the pub liked me: my loud tirades brought more costumers, more money. Not only did it attract cash, but it attracted fame.” The blind man stopped. His hand that had absentmindedly stroked the table, feeling what he could not see, stopped.

The room felt darker when the man stopped talking. A mental light shone when he spoke and when he stopped; everything went dark. Every word he projected was in calculating precision; no word left useless. And just as he stopped talking, his hand would stop—the feel and touch of the world around him, the last connection to reality. He was nothing without speech, nothing without the life-driven force in which his words led. Men listened to him and followed blindly; women heard and were enslaved; children took note to the only importance in life. The stenographer felt the power of speech fade as the silence continued.

···

“Oftentimes he woke in the night from terrors in his sleep. When I asked on them, he said they were his dreams come true.” – Anna Braun, consort of Halcomen

The air was thick and wet, warm and comfortable. A man in a dark felt hat strode across the lawn. He had his hands behind his back. There was a shout and he glanced to his right. A black standard-line coupe was parked shoddily on the road. A young man in military uniform was stepping from it, waving the man in field.

The man stopped as the young ran forward. “Sir! Magnate Halcomen, I was asked to bring you a message.” The man said, reaching Halcomen. The man stopped a yard away.

“What is it, Hershore?” Halcomen asked, facing the captain. His back was straight and his manner formal. An enticing chill drew into the air. These two men were not comrades, only business associates. Halcomen had only three consorts: a woman and the two dogs that were roaming the line between the woods and field in the background. They were both tan and black: ears pointing upward and their coat thick. They traversed through the brush, searching for game. A young woman followed the dogs, stroking their heads if one desired affection.

“The telegraph from Fort Danzig arrived just now, Sir.” Captain Hershore said, glancing at the young woman. There was a pause but he continued, “The Assurian Staltskmen have joined the Valdingraad in battle. We have already lost Asov and Nakhodka—we need more men. The Assurians will breach the Danzig walls if we’re not careful. They cannot be allowed to enter Ezan soil! Send a FlaK unit. Send two, we need more men!” The Magnate Halcomen stared at his captain. The captain awaited his response. Halcomen looked away, to the woman and two dogs. She smiled somberly; the nomadic dogs paused at a bramble, on the trail of game.

“Send two FlaK units and a panzergrenadier platoon.” Halcomen said.

“Yes, Sir,” Hershore saluted him, and then glanced back at the woman.

“Anna and I shall need an escort. There is a concert performing and they are playing one of her favorite pieces. She has invited you, if you wish to join us.” Halcomen said.

“Ah, no Sir; I’m not very much into the orchestral. I’m more into a night in a pub.” Hershore said, looking away. This answer was expected, and even desired. Anna and Halcomen’s officers did not mingle.

Halcomen called to the woman, Anna, and the two dogs, Chara and Asterion. The dogs perked to their master’s call and bound to him. Anna trailed after them; she and Halcomen watching each other as she progressed towards him.

···

“Who was Anna?” asked the stenographer, looking up from his notes. The blind man had been motionless, staring at nothing and doing the same. His right hand was resting on the table, waiting for a new question so it may continue its repetitious movement. The blind man remained silent; the stenographer opened his mouth to repeat the question, but was interrupted.

“Little should be known about Anna. Her name should not be associated with me. But she was my consort. Many may believe there was a deeper, more intimate relationship, but no, there was never a thing like that. She was my one true human companion, that is all.

“I tried to keep her away from my officers, from my life as a despot. It was hard, and I did not succeed—there were several attempts on her life. She loved the orchestra, though, and I tried to give her what she loved. Oftentimes she would invite an officer; she liked talking to people. They would decline—more likely afraid of offending me in case she was something more than a friend.

“She was a kind woman and a lover of the natural world. She gave me my purebred Ezan Shepherds, Chara and Asterion. I did not want her to know of the horror I brought to the world, so I hid her. I wanted to protect her from the monstrous potentate that I was. Some were able to inform her of my actions—one such man was Ludwig Haven. He was a friend of mine during my schooling years. I ordered his assignation.” The blind man stopped talking, tapping his right hand on the table. The stenographer was silent.

As if bidden by some silent urging, the blind man spoke again, “I do not know if I can ever repent for the disaster that was the Volkstaag Rebellion.”

···

“Halcomen was a man to be feared. Any man with his dreams come true should be feared.” – Ulrich Joachim, Minister of Justice

A whistling scream seared through the sky; the ground shook from an exploding shell. The men at the table stood in alarm. There were shouts outside the room and a man burst through to door yelling, “Magnate Halcomen, we need to get to the bunkers. Follow me.” A group of men stood outside the door, rifles ready in their arms. One of the men at the table looked to the head and Halcomen nodded, his eyes ablaze with adrenaline. There was a flurry of paper and cloth as the men followed Halcomen and his entourage to the bunkers below as shells fell upon the Ezan capital, Volkstaag.

“Sir, our radar did not pick up the planes!” said one of the ministers. He was round and balding. Halcomen remained silent, setting his pace quick and fierce as they travelled down the winding stairs. The minister glanced to one of his fellow men.

