Kidnapped?!
More like
Caught
It's hardly my fault
The girl is a klutz
And that chasm
Was not mine
Blame the Earthshaker
I, bent to my dark work,
And here she falls
Like a poppy aflame,
All giggles and disarray
And distraction
And asking for something to eat
Showing posts with label mythology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mythology. Show all posts
13 June 2020
20 June 2014
More from K-Pro Sequel Ms. Fortune
"I saved her cat," said Grant.
"Must have earned her stamp of approval," David replied absently. He stood with the refrigerator open, staring into it with the perplexed expression of a man who has forgotten what he's looking for.
"She gave me ice cream."
"Ice cream . . ." David echoed. He released the fridge door and opened the freezer side instead.
"Are you even listening?" Grand asked.
"We don't have any," sighed David. He let the freezer shut, too, and turned to Grant. "Let's go out. For ice cream."
Grant did a rapid mental calculation. Being seen out with the great David Styles certainly wouldn't hurt his PR any. And he actually liked David, which was something like a bonus given how many people he was forced to endure that he didn't like. Nature of the business. But still . . . "Your treat?"
David laughed. "Yes, fine. But you drive."
"Must have earned her stamp of approval," David replied absently. He stood with the refrigerator open, staring into it with the perplexed expression of a man who has forgotten what he's looking for.
"She gave me ice cream."
"Ice cream . . ." David echoed. He released the fridge door and opened the freezer side instead.
"Are you even listening?" Grand asked.
"We don't have any," sighed David. He let the freezer shut, too, and turned to Grant. "Let's go out. For ice cream."
Grant did a rapid mental calculation. Being seen out with the great David Styles certainly wouldn't hurt his PR any. And he actually liked David, which was something like a bonus given how many people he was forced to endure that he didn't like. Nature of the business. But still . . . "Your treat?"
David laughed. "Yes, fine. But you drive."
18 June 2014
Psyche
You have given the arrow that pierces your heart my name. But you must look to yourself, Eros, when it comes to lousy aim.
Mortal men keep their distance from great beauty, and even the gods dare not show themselves to it.
But what wouldn't I do for you or you for me? You are Heart and I am Soul, and we together complete a cosmic system. And it is only together that we can triumph.
Mortal men keep their distance from great beauty, and even the gods dare not show themselves to it.
But what wouldn't I do for you or you for me? You are Heart and I am Soul, and we together complete a cosmic system. And it is only together that we can triumph.
13 June 2014
Durandios & Arista
(unfinished; not sure if/when I'll come back to it)
The god lay under the spread of trees, a roughly woven green cloak cocooned around him so that, should anyone stumble across him, all one might see would be a lumpy sort of sack topped with a fringe of dark hair. Arista approached slowly. As the god’s chief servant, hers was the most difficult job in creation. She would be in trouble if she woke him and in trouble if she didn’t. Bending over him, her long, silver-white hair spilling around her and onto the sleeping figure, she took him gently by the shoulder and shook.
A head popped out of the top of the bundle, and Durandios’ green eyes began to focus. Arista rose to her full height, which was not inconsiderable and was enhanced by her thin frame.
All Ninatat looked alike, all having been carved from the same slab of silver, but Durandios knew each one by name and by sight. And he recognized Arista, certainly, who had been his attendant since he’d first breathed life into her. His attendant and his bane.
“What?” the god groused.
“You’re sleeping outside again,” Arista pointed out.
Durandios snorted, and Arista sighed. They had been together long enough that she was often frank with him, and though his tongue could be sharp, he wasn’t generally unkind.
“Please, let’s go back to the Realms,” said Arista. She often requested this, for herself as much as for Durandios, and sometimes he’d even do it, if only for a few days.
But not today. “No.” He kicked his feet free of the cloak and fumbled into a sitting position, looking up at her like a stubborn child.
“Then come to the house at least.”
Durandios was looking around him as if he’d never seen this place before, the trees, the clearing Arista had crossed to get to him. There was a river to the west; she could hear it chatter. No birds, though, she realized suddenly. The forest around them was silent.
