Writing Is Pharmakon

The Festrell Mixtape

2009-07-31T23:14:31Z

Hex: And So The Plot Is Hatched

2008-12-20T20:42:19Z

"It's almost just like the other times, Erin. Except this time, it's even deeper, truer. Just do your thing, dude, and let us do our thing."

I shifted uncomfortably, staring at each of the Hexpiritus seated around the circular oaken table. We had all changed.

Fiona, long wavy sky-blue hair, clear silver eyes, moonlit pools, hugged her knees to her chest in her big, comfy navy-blue corduroy armchair. She had delicate pointed ears, and her body, naked, I assumed, was covered by the swirls of shifting colour and form that was her growing wings-- sometimes feathers, sometimes butterfly-shaped, sometimes dragonfly-lattice-work. Blue roses were strewn about her hair, and one was clasped in her fingers. I remembered the old blue rose, the terrible dream that had nearly destroyed Cata and Feyr when they were intertwined in its cruel thorns of self-inflicted and vindictive pain. I knew this rose was different, this one attached to her wings-- the concepts of self-enlightenment, healing, and growth, instead of abject suffering.

Cat was wrapped in her usual black, tight-fitting but non-restrictive clothing, easy for movement and battle. Her obsidian katana strapped across her back, as usual. Short black curls framed her mocha skin, dark slanted eyes of deep violet watched everything and missed nothing, though at first glance it looked as if she was half-asleep, with her droopy, bedroom gaze. Her Beast lay beneath the surface-- no cat ears or tail flicked and twitched, though her hands were still slightly clawed, those nails too thick, curved, and pointed to be human. She lounged about in her scarlet, bowl-shaped wicker chair, stuffed with black velvet pillows.

The first thing I noticed about Stelle was that her skin had darkened-- darker than Cat's, as if she had become South East Asian. Her hair was still long, straight, and silver, like finely spun starlight. Her eyes were still midnight pools of depthless knowledge and eidetic observation. I knew that if she spoke, her voice would have that familiar faint-to-heavy northern British accent. She wore a grey knee-length pencil skirt, with a matching fitted grey suit jacket over a loose white blouse. She sat primly in a black ergonomic office chair.

Then there was Rhees, also a great shock. His skin wasn't as pale as usual, though if it was a tan or now his new permanent look, I couldn't tell. His head was completely shaved, eschewing what I called his "John Constantine" look. I suppose he was now going for a pseudo Grant Morrison, but without all the piercings and tattoos. He'd gone back to the suit-and-tie ensembles we had been used to, though with a bizarre monochromatic twist-- the dress pants and suit itself were glaring white, the tie and shoes a shiny, patent leather black, and the dress shirt a charcoal grey. He leaned forward, his face now a study of gruff, sharp angles, and piercing electric blue eyes. All the softness, if there had been any in him before, had been worn away, leaving crags of determination and jagged bolts of purpose. His chair was a large-backed wooden one, seeming to match the table.

Aster, hair in a careless orange faux-hawk, did not look any different, thank the Stars. Ripped black jeans that only reached his knees and a purple t-shirt with the entire Enochian tables in black, edged with silver, was covering his lanky frame. I'm sure the back of his t-shirt would have some bizarre witticism concerning Dr. John Dee that would leave most occultists gagging or spluttering with barely checked laughter. He wore mauve flip-flops with raven patterns, and sparkly black nail polish on his toes-- the same polish, chipped, on his finger nails. The letters CHAO was written on the fingers of his right hand, below the knuckles. On his left hand he wore a single hematite ring on his middle finger. He sat on a throne made of night and stars, lined with rainbows that shifted in and out of one's periphery.

I could imagine how the others saw me. My brown hair had darkened, almost to a chestnut black, long bangs covering one eye, and only revealing a thick black rectangle that framed the other eye, a stormy grey. My frumpy, overweight shape was adorned with worn grey jeans, black and white Converse shoes, a plain hunter green t-shirt covered by a black-and-grey striped hoodie. I sat uncomfortably in a faded blue wheeled computer chair.

"Are you sure this is gonna work?" I asked again, though my voice sounded resigned, as if I was only asking because everyone expected me to.

It was Rhees who answered, much to my astonishment. "Yes. At the very least, goal visualization is proven to be a major factor in success."

"Okay, okay," I muttered. "Fine. Fine, it's just like all the other brainstorming story sessions we used to do together. I get it. Once upon a time... there was a girl. No, not a girl anymore, but a woman. What is she doing? Is she in love? Is she happy? Starting with a happy character usually isn't the best way to begin a story, y'know."

"We're starting at the end of the story, remember?" Aster chimed in. "And work our way backwards. Better for plot reconstruction, I think."

"She doesn't have to be happy," Cat said quietly. "Just filled with a sense of purpose-- even a grim one. She has confidence in what she needs to do, and she no longer is confused as to what she has to do. There will be challenges in the future for her, of course, but now she knows how to face them, with the support of her pack, her tribe, and her own self-reverence, self-knowledge, and self-control."

Rhees rubbed his chin. "That's still too vague, but it's a good start. She lives in a house. Owned or rented? With people who support and understand her. Let's say they're all renting this house together, and are looking to own it one day, or save up money to mortgage a house together. How does she pay for the rent of this house, and the food on her table?"

"She reanimates the dead!" Aster pumped his fist. "And executes big bad vampires!"