“If they were not detected, then does this not mean it was sabotage?” asked another minister who was taller than the rest and hawklike in appearance. The balding minister turned quickly to him, worried.

“It is more likely an Assurian trick,” said a thick, stout minister. “Who knows who is a spy nowadays?” He glanced quickly at the balding man who startled at the accusing glance.

One of the escorts burst in a red spray, splattering the ministers and Halcomen. Gunfire rang through the stairwell, and another guard was hit. The firing stopped as a two men fell to the floor dressed in the same uniform as Halcomen and his men. The wounded escort held his arm, blood seeping from his shoulder. Halcomen glanced down, glaring at the fallen soldiers that had fired upon them. He shot them both in the head, twice each, with his pistol. He moved forward into the hall and turned right. His escort and ministers followed.

They stood outside a double door basement. Two of the escort opened it and entered. After a signal that all was clear, Halcomen and the ministers went down. The escort closed the doors and Halcomen was greeted with Asterion and several other men—Anna and Chara were not in the city, but in their northern villa. Halcomen patted the dog on its head.

Halcomen then flicked the cylinder of the pistol open; two shots left. He dug into his belt, pulling out four bullets. He placed them in the cylinder and snapped it shut. He raised the pistol to the stout minister. The minister narrowed his eyes.

“Sir, what do you think you are doing!” shouted the balding minister, backing away from the man. The rest of ministers did the same—none wanted to be splattered by any more blood. Halcomen’s eyes fired in anger.

“You parasitic turncoat! Your wife was promised free passage into my regime! Her papers were destroyed; I did so personally. I offered your wife’s unhindered freedom despite her filthy Assurian blood! She was free to live under the guise of a simple Ezan wife, but your insurgence has cost you and your family their lives,” Halcomen railed. “Minister Ulrich Joachim, you have failed your family and your Homeland.” There was an undistinguishable shout from one of the ministers and a shot rang out. The wall behind Joachim was painted red as five more shots pelted the falling body of the late minister.

···

“Do you have any last words to convey?” asked the stenographer. The blind leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The stenographer waited.

After some length, the blind man said, “It is not the right of man to say whatever he pleases.”

He chuckled. “A journalist such as yourself may not understand, but you may, one day.” The stenographer remained motionless, one brow raised, then typed what the blind man said quickly. He stood up and packed his stenotype into his bag and turned out the light. He opened the door and watched as the old man stood facing the wall, unmoving. The stenographer closed the door.

At length, the blind man tugged at a pull-string attached to the hem of his right jacket sleeve. The hem unfurled, exposing a pill laced with cyanide. He picked it up and rolled it in his left hand momentarily, then placed it on his tongue. He swallowed.

···

“Many [people] present ill will towards him. This does him no justice and discredits them. Halcomen had merely lost himself to his dreams. To the normal person, this is acceptable. They become a drunken wanderer, lost from home or family. But Halcomen was dangerous in this state. He had the capability to form a mirage of dreams. His fantasies became real. In this state, he had no ability to control them; he took no account for other humans. Once these creations of his mind were in the real world, he had no power over them. He was a boy lost in a world of dreams.”

-- Conversations with the Magnate: Recollections of the Last Ezan

The Red House

I used to have a story here, but I am slowly deleting posts. For my own amusement purposes, I wanted to keep my original comments (I find them useful or entertaining) and the dates I posted this (as it is usually the time I completed the original text). It was only the original, but I still disliked having it around.

.................

This was an idea that occurred in my creative fiction class last year. We had to write a brief exercise with a lot of feeling, like cold, hot, etc. Back then it was about a guy named Neil and his wife wandering around in the fog and wind, while Neil falls down a small hill and sees a red barn, and ends up in some other world. Then that's all I got to. Here, I made it an inn. A lot of the people here aren't really people. I like to think of the tan leather jacket kids as the pumas, really. The bushy guy, Neil's dog. Morelia is a genus or family or something of snakes. I decided to not put in her nickname of Snake. Boar's real name is Suscroff, after the boar's scientific name Sus scrofa.

Tzhilitchauchlici

“Chlol, chlol. Tchau muon tchitli tlul.” The man sitting across the fire spoke. My assistant, Adrian, looked at me uneasily. He was new and had not yet fully grasped the language of the Akzametl, the Edge-Folk, so called for living at the edge of the great forests.

I leaned towards Adrian and translated, “Quite indeed. There are things in the forest.”

“Tzhilitchauchlici tu kan-”

“-The… Animal-Folk live.” Adrian and I shared a look. The Empire believed the great forests were uninhabitable. “Ti tu kan muontakli?” I asked.

“Tcha! Tcha! Tzhilitchlici tcha takli!”

“No! Not at all! The Animal-Folk are not animals! Ti tu kan muonmet?”

The man paused. He cocked his head and stared hard at me. This was how his people expressed thought. Adrian shuffled on his log. It took me a while to get used to this, for years their hard staring was uncomfortable. “Tcha… Tzhilitchlici tcha met… Tzhilitchlici te Tzhilitchlici.”