Durandios thrust a hand up, a signal for Arista to help him to his feet. He wasn’t as tall as her, although he was nearly. She frowned at the cloak, which was covered in dirt and grass, a few leaves. Unbecoming to a god. Her own robes fairly glowed, and Arista felt a pang of guilt that she outshone her creator.
“Ah!” Durandios had passed her to walk ahead of her, and he held up a warning finger. “You know better than that.”
“We’ll get you clean when we get to the house, dress you in—”
Durandios turned, walking backwards with no loss of speed. “I’ll put on jeans.”
Arista groaned.
Jeans did not exist in AElit. And jeans would not exist in any other part of the world for thousands of years. But they were his favorite thing to wear at home, where no one would see him.
His wearing jeans meant they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. In the Realms, holy robes were required. And on the small, pastoral island of AElit, one would dress as Durandios was now in a cloak and tunic, breeches and sandals.
It wasn’t long before Moka Durand came into view, the higher walls rearing above the trees and its stone made white by the gleaming sun. It had the look of a monastery. There was even a bell tower, although Arista wasn’t sure why because they never rang the bell.
“Are you hungry, Ninano?” Arista asked.
“Not really.” He had turned around again, and they pushed through the little iron gate that marked the boundary of the estate. As if a god had limits to what he could take if he wanted to.
The path was straight and paved with stones. On either side marched the low hedges of a garden that flared out and around the house. The hedges formed a little maze that incorporated benches and fountains. Arista had designed it, and as far as she knew, Durandios didn’t even know it was there.
The mazes at the front of the house had low enough hedges to see one’s way through, but the maze Arista had created at the back was much more difficult. The hedges there were nine feet high. It was not a place to go for an idle walk. Durandios did not walk there, either; instead he tended to venture off the grounds and fall asleep beneath trees until Arista came for him. It was happening more and more frequently, and Arista had started debating (when alone, of course) whether to tell Tithendion.
But to tell Tithendion, Arista had to get to Argyros. And even when they did go to the Realms, they almost never went to Argyros.
Arista didn’t think there had been a falling out between Durandios and his father; she knew her lord too well to honestly think such a thing could be hidden from her. But the two of them had never been close. It was no secret in any of the Realms that Tithendion adored his son (and hated Durandios’ twin sister, but then, who didn’t); however, Durandios seemed to have very little affection for anything to do with the Realms.
Perhaps he’d been made too well. Tithendion had created Durandios to care for the world, to breathe life into it and keep it going. What concern of Durandios’, then, was the heavenly host? Aside from having made the Ninatat, of course.
It wasn’t the first time Arista had gone through these mental paces. If Durandios heard her thoughts about him—and he always did—he didn’t seem to care.
And if Arista had a heart, she was sure it would be broken.
The god lay under the spread of trees, a roughly woven green cloak cocooned around him so that, should anyone stumble across him, all one might see would be a lumpy sort of sack topped with a fringe of dark hair. Arista approached slowly. As the god’s chief servant, hers was the most difficult job in creation. She would be in trouble if she woke him and in trouble if she didn’t. Bending over him, her long, silver-white hair spilling around her and onto the sleeping figure, she took him gently by the shoulder and shook.
A head popped out of the top of the bundle, and Durandios’ green eyes began to focus. Arista rose to her full height, which was not inconsiderable and was enhanced by her thin frame.
All Ninatat looked alike, all having been carved from the same slab of silver, but Durandios knew each one by name and by sight. And he recognized Arista, certainly, who had been his attendant since he’d first breathed life into her. His attendant and his bane.
“What?” the god groused.
“You’re sleeping outside again,” Arista pointed out.
Durandios snorted, and Arista sighed. They had been together long enough that she was often frank with him, and though his tongue could be sharp, he wasn’t generally unkind.
“Please, let’s go back to the Realms,” said Arista. She often requested this, for herself as much as for Durandios, and sometimes he’d even do it, if only for a few days.