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "For fuck's sake, Aster. We are not making our lives into improbable film noir and sheer supernatural smut."

"Okay, she's a renowned rock star, poet, writer, activist, and spiritualist. Her hobbies include martial arts, dance, and sacred erotica."

"What does all that even mean?" Rhees snorted. "How can she do all of that and be all of those things at the same time? Be more concise, precise, and detailed."

"Sheeh, fine... she... develops her spiritual and political theories by planting it in her books, movies, poetry, and performance. At the same time, she also works on music, martial arts, dance, and sacred erotica as pastimes. The books, movies, poetry, and performances make enough money --as well as the tours, speeches, and conferences-- to pay for rent. Sometimes she even hits a big one out of the ballpark, and she's almost saved up to buy an entire house for herself and her loved ones. Though for awhile the money she saved up was used to pay off debt, half then went to the mortgage, and the other half to travelling. She's on a quest, you see, for knowledge and wisdom. So sometimes she takes month-long-or-more vacations by herself or with certain people, into wildernesses or ancient cities or important conventions or cultural festivals or politically significant protests/rallies, looking for answers and adventure. AWWWW YEAH!"

Rhees raised his brows. "Better, Aster, better. But who are these people that she lives with and travels with?"

Fiona smiled and lifted her head. "Her circle, her pack, her tribe. She loves them, and they love her. They accept her for who she is, and she accepts them for who they are. They can be themselves around each other. They help each other grow, and they're there for each other, in times of joy and suffering. They offer a sense of community and belonging."

"They also divide up house chores," Stelle spoke up, and refused to blush. "Either that or they have separate bathrooms and kitchens that they're in charge of. Whatever within the household is communal, then there has to be an equal divvying up of chores to make sure that everyone does their fair share. There should be crisis procedures in place in case any one of them is going through a physical or psychological emergency, or are swamped with projects, and can't catch up to their chores--"

"Oh! Oh!" Aster flailed a hand. "I know Stelle is speaking now, but something just occurred to me. The location of the house has to be near downtown, or in a part of town that is walking distance from cool shit, and I'm not talking about some local box mall or something equally lame. Like... Westboro, or the Glebe, if not Centretown or Lowertown (neighbourhoods near the Market). Or even one of those side streets off of Elgin-- though I guess that would be Centretown still. Also, there should be parks nearby, as well as grocery stores. And she should own a bike, with tires for all seasons. Yeah. Though when she can afford it, a motorized or electrically run scooter would be BADASS. Black or purple must be the color."

Everyone stared at him. Aster grinned broadly. "Aaaand... back to you, Stelle!"

"It's important that... the woman... partake of social activities befitting her psychological, mental, emotional, and spiritual level," Stelle began again. "She should have social circles that are accepting of her lifestyle, and understand her commitment to her live-in lovers, and the others that do not live with her. So, particular attention and care must be given both to the kind of housemates she has, as well as the social circle they participate in, and her own social circle beyond them (such as other alternative artists, activists, spiritualists, and visionaries). As I mentioned before, her housemates should understand the importance of house chores, as well as emotional and physical health. All of these activities are connected to general upkeep. Practical and necessary. The connection between her and the housemates is also necessary. Fiona covered the basics, but it is imperative that at least one of the housemates, or all the housemates collectively, have a deep emotional, spiritual, and sensual connection with the woman. Their lives and goals are entwined-- the good of one is the good of the pack. The good of the pack is the good of one. Communication must easily flow and move between all of the housemates, about their desires, fears, aspirations, and general feelings. Example: if one of them wants to adopt a child, thorough discussion between them all must take place to see if they can bring a child into this household, and if all of them can handle the responsibility, how their finances will affect the situation, and if adequate research has been done by them all for proper parenting-- both book research and relatives and other tribe members who already have children. Similar procedures are applicable for anything concerning losing a job, getting a new job, going back to school, where and with whom to spend the holidays, and communal rituals. Another note: when conflict arises, the issue concerns all of the pack. However, if one person keeps destabilizing the pack, then it becomes clear that either the entire pack must be disbanded, or that person must be ejected, or outside assistance is needed to heal the wounds in that single person, or in the pack dynamics."

"How many people?" Cat demanded.

Stelle blinked. "What? I beg your pardon?"

"How many people are in this pack? The live-in pack?"

"Oh... one to four, I suppose, in addition to the woman herself. Preferred number would be either a triad or a square."

"What are their roles?"

"Well, I don't want to be too rigid about it. Pack dynamics are complicated things, depending on how many people involved. I will take spiritual elemental examples of Earth, Fire, Water, Air, and Center/Spirit. It is possible that there can be just one person who can fulfill all of these things, or different people with different roles. Or, which is preferable, pack members exchange roles naturally and periodically depending on the situation. Therefore, the Earth role means there is always one person who stabilizes the group, and can ground bouts of negativity and depression, concretize ideas and energy into practical suggestions and action. There is also the Fire role, where at least one person infuses energy into the pack, keeping them motivated within their own respective goals and dreams, as well as the dreams and goals of the collective. This also leads into passion-- the passion for each other, and for exploring each other and the world together. The Water role is about taking care of each other's emotional needs, going through harrowings, and nurturing each other. Making sure energy isn't blocked. Air role is about making sure adequate communication is happening between everyone in the pack, and keeping a record, mental or otherwise, about what everyone's goals are, and the group's goals in general, whether we should change those goals, or whether we're keeping on task. Spirit/Center role is just the overall heart of the collective, the pack's spirit, connection, and love of each other. Ideally, there should be perhaps three other housemates besides the woman, all who can be good at communicating, at nurturing, at being a stable rock, and at infusing passion and action into each other. They should be able to empathize with each other, but also complement each other, i.e. not match each other's states all the time, but also be the Fire to someone's Earth, the Air to someone's Water. When they're all together, they can summon and embody the Spirit of their pack."