My assistant looked at me for translation. I hesitated, the Akzametl were rarely unsure of themselves, something that made them hard to work with and one reason why the Empire was not so favourable of them. “He says that no, the Animal-Folk are not people. The Animal-Folk are the Animal-Folk.”

“What does that mean?” Adrian asked. I looked at him sardonically. “Sorry, I know, stupid question. Should we report this to Rogerts then? You know that the Empire will love hearing about new naked natives running around this place.”

“I don’t know. They could be just the run of the mill ape for all we know. But do you notice how Jaktl fiddles with that marking on his right hand? It’s the symbol for Akzatliquatkitlihaucan. Here he his both death-bringer and life-giver, as opposed to the Mountain-Folk beliefs. That is why his symbol is black, but the hourglass-figure representing woman. The Edge-Folk must fear the Animal-Folk. Perhaps we may have to do a search for these Tzhilitchlici, then. See why they are neither called animal nor human, but rather both.”

“Tchu litlitkahamoun?”

“Chlol… Tuli-Kitlaunli hacamoun.” Adrian raised his eyebrows at me as I stood up. I nodded my head towards our tent and said “Sleep time.”

· · ·

My youngest son, Kyran, appeared behind the door-frame. He looked up at me, staring but not speaking. He was a good boy, if a little shy. I looked to my wife and she nodded to me. I smiled and took my son’s hand as I took him to his room. He crawled into his bed and there I sat down and as per ritual, I began my tale:

“In the far away lands, across the Edge where the Dragons lie, there is a woman. Her name is Chaliqi. Every day and every night, this woman collects a bundle of Golden Wheat. In the morning, she mills it by the Lautqau River and as it turns to flour and to dough and to bread, it grows even more radiant with each touch of Chaliqi’s hands. She takes the Golden Radiant Loaf to her grandfather who lies sickly and old in his house in the mountains. It is a long and arduous journey, but she carries the loaf in her arms, so none may take it from her. She reaches her grandfather in the mountains and he eats the Golden Loaf. With each bite, the radiance fades. Seeing that her grandfather is now healthy, Chaliqi takes her journey back to the Lautqau River, but as she does so, Akzatliquatkitlihaucan, the Dark Snake of Birth, sneaks into the house of Chaliqi’s grandfather and bites him. She does not know this and the Golden Loaf that her grandfather has eaten draws him into a deep sleep from which neither noise nor touch may awaken him. And the Dark Snake of Birth takes a piece of his life for the Dark Snake needs life sacrifice to tend to his crop of Golden Wheat.”

Kyran shifted in his covers. A sign for me to stop.

“Is the Dark Snake the Demon-Foe, father?” he asked. To the Akzametl, the Dark Snake brought Life to this world. To the Empire, any belief other than theirs was heresy and witchery. Lies were considered a sin and yet to tell the truth was worth your life when the truth was unwanted.

“The Dark Snake took life, son. The taking is life is forbidden, is it not?” I responded.

My son nodded his head, and then asked, “But what about the woman? She stole from the Dark Snake!”

I smiled. My son, the ever thoughtful one, who never lets any thing go by him. I answered, “Some things… Some things are not as they seem. Think on it, Kyran. Tomorrow, give me your answer.”

· · ·

Adrian came running to me, nearly tripping over a piled loop of rope. He called out, “Sir! Sir! I heard the news! Kyran just ran into my office and told me. You plan to do it!” He reached me, past the grumbling sailors and various suitcases and cargo being loaded onto the ships. His leather bag slammed against his thighs. “You’re going to search for them, aren’t you? The Animal-Folk, the Tzhilitchauchlici!” He grinned conspiratorially. If I came back with any sort of finding, the Empire would award me richly and I would receive an even better pay than I did now. I smiled sadly at him, at how young he was. He and my son were two years apart and both so similar in youthful innocence and hope.

“I will search for the Tzhilitchauchlici, Adrian. Dammit! Wipe that grin off your face! You know why I am going. Just… take care of Kyran, and little Aria, will you? You may wish that I find them, but I don’t. I hope that damn forest kills me.” I said. I resented the bitterness in my voice, even though I did not show it. Adrian was a great man, if faulted to be a little young.

Adrian bowed his head and said in a low voice, “So it’s true… Your reason for going, it’s because your wife was murdered, isn’t it? That’s why you’re leaving. If you succeed in finding the tribe, they’re most likely to be hostile. If you don’t, well… that forest is hostile. You won’t survive the trip. I was hoping you’d see Aria and I married, that you’d walk her down the aisle and watch with pride from the sidelines as I said my vows. Your absence will darken her life, you know this. You don’t care. You can’t. Well, sir, it has… It has been a pleasure to w-work with you. I’ll take my leave now. May the ailments take you.” His eyes were red and glossy as he straightened up from his bow and stood, staring at me. Then he turned, stumbled across the port and disappeared behind a carriage.