But not today. “No.” He kicked his feet free of the cloak and fumbled into a sitting position, looking up at her like a stubborn child.
“Then come to the house at least.”
Durandios was looking around him as if he’d never seen this place before, the trees, the clearing Arista had crossed to get to him. There was a river to the west; she could hear it chatter. No birds, though, she realized suddenly. The forest around them was silent.
Durandios thrust a hand up, a signal for Arista to help him to his feet. He wasn’t as tall as her, although he was nearly. She frowned at the cloak, which was covered in dirt and grass, a few leaves. Unbecoming to a god. Her own robes fairly glowed, and Arista felt a pang of guilt that she outshone her creator.
“Ah!” Durandios had passed her to walk ahead of her, and he held up a warning finger. “You know better than that.”
“We’ll get you clean when we get to the house, dress you in—”
Durandios turned, walking backwards with no loss of speed. “I’ll put on jeans.”
Arista groaned.
Jeans did not exist in AElit. And jeans would not exist in any other part of the world for thousands of years. But they were his favorite thing to wear at home, where no one would see him.
His wearing jeans meant they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. In the Realms, holy robes were required. And on the small, pastoral island of AElit, one would dress as Durandios was now in a cloak and tunic, breeches and sandals.
It wasn’t long before Moka Durand came into view, the higher walls rearing above the trees and its stone made white by the gleaming sun. It had the look of a monastery. There was even a bell tower, although Arista wasn’t sure why because they never rang the bell.
“Are you hungry, Ninano?” Arista asked.
“Not really.” He had turned around again, and they pushed through the little iron gate that marked the boundary of the estate. As if a god had limits to what he could take if he wanted to.
The path was straight and paved with stones. On either side marched the low hedges of a garden that flared out and around the house. The hedges formed a little maze that incorporated benches and fountains. Arista had designed it, and as far as she knew, Durandios didn’t even know it was there.
The mazes at the front of the house had low enough hedges to see one’s way through, but the maze Arista had created at the back was much more difficult. The hedges there were nine feet high. It was not a place to go for an idle walk. Durandios did not walk there, either; instead he tended to venture off the grounds and fall asleep beneath trees until Arista came for him. It was happening more and more frequently, and Arista had started debating (when alone, of course) whether to tell Tithendion.
But to tell Tithendion, Arista had to get to Argyros. And even when they did go to the Realms, they almost never went to Argyros.
Arista didn’t think there had been a falling out between Durandios and his father; she knew her lord too well to honestly think such a thing could be hidden from her. But the two of them had never been close. It was no secret in any of the Realms that Tithendion adored his son (and hated Durandios’ twin sister, but then, who didn’t); however, Durandios seemed to have very little affection for anything to do with the Realms.
Perhaps he’d been made too well. Tithendion had created Durandios to care for the world, to breathe life into it and keep it going. What concern of Durandios’, then, was the heavenly host? Aside from having made the Ninatat, of course.
It wasn’t the first time Arista had gone through these mental paces. If Durandios heard her thoughts about him—and he always did—he didn’t seem to care.
And if Arista had a heart, she was sure it would be broken.