Rhees was beaming proudly. "You really HAVE been researching a lot about group and polyamorous dynamics."

"Of course," Stelle said, confused as to Rhees' statement. "Why wouldn't I? This is an important part of our lives."

Aster claps hands. "Okay, people, review! The woman lives in a house with three other people (at the least one or two), all of them adequately able to be stabilizing, communicative, passionate, and nurturing forces. All of them have a collective spirit, connection, and goals. The house they live in first is rented, but they will eventually own a house together. They have their own means of travelling-- the woman uses her legs, public transportation, her bike, and her electric bike. Everyone in the household contributes to income for paying rent and working towards the mortgage. The woman pays rent via profit off books, movies, plays, articles, performances, touring, conferences, all of that. When she's not busy with her art and research (this includes all spirituality and activism as this is integral to her creative fiction and non-fiction) she is dancing, doing martial arts, practicing sacred erotica, and travelling. A lot. She is spending time with loved ones by doing martial arts with them, sacred erotica, creating, and travelling. She wants to change the world for the better. She is thinking of one day adopting a child, if one ever came into her life that needed a home, and if the other housemates and packmates agree."

"Sounds too idyllic," Cat snaps.

"Oh, well, she also has problems with bad press because of her crazy lifestyle that she constantly must defend implacably, and the 2012 crisis, where people will look up to her as a leader in certain communities because of the things that she's written, which seems to some people to eerily predict what would happen. She struggles with responsibility constantly, but thanks to her own self-confidence, and the support of her pack, she may pull through. Also, to tie up loose ends, there will be a threat that was foretold from the past, a supernatural/occult threat by people or entities that knew of her when she was young and had not grown into her power. They will also come for her and her spiritual family, and it will take great courage, wisdom, and strength to defeat or best this challenge."

My eyes had widened and my mouth hung open, even though Cat looked satisfied. "But... but Aster, that's... scary. And... improbable?"

Aster shrugged and made a soothing gesture towards me. "It's just a story, Erin. Isn't it?"

"I guess... though you said this was the end, but it sounds like the middle."

"Whatever. The important part now is to go back to the beginning, make a connection from this woman we've all just created and envisioned together, to the other woman, the younger, frightened, confused one. What's she like, Erin?"

I rubbed my eyes behind my glasses, and then raked my hands through my hair.

"Well, she's... tired. But not as confused as you make her out to be. She lives by herself, in a rented basement apartment. There are people who live upstairs and use the laundry room that's part of her apartment. She has a dreary office job, some boring computerized shit about document management and data entry. But, y'know, at least she's somewhat self-sufficient, though she's terrible with money and constantly in debt-- but not a huge debt. Something like $10,000. She owes some people money, too. $50-160 to at least three people. She barely has time to clean, and she gets distracted by alternative consumerism. She relies on public transportation, which is a hassle when they go on strike. She has five lovers, all of whom she considers pack, but none which have completely entwined their life with hers. She is locally known as a poet, writer, activist, community organizer, and harmless eccentric. She longs to do more with that life, but her job tires her out so much she can barely find time to do anything creative or passionate with her work and her loved ones. She is almost paralyzed by the past, by her fears and her perceived failures. Shadows eating at her soul. She's on a spiritual quest, and initiated herself as an urban babaylan, a tribal filipino term that has all but disappeared from this culture now enmeshed in either Islam or Catholicism. Her feelings of failure and fatalism haunt her even on the best of days, casting a pall and making her believe that she is doomed to be a monster or a nothing or a lunatic, or all three. She doesn't know whether to go back to school-- she has a Bachelor's-- and get a Master's, or run back to her parents with her tail between her legs, or keep marching on in this menial data-filled drudgery. She loves everyone she's with, but the relationships don't seem to be fulfilling enough. She's reached a stage where she either wants more, or wants to start over with new people. She's decided to try to commit to one of them, bizarrely, the one who's married and could never truly entwine with her life the way that she wants, but she's following her heart. She's wondering when she'll have time to date new people as well, and she constantly questions whether she's made the right decision about everything in her life. She fights not to be consumed by apathy, addictive escapism, and putting social acceptance on a shining pedestal."

Rhees made a face, like a grimace or a frozen sigh. "That sounds rather accurate."

"Well then!" Aster rubs his hands together. "We have the beginning and the ending of the story. Self-deprecating weirdo office worker going through an existential crisis of stagnation and paralysis. In the end, she is a powerful, beautiful, capable woman-- what she was all along, but now she knows it and knows how to deal with it wisely. Hey, and not ONLY is she a woman, but she's an androgyne, a two-spirit, a walker between worlds. Masculine and feminine within that female-looking body. How did this happen?"