A sailor called out, exclaiming that it was time to depart. Silently, I picked up my personal luggage and carried it aboard to my cabin. My only thought was of despair in how the ship was full of men of no moral obligations. Men just like the one that raped and murdered my wife.

· · ·

Metihauca, a female guide stopped and clicked. The llama carrying my luggage groaned while stopping. “Tcha nlili kqlimacklit.” She would take me no further. The Akzametl had been reluctant to allow a Miktli, a Guide, to show me a safe passage into the forest. The Miktli were a wandering tribe, a rarity to have in abundance in any area. Their maps and guiding were the best in these lands. To have one in service was a great honour.

I may have worked with the Akzametl for a time, but not to place any sense of honour. I was merely a diplomat. But these men knew death. They have seen my hair pepper and then grey as we have worked together. They have heard my tales of my son growing of age and my daughter receiving her first bloody flower. We share stories, the tribes-people and I. They tell of their hard winters and barren summers, I tell of mine. I watched as Jaktli’s son procured the demon’s spots and I told how to cure them. And they knew. They knew that this time, when I stepped off the ship and travelled to their village, that there was something different. A wife of Jaktli gave me the bitter tea that they drink at a death’s service. When I requested that I would ask in which direction to find the Animal-Folk, Jaktli held his hand on my shoulder and said that the dead will meet no bitter end. A meaning which, as long as the grieving drink of the bitter tea, those who have died will find happiness in death. I believe he meant to drink of the tea when I left to my journey into the forest. And then they assigned the Miktli woman to guide me. At times for those old and weak, a guide will show them to a place they desire, sometimes to the coast or mountains. A place that they had a relation to. Most headed towards a place of ardour or personal meaning; I headed towards my death.

Adrian was correct in his assumptions, I wished for death and I will find it. Jaktli will drink his bitter tea, Adrian will scowl as the memorial service is performed, and my son will bitterly wallow in work and find some greater purpose. My daughter, my little Aria, she will cry and despair. She will wear a symbol of grief and hide deeper within herself than after her mum died. Adrian will attempt to get her out of the house and she will refuse. She will cry and suffer the plagues of a survivor. But I am the parent and I have nothing left.

It is my time to die.

The Miktli woman leaves.

· · ·

The air is thick and dank, the air of a tropic-forest. The ground is dark and rich; each step brings the scent of rot and leaves. There is a lack of light; day and night are the same. The stars, the sun, the moon, they are all eclipsed by the towering, damp trees.

The world is slick with humidity, pressing with life and death presents itself everywhere.

A root catches my foot and I stumble. It is hard to stand; my legs and arms are weak with hunger. My mind reels with the world and I turn to my left and vomit. I remain there, prostrated and ready to expel more fluids. My eyes slowly force themselves to focus upon the bush in front of me. Nauseating unfocussed thoughts slam against the small inch of focus in my mind and I vomit again. Tears leak down my cheeks in pain. A slam of agony forces my body to eject as much liquid as possible. My very mind is being tortured—stabbing, wrenching pain. My voice is hoarse as it lets out a howl of suffering.

· · ·

Pain is my first thought.

I open my eyes to find myself on the forest ground. A leg is in front of me. I jerked, and then stopped. While the pain in my head is a never-ending force, movement causes my stomach to rebel. I slowly turn towards the rest of the body sitting beside me.

A woman. She is naked, her breasts have never seen a support and her body remains natural without the deformation of clothing. She holds a few scars, the main one on her left leg—not deep, but she will keep it for life. Her hair is lengthy, the hair on her legs like down. She is obviously unwashed, the hair matted together. Her eyes are hard and shock me with their ferocity. They dart to me and to the forest. I see that her skin is taut, not fattened by everyday consumption of meat, but the hardiness found by living in a world of harshness. I realise that as I stand, a waft of a musky sweetness comes from her. This woman is something I would call nature. I realise her beauty and the magnificence of her being. I realise that I have found life.

Then I realise that I am naked.

I move to cover myself and she turns swiftly towards me. Her muscles taut and she lurches forward slightly, ready to spring on me in case I flee. She glares at me, giving me a harsh noise. Taken aback, I pitch backwards. In catching myself, my chest exposes. Her eyebrow raises and she grins, not showing off her teeth. Her canines are sharper and more pronounced and when she grins, they show a sense of dangerous play.

I remain still. She coos a little and looks away. I pull myself in; the lack of clothing brings an odd light feeling on my skin, as though I am missing something.

After a while, a man comes, just as natural as the woman. He is older than her and has greying hair like me. He holds more scars than her, one across his cheek and his back and arms are riddled with them. He is muscular. He too has long hair and a beard. He makes a soft yet loud call to the woman and she answers back. He throws a satchel to her, who in turn hands it to me. It is soft and contains water. I drink.

· · ·

I am in a throng of these natural beings. Every so often, one sniffs towards me and looks me over. Usually they give a sort of chuckle to themselves and go about their business. Sometimes a younger male will make a threatening gesture.