29 January 2014
More AElitian: d'Durandios, Teuchtia d'Teuchos
1. Tia, tramen Tithendion, bran senipette bela
2. bak no stamen palva bak no sta'ayn palva
3. bak no divosmen noe tiya barmbos d'kan'nadadinal adno tana senitana ninana
4. bak noe divosmen d'atant, tae ayris ninatat d'barmbos d'kan'nadadinal
5. wrain ninatat kanayva wro no kansenidivosmen
6. bak no divosmen taebarna d'barna'aena d'nint no framen bak divodgamen AElit
7. bak no divosmen palsenit: starnt bak schlart bak ristat bak tynos bak tynara bak palsenitva
8. wrain senit kanayva wro no kansenidivosmen
9. bak Tithendion litaenoe kanadramen bak sl'menseni Durandios
10. bak Durandios va wro nostava
11. bak Tithendion nocrenmen, 'divos palserit va, nie ninatat bak nie paltiya'
12. Durandios senidivosmen bak Tithendion nocremen, 'adrava d'palbarna bak senit nidivosmen d'barna d'nint'
13. Durandios deptmen Argyros bak pardapettemen d'barna sl'menseni Amarantos wro onova kansenitriktmen
14. bak agda no pardapettemen verdana, senistamen verd'va bak agda no miknost'triktmen aymensenitgran
15. bak Durandios kanadramen palstarnt bak senitadramenva, bak palsenit va, bak tynos Andrasthenes bak tynara Kalothrixede
From Durandios, First Book of the Teuchos
1. In the beginning there was Tithendion, who sets all things in their places
2. And He always was and He always will be
3. And He created for Himself a city of silver where He sits on His throne
4. And He created servants, great winged angels of silver
5. But the angels did not have Life for He had not created It
6. And He made a great world from the dust of the universe the he caught and shaped into AElit
7. And He created all things: animals and plants and birds and man and woman and all things living
8. But these things did not have Life because He had not created It
9. And Tithendion a piece of Himself took and called it Durandios
10. and Durandios lives for He is Life
11. And Tithendion told him, "Make all things living, my angels and my city"
12. Durandios did this and Tithendion told Him, "Give life to all the land and the things I have made from the dust of the universe"
13. Durandios left Argyros and set foot in the land that was called Amarantos because Death had not touched it
14. And when He set foot on the grass it became green with life and when he touched the trees they had fruit
15. And Durandios took the animals and gave them life, and all things life, and the man Andrasthenes and the woman Kalothrixede
2. bak no stamen palva bak no sta'ayn palva
3. bak no divosmen noe tiya barmbos d'kan'nadadinal adno tana senitana ninana
4. bak noe divosmen d'atant, tae ayris ninatat d'barmbos d'kan'nadadinal
5. wrain ninatat kanayva wro no kansenidivosmen
6. bak no divosmen taebarna d'barna'aena d'nint no framen bak divodgamen AElit
7. bak no divosmen palsenit: starnt bak schlart bak ristat bak tynos bak tynara bak palsenitva
8. wrain senit kanayva wro no kansenidivosmen
9. bak Tithendion litaenoe kanadramen bak sl'menseni Durandios
10. bak Durandios va wro nostava
11. bak Tithendion nocrenmen, 'divos palserit va, nie ninatat bak nie paltiya'
12. Durandios senidivosmen bak Tithendion nocremen, 'adrava d'palbarna bak senit nidivosmen d'barna d'nint'
13. Durandios deptmen Argyros bak pardapettemen d'barna sl'menseni Amarantos wro onova kansenitriktmen
14. bak agda no pardapettemen verdana, senistamen verd'va bak agda no miknost'triktmen aymensenitgran
15. bak Durandios kanadramen palstarnt bak senitadramenva, bak palsenit va, bak tynos Andrasthenes bak tynara Kalothrixede
From Durandios, First Book of the Teuchos
1. In the beginning there was Tithendion, who sets all things in their places
2. And He always was and He always will be
3. And He created for Himself a city of silver where He sits on His throne
4. And He created servants, great winged angels of silver
5. But the angels did not have Life for He had not created It
6. And He made a great world from the dust of the universe the he caught and shaped into AElit
7. And He created all things: animals and plants and birds and man and woman and all things living
8. But these things did not have Life because He had not created It
9. And Tithendion a piece of Himself took and called it Durandios
10. and Durandios lives for He is Life
11. And Tithendion told him, "Make all things living, my angels and my city"
12. Durandios did this and Tithendion told Him, "Give life to all the land and the things I have made from the dust of the universe"
13. Durandios left Argyros and set foot in the land that was called Amarantos because Death had not touched it
14. And when He set foot on the grass it became green with life and when he touched the trees they had fruit
15. And Durandios took the animals and gave them life, and all things life, and the man Andrasthenes and the woman Kalothrixede
07 December 2013
and a little more K-Pro sequel
"I want to be . . . Gary Oldman," Grant told her as he twisted the stem of his wine glass self-consciously. It seemed insane to be vocalizing these things, these deep and secret wishes. "That's the career I want. Full of lots of different roles and . . . What?" He'd snuck a glance at her from under the flop of his hair and she was smiling in a way he didn't entirely like. It was as if she knew something, or maybe knew better, and was trying not to laugh.