"In 'Stranger Than Fiction'," I started slowly, "Harold Crick's life changes when Karen Eiffel starts writing him in her book. And then when he falls in love with Ana Pascal and starts actualizing his dreams. When he realizes that he wants to live, not just survive. In 'Fight Club'... well, Tyler really does all the work. He concocts a crazy brilliant fucked-up plan, then sets to work destroying Jack's life-- he destroys Jack's apartment, the symbolism of his stagnation. He makes him move into that dilapidated mansion, which was probably paid for by Tyler's extra jobs, if paid for at all. They start a cult based around a release of the violent tension created by postmodern society, and through this brainwashing and loyalty, create an army to tear down all the credit companies of North America. Reducing debt to zero. In the Wheel of Time series, villains and mentors come to the small village of Emond's Field-- both of them displacing the main characters from their idyllic village life and transform them into unwitting and legendary heroes. In 'Wanted', I assume the character is approached by the assassins' guild to join them, and they seek to train him into one of them. In most tales, there is a catalyst, a call to adventure, to change the main character. Donnie Darko-- there is Frank, and the jet engine. But in 'Fight Club', it is the main character himself, well, his other personality, who manipulates events. Tyler has the balls to destroy in order to create. He realizes things must be let go to move forard."

"Which is why we have to do that Harrowing in January," Aster says smoothly. "We have to let go. So in our story, this girl has to let go of all of that shit to become the woman she is destined to be. Why? What causes her to change? What is the catalyst, the trigger?"

"One day she just snaps," Cat mutters.

"A sickness, a dream," Fiona suggests. "A Goddess touches her, and talks to her in her sleep and in her fever. Shows her what her life could be, the paths she can take to horror or beauty."

"Her own discontent becomes too heavy to bear," Rhees sighs. "It weighs her down and she knows she will either collapse and vanish into oblivion, or pull herself up by her bootstraps and soldier on."

I smiled shyly at each of them. "Those are all good ideas. I think they can all be incorporated. She's filled with malaise, she snaps, and during this break down, she is given a glimpse by deities as to her true potential. Cool. They tell her to go on a quest, a specific journey that's part of the bigger quest she's already on. This one requires her to let go of all those old destructive dreams and shadows. She has to focus on her new calling, the glimpse of the woman she is to become. So what does she change first? Her job? Expanding her social circle in case the housemates that will eventually come live with her are people she doesn't know yet? Both changing her job and expanding her social circle can eventually lead to moving into a household with her pack, and also she can start saving up and affording her bike and more martial arts. Once she changes her job, she then has more free time to dance, and research and create. Fall in love and be in love."

"The job change seems the most important," Rhees said thoughtfully. "But how shall it happen to her? Will one of her lovers win a grant to write a television script with her? Will she win a grant herself? Will she get accepted into the entrepreneur program, and work on being a freelance writer? How will she have time to research with all the other stuff that's going on? Perhaps she'll be recommended as an editor for a magazine that she enjoys, or an old professor will contact her and say that his publisher is interested in her work."

"Okay, so one of those things happens when she turns 24, or in her 24th year," Aster suggests. "It induces her to quit her job, and she launches herself into writing as much as she can, as best as she can. When she's not writing, she's exercising her body, mind, and spirit, through research and activity. She's going on dates and being in love. She's on the market for a new bike, and re-learning how to ride it. She's studying survival skills and going camping. She's LIVING. It's awesome. Shit's hard, though. Financial troubles still bother her, but she's thinking she can win a big writer's contest with one of her ideas, and that would take a big chunk out of her debt."

"But... so... she just has to wait for something to happen to force her to quit her job?" I said doubtfully. "What does she do in the meantime?"

"Generate ideas. Work on a freelance writer's business plan. Destroy and discard all those old, shadow dreams. Understand herself better. Be in love. Be in joy. Keep writing, keep looking for editing jobs. Trust in the goddess. Be ready to take the opportunity when it comes. Because it WILL come for her."

"And then... what?"

"Financial troubles will continue to plague her, but she's able to keep most of it at bay. Drama with her relationships ensues, as it's becoming increasing clear that they realize she may be falling for someone new. Or the dynamics shift once again. She has to keep on top of it all by communicating with everyone about what's going on with her internally and externally, especially if she's falling in love again and what that entails for everybody else. There may be some leavetakings, but the people she is with love her very much and are pack, so it's unlikely. But then it begins to happen. First she sells stories, or an anthology, or a manuscript. It does moderately well. This makes her want to keep writing more. She garners attention from her non-fiction articles on spirituality, polyamory, and multiplicity. She begins writing a series, which off the bat, is almost a large success, but appeals to only a certain niche market, which does not include most young children and conservative fundamentalists. The series, and its subsequent associated paraphernalia start generating an income that goes beyond anything she is prepared for. This helps largely with her financial troubles, and eliminates her debt. She begins saving up for a possible mortgage and travelling, though tours have already been set up for her, which she faces with confusion and consternation. She decides to organize the tour herself, and make it a festival for magic, alternative culture, activism, and independent media. She makes sure she always books names bigger than herself and makes them headliners, and she tries to be one of the openers with the local acts that's also part of the festival. Each festival has informational and activity-based workshops concerning important activist issues and magickal work. Especially workshops where the two overlap. She is very fastidious as to the carbon footprint of the festival, as well, and concocted some kind of 'wandering caravan' approach involving electrically run vehicles on rechargeable batteries. This nearly lands her broke again, if not for the huge success of the festival. She manages to barely break even. Her name is established. She continues to research, write, perform, publish, and organize. In the meantime, several of her partners decide that it's time to move in together, to live in a communal household as a social and romantic experiment. She agrees, and they pool their savings to get a mortgage on a beautiful, cozy house 'with character' in an 'alternative', hip, friendly neighbourhood walking and biking distance from grocery stores, parks, community centers, bookshops, etc. The first month is fine, but then the new few months are extremely rocky, to the point that the relationShip is about to capsize. Then they resolve the issues, and settle into an evolving, spiralling, positive groove. She is seen through the city whizzing around on her electrical scooter, covered in tattoos, with recycled clothes she made or designed herself, or one of her more apt partners made, or at some indie store munching on fruit/veggies, scribbling something in her notebook and flailing her limbs about theatrically. She breakdances on street corners with her posse and does swordfights in the park in the summer. She runs the occasional marathon and every year makes sure she bests the aerial park. A street kid (been kicked out of his house for two months so far) befriends her, a kid that reminds her a lot of herself, but different, an androgynous cross-dressing gay boy with a killer voice, and she begins composing speeches to convince her housemates to adopt this 15 year old heartbreaker... All the while, she makes sure to thank the deities, and be true to the Way..."