Looking around, they appear to have a social order. There’s the requisite alpha male and female which lounge near the centre, giving barks to various workers. A group of children play watched by unisex care-takers. Gatherers come with berries, nuts and other plants of use. Sometimes they wander over to what appears to be a doctor of sorts to get an order for some plant. Hunters come by, holding spoils of strange birds, small hogs and what looks to me as a tree-rabbit. I can see guards up in the trees and I am sure that there are more that I cannot see. From what I noticed, there is no distinction between male or female. Men take care of children and they hunt; women gather and guard. One young male hunter came in with a slashed leg and ever since he has prepared food and medicines. I believed that he would have lost the leg and be left out to die, as is the cruelty of nature. However, the doctor bandaged and placed salves and a poultice on the leg. For the past few days, two of the women have kept by him, sleeping and cuddling next to him. His leg is fine and he appears to only wait for the gash to heal.

I have remained in their camp for several days and the woman who found me has come and gone, her place is as a scout. At least that is what I believe. I can find no real language, just a series of noises and motions. I have tried the Akzametl language and some of them merely gave their chuckled coos and others gave me a look of confusion. I have found that the woman and I can communicate, but I do not understand how—or at least not entirely.

On the first night, I awoke starving. I had long since ran out of food and water during my trek through this forest and was long-needed of a meal. The woman had been sleeping beside me, something I found disconcerting given my lack of clothing and that I am a man of moralities. I do not go sleeping with other women, not since I found all I wanted in my late wife. She started and when she saw that I was awake, she nuzzled closer to me, trying to get me to lie back down. I nudged her away. She made a noise, one I suspected of annoyance, and left. She came back moments later with a bowl of nuts. I ate them, but ever since then, I’ve noticed a series of unspoken conversations between her and me.

I have found myself sleeping with the woman every night. It seems as though how these people keep warm. There is nothing sexual or intimate, but there is this odd sense of togetherness. I realise that this is what it is to be in a pack. We are joined as a unit, everyone participating in a duty to which they are fit and none are to be left behind. I do not know my place in this, I am unfit to be a hunter and completely unused to their customs to be allowed to teach their children.

· · ·

It is a warm night. I lie awake, listening to the sounds of the forest and those that live here. Next to me is the woman, who I call Che. She awakens and nuzzles closer to me, latching on. I move myself to be more comfortable. My wife and I never slept like this, but I never knew why. This sleeping is warm, comfortable, and secure. Che and I are one, together underneath the canopy-tops.

She slips into a light sleep, dosing and slipping awake enough to give a noise of comfort. I brush my hand across her back. Her skin is soft and warm. The air around us is a casing of our scent mingling. There is a male musk mixed with her sweeter, more feminine smell. I nuzzle my head against her’s. She moves upwards to lick at my ear. It startles me; this is the first of this type of action. She makes a light growling and holds one of my arms as the other brushes against me in a movement to kiss my lips. I move more forcibly away.

Then her smell hits me.

It’s entrancing and sweet, a strange attraction.

There’s a faint strength of spice in it, something familiar. It’s intoxicating.

I lean inwards, towards her. The smell of her, the feel of her skin, the taste of her all pulling me in. I cannot pull away.

I do not pull away.

All the time, this deep inner part of me takes over. My actions, my wants, my Che. My mind no longer functions as logic and rigid thinking. I no longer remember the lessons taught as a child about morality or the works of the all-father. I no longer remember my wife or children; they are all a world apart to what is a dream. My mind and this deep thrumming part of me exchange.

I am the animal.

I am the wild.

I am the nature.

..................

The original point of it was to say that there is more than one way to live, there is more than one way to think. He was supposed to leave, wander and die into the forest. But now I'm not so sure... he might live on, he might not. The thing is, he is no longer the stuffy archaeologist from the Empire anymore. He's now this wild thing in the middle of a gigantic forest. He doesn't even HAVE a name. The one character in the story to not have a name, and it's the main character. I don't think he really needed one. He was just a random man from the Empire (Britain, essentially; and the place where the tribes are are obviously the Aztecs and Amazon rain forest).

It's not a happy ending. The thing is, he left all these people behind to mourn and cry over him. He LOVES his daughter, but he left her in his own misery. His son and assistant hate him (Kyran is less likely to admit that). His wife was raped and murdered. The own man's way of thinking and views were destroyed; he had sex with some RANDOM feral woman for no REAL good reason. Whether or not he dies physically, his life is destroyed and dead.

Blue Rose - Valentine's Day Gift to All

There was once a young man and this young man loved a young woman very deeply. This young woman was not entirely fond of this young man and like most of her gender at that age wanted, she asked him to show her his love for her.

Now, he did not know what to say. So he asked instead what she would want. Like most women at the time, she sent him along on a quest. She had done this quite a lot to her suitors, which was fine for them as it tended to allow them to see the world, conquer various strange beasts and end up with a bar wench who was quite prettier (and less apt to ask them for more than the typical house and children) than the lady they were trying to woo. After her last suitor failed to bring her a unicorn and the one before that a cloak of starlight, she decided to ask for something she believed a little more attainable.