"But you can't be Gary Oldman," she told him, and her tone was surprisingly kind. "You can only be you. Even when you're playing a part, all you have to bring to the role is yourself. Your experiences. And whatever imagination you have. Which is, in and of itself, circumscribed by your personal background and limitations. I'm not saying you can't have that kind of career," she added, "but there's no use pinning your aspirations to anyone else's work. Focus on your own path and the rest will follow."
"That's it?" Grant demanded. "This is your great advice? I thought you had, like, power or something."
He was immediately sorry for his outburst as Genevieve's face went as blank and cold as a statue's. "Good advice is a kind of power," she told him, her voice tight with what Grant guessed might be carefully leashed fury. "But if you don't want it—" She turned and the server seemed to appear out of thin air. "The bill, please," she requested, and the server bowed and disappeared again.
Panic crawled up Grant's throat; David had warned him not to cross Genevieve. "No, really," he pleaded, "I do want it! I just . . . I thought . . ."
"That I would wave a magic wand and make it all happen?" Her green eyes flashed in the candlelight. "There are no shortcuts, Mr. Owen. I can back you and lay out a path for you, but you cannot just skip to the end."
"But you can't be Gary Oldman," she told him, and her tone was surprisingly kind. "You can only be you. Even when you're playing a part, all you have to bring to the role is yourself. Your experiences. And whatever imagination you have. Which is, in and of itself, circumscribed by your personal background and limitations. I'm not saying you can't have that kind of career," she added, "but there's no use pinning your aspirations to anyone else's work. Focus on your own path and the rest will follow."
"That's it?" Grant demanded. "This is your great advice? I thought you had, like, power or something."
He was immediately sorry for his outburst as Genevieve's face went as blank and cold as a statue's. "Good advice is a kind of power," she told him, her voice tight with what Grant guessed might be carefully leashed fury. "But if you don't want it—" She turned and the server seemed to appear out of thin air. "The bill, please," she requested, and the server bowed and disappeared again.
Panic crawled up Grant's throat; David had warned him not to cross Genevieve. "No, really," he pleaded, "I do want it! I just . . . I thought . . ."
"That I would wave a magic wand and make it all happen?" Her green eyes flashed in the candlelight. "There are no shortcuts, Mr. Owen. I can back you and lay out a path for you, but you cannot just skip to the end."
05 November 2013
(dabbling with a K-Pro sequel)
"I'm sorry," David said, shaking his head, "she's not interested."
Grant nearly stopped in his tracks, except that David kept walking, and so Grant was forced to keep moving if he wanted the conversation to continue. "What? Why not?"
It hadn't at all occurred to Grant that she might say no. No one ever said no to him.
David gave a negligent shrug. "She didn't give me a reason, mate. I can't say I know what she looks for."
They wended their way through the overlit halls of the agency, ignoring the occasional glances from the assistants, most of whom showed little interest in them anyway. Stars were always coming and going, rising and falling.
"It's easy for you," Grant grumbled. "You've got one in your pocket."
A corner of David's mouth turned up, but the half smile appeared strained. "Andra is a different case. Fo—, that is Genevieve, works by another set of guidelines. I think," he added uncertainly, the smile falling to a frown.
"Look, it doesn't mean you won't make it," David went on encouragingly. "Plenty of people do, even without her help. And so long as you don't cross her—"
Grant's head snapped up. "I haven't."
"Good. Don't." They came to reception.
"And Andra?" Grant asked.