Aster trails off, sighing happily. "Well? Well?"

Fiona giggles. "I like it!"

Cat snorts. "You threw in that shit about swordfights and the aerial park for me. So transparent."

Stelle nods primly. "It is quite the happy story."

"I agree," Rhees murmured. "Happy, ideal, almost perfect..."

They all looked at me. I blinked at them. "What? What happens now?"

Aster grinned impudently. "What we make of it."

All You Need

2007-11-20T16:36:42Z

i want someone to make love with me
in the dark
while i explore their face with my hands
and we whisper all the nights
we were alone
in those days
before we knew what
true love was
and we pour it out in the darkness
between our bodies
and crush them away with our skin
replacing them with
the memories of our touch and scent

i want to heal with my kisses
and move souls with my tears
let my voice guide to ecstasy
and my eyes hold revelations

The Cillian Mission #5

2007-10-06T05:58:35Z

Main Terms & Character Glossary

***

I stared around the room. Great. Fucking great. Well, we got to Cillian in one piece. The Queen has agreed to see us all in less than 24 hours. And what were we doing?

Being completely drunk off our asses.

Alright, that wasn't really fair. Erasmus was sober, and looking on at the proceedings with blatant disapproval. And actually, most of us were just tipsy. It was the lead man and leading lady that were deep in their cups. Somehow, they had managed to chug jugs worth of ale without any of us noticing, and were now berating or consoling each other back and forth about their terrible plight.

The two in question were Rani and Pollux, and their aforementioned plight being that the show revolved around them, and they had, for some reason or another, a bad case of stage fright and self-esteem erosion.

I looked over to my left, and watched Hansine, a sparkly drink adorning her hand, engaging in a conversation with some charming and handsome young Onofrian nobles that were also enjoying the luxuries of the common room in the posh inn that us exotic troupe of entertainers were staying at. There were a lot of high society types rubbing shoulders with various bohemians in the place, and the tides of laughter and conversation and swirling cliques of people pretty much obscured the lanky tall man and the red-banged girl in one corner of the room, both bespectacled and getting progressively shitfaced. Well, it wasn't obscured from Erasmus' sight, who kept glancing over at them periodically, frowning slightly, despite still having an animated conversation with Lana, who was sipping a sparkling drink similar to Hansine's.

I turned to my right and locked eyes with Daun. Both of us were trying not to drink too much, and keeping tabs on each other. We were worried about Rani and Pollux, and their hopelessness was rather infectious. We also wanted to help them, but maybe Hansine was right, and they just needed to unwind. Erasmus feared they'd go too far, but I doubt with him keeping watch over them, that anything would happen.

"Everything was going so well," Daun sighed, taking another swig of her rum and juice. "What happened?"

"Well..."

I thought back. After the Siren sisters had escaped, Hansine lead us out of the healing rooms, to the Great Tower's walkways. The Axis Mundi was largely hollow, only it's small inner core held rooms and people. The rest was vast space criss-crossed in Escher-like patterns with winding stairways that held their own peculiar geometry and gravity, and which Seekers, as part of their training, grew adept at climbing. Some of the walkways even shifted places, either randomly or in patterns. Each path lead to a door, and on the other side of that door, waited a world.

Hansine, leading us all single-file, quickly had explained to us that Initiates of House Matter and Jinn had already prepared a caravan for us waiting at Cillian. She'd booked us at an inn fairly deep in Opul, which was the capital city of Onofrio. She would also engage the doorway in such a way that the entry point would be in the caravan, which was parked in a wide side street adjacent to the inn, the geis weaving us into the memories of the passersby and citizens. We would have a wider range of choices for Cillian clothing in the caravan, and then she'd escort us to the Pen & Sword Inn. Afterward, Hansine would go off to the main palace to arrange for us to be able to perform in front of the Queen, and Lana would fill us in on our roles while we were gone.