So, when the young man asked her for what she wanted, she asked for a bouquet of blue roses. When he asked her, “Why not just one?” she replied, “Because one is not enough. Every year for ten years, you must bring me one blue rose. Only after that I will see that you are persistent, loyal and hard-working.” Believing this to be a time for adventure and fun, the young man consented to the deal. Pleased with herself, the young woman went back to her daily activities, which mostly included thinking up impossible things to ask of young men.

The young man planned and packed that night for his journey. His father hinted that he had heard during his own travels that a young woman in the Orient had asked for a blue rose and had even received it. Believing that a good place to start as any, he headed for the Orient.

However when the young man arrived at his destination, he found something relatively different than what he expected. Upon asking a young princess how her husband had gained a blue rose, she told him that he obtained it by being honest, true, valued her love, had been patient and kind. The young man told her that he had to give his young woman a blue rose every year for ten years and to that, the young princess smiled and told him to remain as honest, loving, patient and kind as he was now and his young woman would find what her heart desired. Confused by this strange idiom of wisdom, he felt that he would continue his way west.

As he headed to his destination by train, then by ship, he spoke to an old man with a thick accent. The man spoke of new times and a blue rose. When the young man asked the old man if he knew where the blue rose was, the old man said, “I plucked death from a lake and saved my love.” Unsure of what the old man’s tale meant, he followed the train west.

He found himself lost within the islands of the Mediterranean and there he found a woman. As he had asked many who had helped him along his way, he asked her if she knew of blue roses and their location. To this, the woman said that she had not fashioned any rose of that colour and to end his search for it was in vain. Wistfully as she sewed rose petals together in the form of a small woman, she mentioned that she had heard of poems contrived due west. Perturbed by the woman’s rose petal person, who had sprung to life and danced, he headed as she said, west.

He again took use of ship and yet another train and here he found a man somber and, when people asked him, told them a short fanciful combination of words. The young man question the somber man about blue roses. The somber man answered that those you will search the world all over and people will mock you for your try; the only place to find blue roses is in Death’s embrace.

Not very fond of that answer, the young man felt that he would, instead, dream. He took residence in a meadow in the west, where it was warm and many would often time slumber in such places. He fell asleep the warmth and golden sunlight and peaceful breeze. And there was a young lady. She was his age and she wore a dress. He smiled at her, for that was the polite thing to do. She bent and tended to a bush of flowers. Curious, he bent over her, realizing that that was not an entirely polite thing to do. She asked, “Do you wish for something, sir?” To this he replied, “I wish for a blue rose.”

She looked at him funny then. She asked why. He answered that he needed it to please a lady. She said, “You do not need these things to make a woman happy.” He told her that she wanted it. She replied, “Wants flitter and scamper about; they do not stay the same. To appease desire is to do the impossible.” To this he remained silent for a while.

She asked this time, “What do you dream for?” To this he replied, “I dream for a young lady who dreams for me.”

She said, “You dream for the impossible.”

He asked, “Why?”

She replied, “Young ladies, these days, only dream for things desired, those cloaks of starlight and unicorn fouls and bouquets of blue roses. They do not dream for love but for a show of it.”

This made the young man think again. He seemed puzzled, trying to work things out. He nodded his head and said, “Then what I dream for and what I want, you cannot give me?”

The young lady smiled at this and answered, “I can give you what you dream for, young man. Awake and find yourself a pub.”

To that, he awoke. Not quite remembering what he dreamed about, he headed toward the town for something to eat. There he spied a pub called the Blue Rose. Smiling at the irony, he entered this pub. There it was quite quiet and still, not many travelers wandered into this parts and the pub was not really the rambunctious drunk pub but more of the calm with delicious stew variety.

He ordered what was delicious and as he sat by himself, a young lady entered. The man who ran the place greeted her and she gave him a bouquet of blue roses. The young man exclaimed loudly to this and startled the young lady. She laughed at his surprise and said, “Not many travelers come to these parts, we’re not on the map you see. Who are you?” He told her that he was a young man and that he was searching for a blue rose. She said, “Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place, I s’pose. Here, you can take one. They grow lovely around here, probably the soil.” And she handed him a blue rose.

To this he paused, looking at her. He said, “I have also dreamed of a young lady to take with me.”

To this, she paused, smiling at him in embarrassment. She said, “I have often dreamed of a young man to take me away with him.”

He took her hand, placing the rose on the table and kissed her lightly. She stroked his hair and he closed his eyes. She kissed his forehead. The next day they both traveled from the town which they never found again and with it they brought their love and blue rose.

...

This is my Valentine's Day gift to you all. It was written to work with my gift to Michael, my boyfriend. Those pictures of his gift shall appear when I actually give it to him.

Satu

An old woman wrapped in a shawl, red in colour, was rocking on her porch. She was enjoying the nice warm sun and slept. The woman was most commonly known as Kozani Shapash and while most knew who she was, nobody knew much about her otherwise. The townsfolk had learned that she was never either generous or stingy, but inbetween. She was not friendly and nor was she rude. Shapash, or Shapa as the little ones called her, remained neutral in everything.