David took in a long, slow, deep breath. "She only goes where and when she's called. She has no sway over matters outside of the ones she's . . . assigned to."
"And who assigns them?"
David shook his head again.
"You were an assignment?" Grant pressed.
David looked away, squinting at the bright Los Angeles sunlight as it slanted through the glass that fronted the building. "I don't know what I am," he murmured.
Gathering himself, David offered Grant a smile and a handshake, along with some final advice. "If I were you, I'd forget about For—Genevieve. Just keep your head down and you'll do all right."
But as Grant watched the great David Styles stroll out of the building, he began to formulate other plans.
Grant nearly stopped in his tracks, except that David kept walking, and so Grant was forced to keep moving if he wanted the conversation to continue. "What? Why not?"
It hadn't at all occurred to Grant that she might say no. No one ever said no to him.
David gave a negligent shrug. "She didn't give me a reason, mate. I can't say I know what she looks for."
They wended their way through the overlit halls of the agency, ignoring the occasional glances from the assistants, most of whom showed little interest in them anyway. Stars were always coming and going, rising and falling.
"It's easy for you," Grant grumbled. "You've got one in your pocket."
A corner of David's mouth turned up, but the half smile appeared strained. "Andra is a different case. Fo—, that is Genevieve, works by another set of guidelines. I think," he added uncertainly, the smile falling to a frown.
"Look, it doesn't mean you won't make it," David went on encouragingly. "Plenty of people do, even without her help. And so long as you don't cross her—"
Grant's head snapped up. "I haven't."
"Good. Don't." They came to reception.
"And Andra?" Grant asked.
David took in a long, slow, deep breath. "She only goes where and when she's called. She has no sway over matters outside of the ones she's . . . assigned to."
"And who assigns them?"
David shook his head again.
"You were an assignment?" Grant pressed.
David looked away, squinting at the bright Los Angeles sunlight as it slanted through the glass that fronted the building. "I don't know what I am," he murmured.
Gathering himself, David offered Grant a smile and a handshake, along with some final advice. "If I were you, I'd forget about For—Genevieve. Just keep your head down and you'll do all right."
But as Grant watched the great David Styles stroll out of the building, he began to formulate other plans.
20 May 2013
Persephone & Hades
bright as a poppy
tan as toast
grey-green eyes of sea
and he in black beside
unable to brighten
as she comes and goes
comes and goes
tan as toast
grey-green eyes of sea
and he in black beside
unable to brighten
as she comes and goes
comes and goes
07 February 2013
Valentine
shall i confess my love?
i dare not.
i leave it for the cosmos
to deliver, as if Mercury
were merely a postman
with good PR.
this feeling firmly rooted
grows out of me.
i will be Fortitude.
you play the Lion.
and i will ease you.
i dare not.
i leave it for the cosmos
to deliver, as if Mercury
were merely a postman
with good PR.
this feeling firmly rooted
grows out of me.
i will be Fortitude.
you play the Lion.
and i will ease you.
06 February 2013
Exact Change
"Exact change."
"Excuse me?"
"Exact change," the ferryman repeated. "For passage to the other side."
I dug in my pockets. "I think I was mugged."
The ferryman huffed a sigh. "They don't bury people with exact change any more," he said, almost sadly. "Used to never be a problem, but these days . . . People have all kinds of things with them: rosaries, holy books, fancy jewelry, fine clothes, lots of flowers"—and here he sniffed—"'llergic to flowers," he muttered.
"But just the two coins, nobody ever has 'em."
"I don't have my wallet," I said, feeling a bit panicked.
"'Course not," said the ferryman. "Don't bury people with wallets."
"I'm buried?"
"You best be. I don't come get you 'til you are. Dead and buried."
"Then where was I before I was buried?"
He shrugged. "What do I know? Or care? You're here now, so you're buried somewhere." He pointed to the darkness above us. "What do you think that is?"
"What if someone's creamated?"
The ferryman shrugged again. "Doesn't mean anything to me."