So far, so good. We had walked through the Axis Mundi and the door that lead us into Cillian. The clothing was a lot of brocade and crushed, heavy velvet. For women, apparently corsets were the rage, and for guys, we had puffy ridiculous pantaloons and floppy hats with pimptastic feathers. While in the caravan, Lana informed us that since we were laying low with our powers in Cillian, we had to stay in one form only, and that would be the one most conducive to the script she'd written for the royal show and our Muse-blessings. Luckily, I got to stay as Peregrine, but Hob had to transform into Rani, and Daun had to choose a standard female form.

By the time we trudged out of the caravan, we were all decked out in Cillian bohemian finery. Hansine was wearing a fancy, intricately embroidered black and violet dress, as befitting a favored noble at court. Less patterned, but no less sexy matching velvet and corseted dresses were being worn by Rani, Daun, and Lana, the latter a contrasting blue and silver colour theme, as opposed to the other two and their black and red themes. Erasmus wore lavender and midnight blue colors, while Pollux wore black and grey. Both men opted out of the plumed hat, as they thought the pants were embarrassing enough. I loudly bitched that they had no bright pink men's costume for me, and settled for my standard turquoise and black, keeping my hat for when the urge to make flourishing bows struck me.

The Pen & Sword Inn had the air of a Mid-world 50's Beatnik cafe, with fluctuating waves of snobbery and earnest artistic fire pulsing through the air. No sooner had the reservations been confirmed, then Hansine was out the door and leaping into her personal carriage, carting her off to Court. Lana was left in charge of this portion of the mission, and herded us all into the room she shared with Daun, making us crowd onto the two double beds while she paced back and forth in front of us, debriefing us of our cover stories.

Our troupe was called "The Faery Coven", and we specialized in making fantastical music & dance plays about the mysterious and evil "faery" folk banished from Cillian long, long ago. Erasmus, who had no Muse blessings, was the troupe's manager and producer, keeping tabs on the ledger. Lana was the troupe's main director and writer, as well as a fill-in for any other role. That left the rest of us as actors, singers, and dancers. Rani and Pollux violently protested at being forced to dance publicly in front of a judging audience-- so I had grinned and said that since they were both great singers, then that's what they'd do in addition to acting.

Lana silenced the bickering that began, and told us the gist of the script while passing us our copies. Basically, it was about two betrothed lovers, Maya and Mikael (played by Rani & Pollux), who were torn apart by the evil machinations of Robynn, an evil fairy (played by me) who had cursed the groom-to-be into becoming a rakish, fickle, heart-breaking rogue like himself. Luna, one of the fairies that traveled with Robynn (played by Lana; the other fairy Solari would be Daun) decided to place hope on the couple behind Robynn's back as her revenge for Robynn's unfaithfulness and dalliance with Solari, and thus if Mikael could kiss the hand of a queen, he would remember his true heart and the face of the one who had cursed him. Eventually, Mikael gets to the queen (who would actually be Queen Perdita), and rushes off to kick Robynn's ass, then be with his beloved bride before she threw herself off a cliff. The play ends with a wedding and merriment, while Robynn is being chased around being beaten with a stick.

As soon as Rani and Pollux realized they were the leads, had the most stage time and words and songs to memorize, and that Pollux had to use his character to physically get close to Queen Perdita-- that's when Hansine burst into the room and excitedly and breathlessly told us that she was throwing a party for us down in the common room, where some nobles were invited, as we were celebrating the acceptance of our show being put on tomorrow afternoon for the royal court of Onofrio.

"The script," I said decidedly to Daun. "The script is really when it started to go wrong."

"Lana's not going to change it, is she?" Daun said simply.

"No, absolutely not!"

I looked up to see Lana standing over the two of us, and then sliding in gracefully to sit down at my left. "First of all, we don't have time to change the script. Tomorrow afternoon is when we have to put this altogether. Basically, we've got enough time to go over the play several times in the morning, at the crack of dawn, and then present it to the Queen. Secondly, me and Hansine tailored the play both to focus on the strengths of our group, as well as to get the mission moving forward-- i.e. get Pollux to do what we have him for."

"But Pollux and Rani are scared shitless!" I protested. "Look at them!" I gestured over to the corner, where Erasmus had decided to sit down beside Rani and Pollux, trying to calm the hysterical pair. "Couldn't you have written something easier?"

"Look," Lana sighed. "The audience needs to be entranced by a really good show, Perry. Otherwise, how can Pollux get that close without being stopped by guards? I have faith in them. And if anything goes wrong, it's really my fault... I'm in charge of this portion of the mission..."

I put my hand on top of hers as she stared down at her lap. I loved the way her wavy mahogany hair curtained her face, and how she looked up at me with those startling blue-gold eyes through her lashes.

"I'm not dissing your script, Lana," I said softly. "I'm just worried, that's all. I accede to your wisdom in this."

She rolled her eyes and gave me a familiar grin. "Besides, shouldn't you be worrying about yourself? You've got as much lines as they do, plus one song, and a few dance numbers. You think you can handle all that, big shot?"

I gulped. "Dance numbers? More than one?" I turned back to Daun, and she had an enigmatic grin on her face as she nodded at me.

"Uh, I don't suppose you have a separate script for the dance moves, eh Lana?"

She shook her head. "I'll have to show you."

"How about right now?"

She blinked. "Now? Where?"

I stood up, abruptly, downing the last of my ale and impulsively taking Daun's hand. "Now. In your room. We'll push the beds aside. Muse is calling to me, and I need to dance."