That seemed very much impossible, and some of the town philosophers would contemplate this while sipping their coffee in the local shop in the morning. As far as anyone knew, she had never married nor had children. A very rare few people and a pinch more of other folk did actually know the answer to this question; however they would not be apt to discuss it, even if you could get a hold of them.

Now, one day a stranger came into town and the wind blew, as more than often times it does in these situations, and he entered the local coffee shop. He was a medium-sized man wearing a tan mud-splattered, with a few darker stains that gave a hint of long-splattered blood and even some other non-descript stains, trench coat and a dark moss coloured fedora. He was a traveller most certainly and not one of these touristy loudmouths that the town seemed to get too often these days. He was a brand of traveller that was well-welcomed because he would have stories to tell of worth and kept a certain amount of mystery on his person. What the townsfolk did not know that this was a special brand of traveller, one that was even more rare than usual.

The man, his name Thomas Shriver, ordered a small latté and sat down next to the early afternoon philosophers (who normally discussed how much film has fallen his Federico Fellini and how the producers should have left Orson Welles be or how publishers shouldn’t let 15 yr old boys publish their books and that nothing new is left to write). One of the men with a lime green tea mug leaned forward, “But what about this… You, Winston, can write about the mushrooms and Mark, you do the cats. I’ll write about the socks and-”

“-But I want to do the cats. And why are there cats in this anyways? WHAT are we doing?”

“What do you mean? We decided last time that in order for this to feel right, there needed to be cats.”

“But I don’t like cats, you like-”

“Alright, alright! No cats. How about envelopes?”

“Why envelopes? That doesn’t make anymore sense than cats OR socks OR mushrooms. I thought you said we were gonna do something normal.”

“Oh come on! When does writing EVER make sense?”

“So now what? We’re just going to do things that have no thought process then? We’re just going to end up just like those experimental film-makers - explaining the world by not making sense.”

“FINE. If you don’t want to do this book, then we’ll just call the entire group off. I’ll message Kat and Maddy; tell them that we can’t do it.”

“Look, I had to pick up my daughter 15 minutes ago, I’m sorry. I have to leave.”

There was a silence as one of the men stood up. As he left the shop, the one named Mark smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He gave a meek noise, Thomas didn’t catch it and he was fairly certain neither did the remaining man, and left. Thomas looked at the man with the lime green mug. The man with the lime green mug sighed and noticed Thomas staring at him.

“An anthology of stories about kitchen-related objects, I presume? Mushrooms ready to be cut and placed into a stew, an envelope ready to be sent to a sister’s birthday, a cat drifting in for her afternoon meal and socks - things that do not belong in a kitchen but yet they somehow found themselves there anyway?” said Thomas Shriver. The man with the lime green mug gave a puzzled look. He was about to say something, realized another and with an apology, left the shop in a hurry.

Thomas Shriver smiled and drained his cup. He stood and threw his cup away. While exiting, he paused and asked a woman, “Do you know of the old woman named Kozani Shapash?”

“Oh, well… I do not believe I would call her old, however she lives on Oak Road, I think. Dear, where does that woman live?” she said turning to her husband.

“That is fine. I just needed to know the road to travel by, thank you. Ah, and no, stealing the stray hundreds from your dying mother is not justified.” Thomas said and before the woman could recount against what the man said, he left the shop with a jingle of the bells on the door.

He paused at the roadway and breathed in. A car or two passed by. “Oak Road, eh?” he murmured. He stepped into the road, strong deliberate steps. A wind passed around him, unlike that which is normal. It did not, say, pass around a little girl with her balloon and mother or a town-cat that eats on the scraps freely given by various shop owners. As he took his steps, the place he was heading in across the street changed from an old trinkets shop and shoe store and a blackened out building that went out of business to a young tree and a yard and a porch and a house. It was not blip of instantaneous or melting into a thing to another, but more so as though Thomas walked several miles by crossing the street. It was a direct walk, as some say as the crow flies however here it may be more prudent to say ‘as the stork walks’. Thomas was always most fond of this ability, it certainly was less work than wandering the through the mazes that people had built. He had once heard a preacher say that the god’s path was not easily walked and yet all Thomas had to do was step onto a road with a destination in mind and there he was. Then again, he was quite certain that the man was not actually talking about the REAL god-path but some sort of thing some one once made up.

Thomas glanced over to the end of the street and the sign said ‘Oak Road’. Sure enough, he had indeed arrived at the right location. Even the house he stood in front of had an old woman covered in a red blanket. It was all too easy and as some say, too easy means something is wrong. Thomas shrugged at the thought and walked up the porch steps.

“Now I assume that you are under the guise of ‘Kozani Shapash?’” he asked the old woman.

She did not stir, but answer nonetheless, “Ah, I was wondering when my little Norn would come around for me.” Thomas cleared his throat and she opened a lazy eye at him.