"Well, what if they were creamated and then the ashes were buried?"
Now he looked at me as if I'd gone mad. "Pile of ashes ain't going to have two coins either. I'd just leave it there with the rest of the dirt." He gestured in the general direction of my feet.
"Look, I don't have any coins," I said. "Are you going to leave me here?"
He sighed again. "If I did that, there wouldn't be any room left here at the dock. Get in." As I scrambled uneasily aboard his ratty little pirogue, he muttered, ". . . Owe me . . . list of IOUs the length of . . . trying to give me credit cards . . ."
"Excuse me?"
"Exact change," the ferryman repeated. "For passage to the other side."
I dug in my pockets. "I think I was mugged."
The ferryman huffed a sigh. "They don't bury people with exact change any more," he said, almost sadly. "Used to never be a problem, but these days . . . People have all kinds of things with them: rosaries, holy books, fancy jewelry, fine clothes, lots of flowers"—and here he sniffed—"'llergic to flowers," he muttered.
"But just the two coins, nobody ever has 'em."
"I don't have my wallet," I said, feeling a bit panicked.
"'Course not," said the ferryman. "Don't bury people with wallets."
"I'm buried?"
"You best be. I don't come get you 'til you are. Dead and buried."
"Then where was I before I was buried?"
He shrugged. "What do I know? Or care? You're here now, so you're buried somewhere." He pointed to the darkness above us. "What do you think that is?"
"What if someone's creamated?"
The ferryman shrugged again. "Doesn't mean anything to me."
"Well, what if they were creamated and then the ashes were buried?"
Now he looked at me as if I'd gone mad. "Pile of ashes ain't going to have two coins either. I'd just leave it there with the rest of the dirt." He gestured in the general direction of my feet.
"Look, I don't have any coins," I said. "Are you going to leave me here?"
He sighed again. "If I did that, there wouldn't be any room left here at the dock. Get in." As I scrambled uneasily aboard his ratty little pirogue, he muttered, ". . . Owe me . . . list of IOUs the length of . . . trying to give me credit cards . . ."
02 February 2013
The Corner Office
The sign on the office door read
Inside was a single desk piled with papers and a standing calendar with March 11, 2014 circled in red. On the desk chair hung a ball cap with "Heaven Sent" stitched on it. And behind the desk a glass case was affixed to the wall, inside which there was a trumpet. A neatly printed sign beside the case instructed:
Archangel Gabriel
Messenger Service, Baby Sales
& Judgment Day Counseling
Inside was a single desk piled with papers and a standing calendar with March 11, 2014 circled in red. On the desk chair hung a ball cap with "Heaven Sent" stitched on it. And behind the desk a glass case was affixed to the wall, inside which there was a trumpet. A neatly printed sign beside the case instructed:
In Case of Final Judgment
Break Glass, Blow Trumpet
25 January 2013
The Summons
Seladion was a chief character in my mythology for AElit, which was a world I created first in Parageography (under the late Dr. Douglass Parker) and later expounded upon as part of my graduate thesis. He is an angel-like creature known as a Ninata and, rather like Lucifer, had been cast out of the holy realm of Argyros. His companion was Amaurodios, who voluntarily left Argyros to be with Seladion. Amaurodios doesn't figure in this little scene, but together they had many adventures until they fell out and parted ways.
***
The man who answered the door had longish hair of a pale shade that didn’t quite seem blond . . . In fact, it appeared almost silver in the glinting of the sun that came over the roof of the cottage, striking the man from behind, giving him a sort of glow.
He was tall, and he was thin, dressed casually in a slightly wrinkled, white button-down shirt and jeans that slouched a bit on his finely boned frame. His eyes were a clear, light blue-gray color that seemed to strike her own gaze even more hotly than the sunlight, and confused, she dropped her eyes. When she looked down, she saw his feet were bare.
“Yes?” His voice was low, lower than she’d expected it to be given his almost feminine mold.