As I slammed my empty cup back on the table, Lana and Daun trilled with laughter, finishing their drinks, and following me up the stairs to their room.

***

...to be continued...

x-posted to omphaloscosmos

Ash & Apple

2007-10-04T17:59:08Z

I imagine       that love grows       up and down       like trees       with parts       seen and unseen
I imagine     all our stories     that hide in     the dirt     between us
I imagine    all our stories    that only    the clouds can see

Sometimes I'm    a hanged man
And nine days I'll wait
For the runes
Hidden in
your branches
to come within
my reach
Hoping the
ravens bring
you back to me
Piece by piece

I've never been
much of a climber

I just tend    to my orchards
I watch     buds bloom,     and the fruit grow
I watch them      tumble to      the ground and      collect those      tiny seeds
I watch      the leaves fall away,      like papery tears      the colour of fire
I watch       the branches       become bare as if       dead,       but I know       the truth       about       growth

The Cillian Mission #4

2007-09-27T03:55:45Z

Big Important Note: This is the last introductory installment on the Omphalos IRL fanfic cosmos. After this, any other stories I write about the Cillian Mission will not have tediously long explanations of the characters appearances and powers, nor will I explain the various terms of the universe. Instead, I've opted to write a very extensive Main Character & Terms Glossary for easy reference to interested readers... and writers. What's happened is that a separate LJ community (omphaloscosmos) has been created for Omphalos IRL fanfic, so that those who have characters in the fanfic can write their own fanfic. There will also be a posting of the rules on the userinfo of the community (the Glossary and Rules of the community will be posted within 24 hours of this post). Some rudimentary rules are that if you do not already have an existing character in the cosmos, you cannot write your own fanfic, since your fanfic must be from the first person viewpoint of that character (however, you can consult with me, and we can insert you into the cosmos under my discretion). Another hard rule is that you must at least obey the basics of what is described about the other characters in the Glossary, i.e. don't make Erasmus a blue-haired, mohawk-wearing chain-smoking transexual, because he's not, he's just not. Lastly, I will cross-post my stories here as well as the Omphalos fanfic LJ community, but I will not post the Omphalos rules, and I will only add the link to the glossary before every installment. Okay, back to our irregularly scheduled program, in which once again, you can read another detailed bunch of descriptions and explanations, and little plot (don't worry, the smut and badass adventures are coming soon!)

***

I woke up staring at a stone ceiling awash with the faint glow of candlelight. I angled my head down, slowly, to stare down at my long pale arms with the near translucent fingernails on each hand resting against my body. My wavy sky-blue hair pooled around my breasts. I could feel that I was wearing a simple shift underneath the blankets that covered me up to my armpits. The bed was soft. I was in a Healing Room in the Great Tower, the Axis Mundi.

I immediately checked on the other To'nal: Nemera was unconscious. Hester was calm, alert. Maynard was worried, as usual. Ardell was impatient. Peregrine was exhausted, and taking a nap. I sighed loudly with relief, and was startled as I heard an echoing sigh.

"Fiona, you're awake."

I turned and saw Erasmus, gently stroking my hair, his green-yellow eyes visibly relieved and happy to see me. "Raz! What happened? Why is Nemera unconscious? Is everybody alright? I remember seeing Poll tied up, and then Nemera took over, but I remember... snakes... Nemera was being attacked by snakes...And then I heard blades, and wolves, and roars... Is Poll okay? What happened to the snake sisters? How did the others find us? Where were we? Where's Poll?"

"Shhh," Erasmus said softly. "Pollux is fine, but he's panicked right now, and won't listen or talk to anyone unless he sees you. I need you to shift into Shae's body while we discuss with him what's happening. A lot of things happened at once when Hob pushed us through. Are you okay enough to shift? You suffered some constriction damage, but Daun did some intensive healing with you."

I wanted to cry, I was so scared and worried. I could feel Hester rising within me, calming me as we co-existed together in Shae, helping us shift into Shae's Mid-form, with the last clothes she was wearing, which were her pink ruffled skirt and black and pink striped shirt with her black high tops. We gingerly got out of bed, and Erasmus lead us barefoot out into the hall.

Hansine, Daune, and Lana were all hovering out in the corridor. Daun, in hir regular androgyne form, was leaning against the wall, gold hair curtaining hir face and the top hat almost shadowing hir eyes. Ze blinked in confusion at us. We don't think ze's ever seen our Mid-form before. Hansine smiled in greeting, and the smile reached her violet-flecked dark eyes. Lana moved forward and stroked our cheek. We blushed at the touch.

"Is Perry and Nemera okay?" she asked. The gold ring in her blue eyes had turned into a somber silver.

We simply nodded, but couldn't say more as Erasmus, a firm grip on our hand, lead us into another Healing Room, the others following behind us. Rani was sitting by Pollux's bedside. His head was bandaged, and it looked like he had been scratched over his left eye.

A memory from Nemera surfaced in us, and we touched our cheek, feeling the scabs of a scratch from the fight. Pollux, as soon as he saw Shae's face, brightened visibly, and reached out a hand towards us. We let go of Erasmus and sat down on the bed with Pollux, snuggling up against him.