“Yes, well I prefer Thomas now. I suppose you may call me at the present, Lee Thomas. I have been known on occasion to be Thomas Shriver. It’s these Americans and the New Ages. They just don’t know the old gods like they used to. A New World, A New Name, eh? My dearest Mati Syra Zemlya?”

“Toh! I always hated that one, Thoth. I prefer the Earthmother or Sun-Mother.”

“Hm. Yes well, now you’re the Sun-Mother. It’s mid-day, isn’t it?”

“You did not come to chat about the Americans and their names or the New World and the End of the Old Ways, did you? Odin, he calls himself Wednesday now, came around and mentioned it to me too. Get on with the business and leave this town be.”

“Yes,” Thoth said. “Well, let’s see here.” He rummaged through his pockets, bringing out a piece of parchment and a stork feather quill. “Crocus All-Mother, the Serpent-Mother to Knossos, the Death Goddess, the Warrior Goddess, the Aphrodisiac in Living Flesh, Earthmother, Kar the Wise, Mother of Athena, The Hound of Hades, One of the Three-Fold Face, Plague-Bringer, Sun-Mother, The Meadow and Lady of the Organs.” He paused for breath. “And you know I never understood that last one?”

“Oh, please do get on with it, Thoth. I do not have all day.”

“Ah, yes. I do suppose that you do not. Have all day that is. Usually my clients are less… ah… knowing of what to come. They tend to keep silent and are not in hurry. I haven’t judged a god for a while, you know. We just don’t die that easily. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. People judge themselves these days.”

He hurriedly read through the last few lines to catch his place. “I, Thoth, the Judge, shall ah… judge your soul and heart against the Feather of Truth. If your soul and heart weigh more greatly than the Feather of Truth, then you shall be eaten. If the Feather weighs the same, you shall go to the Underworld, which Anubis, the Guide, shall show you.”

“Where is Anubis?” the Crocus All-Mother asked.

“Oh? Well, he is holding up our morgue we’ve put together. Have to make a living, of course. Now, where did I put that scale?” He again rummaged through his pockets, bringing out a normal-sized scale that looked, in the least, a little tired. He place a raggedly feather, again from his pocket, on one side of the scale. “Your heart please, Crocus All-Mother?”

“I haven’t had to take it out for ages, you know. I might have to dig around a bit. Probably in the back somewhere out of the way.” She took off her dress and stabbed her hand into her chest. She grimaced and after a moment of feeling around, she pulled it out. It was still, silent and looked as though it had not been used for a while. “Here you go.”

“Ah, thank you.” He placed it one the other side of the scale. They watched as the heart and Feather bounced from heavy to light and light to heavy. Finally the heart settled on being lighter. Thoth made a grunt and scribbled something down on his parchment ledger.

“Well, you shall be reborn, then. Of course, you ARE a god-being. That’s no surprise. The people will always need something to worship.” Thoth flipped the page. “Now it says here that you shall become Saffron. It’s not too readily worshipped around, so you might not get too high a rank. However you shall be, let’s see, patroness of spice, food, chefs, red dye… Still of crocuses and autumn crocuses, poison too.”

“Thoth, it’s been a good run, hasn’t it? I guess this Old Way is not needed anymore. Good luck in your own travels, Thomas.” Said the dying Crocus All-Mother.

There was a flash. It was not light, it was not dark. It was Change. It was Death and Birth. It was that of a goddess needed no more being reborn into one that was. It was an Old Way disappearing from the Human Lands and a New Way coming into. It smelled of red and was the colour of spice, of cooking and was as light as night and dark as day. It was a flower dying into existence. What was once an old woman with a red-coloured shawl was a young girl in a red-coloured spring dress.

“Hello,” said Thoth to the girl named Saffron.

She smiled back and asked, “Would you like some tea? Maybe some lunch?”

“Ah, no. I must decline. Work to do I am afraid.” Thoth responded and he left.

As he began to cross the street into a place over in California where his old partner Anubis was and his morgue resided, he thought that he might have curry for lunch. He knew a great, and expensive, Indian restaurant that served a special curry with saffron.

...

This is my newest piece. I was originally going to make it my first manuscript to send out to some fantasy magazine. HOWEVER, a few days later, I've decided the idea is a little too flimsy. It's sort of... based from TWO ideas that formed during the writing of it. One is about an old lady with a red shawl and she IS the Crocus All-Mother, the Lady of Spring and Autumn, of Sun and Moon, Life and Death, who dies and turns into Saffron. The other is about a medium-aged man named Thomas. He is the embodiment of Thoth in the new ages. Shriver comes from schreiben, German from 'to write'. Thoth IS a god of writing. He tells the writer in the coffee shop not the IDEA, for the writer came up with it himself, but more of the connection from dream-stuff to real-world ideas. Lee Thomas is the Judgement side of Thoth. Lee being a name in Korean that means 'judge' or 'plum'.

So instead, I think I'll send in a rewritten story about the Daily Life of Thoth and write one about Saffron for a series of illustrated books on spice.

Satu is a Scandinavian name meaning fable or fairytale.