“You are . . .?” Her voice broke. She wasn’t sure she could say it now, to his face. She felt sorry for him.
But then his fair brows snapped forward, and his serene look was made dark and severe, and she could see into him suddenly, could see the blackness at the heart of him, and her sympathy fled.
Her voice strong now, and clear, she said, “You are Seladion.”
He drew himself up then, and only at that moment did she realize he’d been somewhat hunched around the shoulders when he first answered the door. Tall people did that sometimes, she reflected in that split second of mind spinning—tall people got into the habit of slumping themselves over so as not to stand out so much.
And Seladion surely knew the risks of standing out.
But now he was at full height, and she realized that he wasn’t blond, no, of course he wouldn’t be. His hair was silver-white, as all Ninatat’s hair was, and she felt a pang at knowing it would have once been so much longer, that he must have cut it off . . . And Ninata hair did not grow back, for they were as they were carved by Durandios. Except, of course, when they’d been tossed to Earth as this one had been, given something like a human body, and so . . . So Seladion had cut his hair.
“And you are?” Seladion asked.
“Beth,” she told him, then summoned the breath for her big finish: “They’ve sent me to bring you home.”
***
The man who answered the door had longish hair of a pale shade that didn’t quite seem blond . . . In fact, it appeared almost silver in the glinting of the sun that came over the roof of the cottage, striking the man from behind, giving him a sort of glow.
He was tall, and he was thin, dressed casually in a slightly wrinkled, white button-down shirt and jeans that slouched a bit on his finely boned frame. His eyes were a clear, light blue-gray color that seemed to strike her own gaze even more hotly than the sunlight, and confused, she dropped her eyes. When she looked down, she saw his feet were bare.
“Yes?” His voice was low, lower than she’d expected it to be given his almost feminine mold.
“You are . . .?” Her voice broke. She wasn’t sure she could say it now, to his face. She felt sorry for him.
But then his fair brows snapped forward, and his serene look was made dark and severe, and she could see into him suddenly, could see the blackness at the heart of him, and her sympathy fled.
Her voice strong now, and clear, she said, “You are Seladion.”
He drew himself up then, and only at that moment did she realize he’d been somewhat hunched around the shoulders when he first answered the door. Tall people did that sometimes, she reflected in that split second of mind spinning—tall people got into the habit of slumping themselves over so as not to stand out so much.
And Seladion surely knew the risks of standing out.
But now he was at full height, and she realized that he wasn’t blond, no, of course he wouldn’t be. His hair was silver-white, as all Ninatat’s hair was, and she felt a pang at knowing it would have once been so much longer, that he must have cut it off . . . And Ninata hair did not grow back, for they were as they were carved by Durandios. Except, of course, when they’d been tossed to Earth as this one had been, given something like a human body, and so . . . So Seladion had cut his hair.
“And you are?” Seladion asked.
“Beth,” she told him, then summoned the breath for her big finish: “They’ve sent me to bring you home.”
23 January 2013
Inaugural Post: The Arrow
He feels the arrow as a bruising blow to his back and looks down to where the gleaming tip only just breaks his sternum. The bowman's aim has been right and true. This may or may not be a mercy.
Hands spasm, and he thinks he should pull the weapon out (if he can reach it) but then decides to do so would only be to unplug his heart. He tests his chest gingerly, the hand coming away wet and covered red, his life forfeit and he never had a say in the matter.
He is suddenly aware of the thudding of his heart, and he curls in on himself, shaking all over now in a chill sweat. He is dying, there on his sofa, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the bright of lights overhead; he is desperate to go into his mind and find peace, but there is none. Thoughts bounce as balls in empty spaces. To pull in breath feels impossible. He is suffocating. He can taste his heart on his tongue, as if it were trying to escape his body through his mouth.
The ruin . . . Of his clothes, his couch, himself . . . He should have been safe at home. Insulated. Untouchable. But if there was any one thing he would walk out of life knowing, it was there was really no such thing as "safe."
Cupid's work is a bloody business.
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