"Shae," he whispered against our dark, curly hair. We could feel the tension seeping away from his body. We looked up through our lashes and stared at his worn, gaunt face, those grey-blue eyes underneath his black-rimmed glasses, the wild, wispy mass of soft brown hair, some falling into his eyes. He stroked my arm, and kissed the top of our head.

"Are you ready for the briefing now, Poll?" Rani asked gently.

"Sure," Pollux said hesitantly. "Can you... Can you just explain to me first what happened when you... Hob... pulled us through into
that... grey place?"

Erasmus, who was standing behind Rani with his hands on her shoulders, spoke. "I can tell you that. Hob's portal was tampered with, due to the influence of the Siren sisters, known as Scyll and Charyb, respectively. They shoved us into a Trespasser's meeting point, which is specifically made for their kind, since they have no main meeting place like the Axis Mundi. Once there, they turned Fe'ral, and shifted into unusually large Burmese pythons, Charyb being the albino one that almost swallowed Nemera-- er, Shae. Somehow, Nemera, before falling unconscious, managed to force us all to go Fe'ral through a surge of power. I believe it's a skill from House Eros. So, for Rani, she turned into the demonic Morg. I shifted into my less... destructive... Fe'ral form, the wolf. And you..." A shadow passed over Erasmus' eyes. "You looked the same, but... not. There was a strength in you, your muscles contorted and moved in ways a human body shouldn't. You felt like pure rage, pure violence, without any code of honor..." Erasmus shook himself, as if out of a daydream. "I sank my fangs into Charyb at the same time that the Morg took off her head. Then another portal opened and out sprang Lana, Daun, and Hansine, all in feline Fe'ral forms, and they fell upon Scyll. Scyll reared to strike, but... you... leaped and grabbed the snake's head, and then began... smashing it into the ground, over and over again."

Our eyes had gone wide. Fiona's voice seeped through. "They're... they're dead...?"

Pollux looked ill.

"They tried to kill you." Rani's eyes had gone completely black. Pollux jumped a little, and Erasmus' hands tightened into her shoulders. The Morg was trying to come through. A faint whiff of brimstone permeated the air. "I will not let anyone hurt you, Fiona. I will die before that happens."

"Rani," Erasmus said gently, and then Rani slumped forward a little, eyes fluttering closed, then open again. Her eyes were back to normal. She adjusted her glasses, and tried to apologize embarrassedly to everyone.

"So I've got something like that in me?" Pollux whispered.

"We all do," Erasmus corrected. "They are our Jungian shadow sides, our Fe'ral."

"But..." We, though it was more Hester than Fiona, interrupted softly. "How did the others find us? It would be impossible unless... they were Trespassers..."

"You called us," Lana said simply, earnestly. "We all felt the call, Nemera's roar echo through our bodies, forcing us into our feline forms. I just opened a portal with the intention to go to you, and we came."

"That should be impossible," Erasmus said, intrigued.

"Unless we truly made a Panthera pardus, like Faun said," Hansine pointed out. "That explains our connection, held together by Nemera."

"We don't have time right now to explore the implications of this as well, unfortunately," Erasmus said reluctantly. "I need to give Pollux a crash course."

Pollux nodded, and collected himself "So... where are we? I know there are different dimensions. I know Shae has different selves.nAnd that she does magic or something, for a Council. And that she thought I was gifted like her and should 'cross over', but I just really wanted a normal life." He smiled ruefully. "I guess that's not possible now."

"You answered the Call," Erasmus said. "That's all that we can do." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "The cosmos is an endless array of worlds, constantly expanding, more worlds being created, but all connected to a central hub world called Omphalos, which is where we are. Within Omphalos is the Great Tree or the Great Tower called the Axis Mundi. Its appearance is dependent on how we enter it. For us, since we entered through the mirror, even though we were waylaid into a Trespasser's alcove, the Axis Mundi appears as a Great Tower. For others, it may appear as a mind-blowingly vast Tree. Not only is the Axis Mundi a gigantic meeting place, but it is also the center and generator of the cosmos. It gives off an energy and mystical power that transforms any mortal who enters Omphalos into a Na'wal. You are now a Na'wal."

"Okay," Pollux agreed. "So this Great Tower has given me powers, and that's why I'm a Na'wal. If that's so, what are my powers?"

"The Axis Mundi has given you the To'nal. The term means both the ability to shift forms, and the forms themselves. These forms have either already existed in your old mortal mind or lay dormant until the Axis Mundi calls them. You can probably feel them now, like alien presences in your mind. With training from Mentors of the Great Houses, you and they will be able to learn to co-exist and learn your powers and specialty or specialties. The only catch is that you cannot shift in your homeworld, the world of which you came from. Your To'nal exist in a limited degree and some powers are available in your homeworld, but full shifts cannot happen."

"So I'm a Na'wal, and I have powers and forms, which are the To'nal. What are the Fe'ral?"

"They're your To'nal that are Shadowy, meant for battle and a deeper, primal kind of lust and force. The Fe'ral are warriors, and raw power."

"Well, what about these Mentors? And Great Houses?"

"Well, a Na'wal is chosen or, through signs from the To'nal, chooses one or more of the Twelve Great Houses of the Axis Mundi to train under. The Twelve Houses are Time, Eros, Element, Faun, Underworld, Psyche..." Erasmus paused. "...Matter, Logos, Jinn, Muse, Upperworld, and... Fate. A Na'wal goes through an initation set by the Head of the House. Once initiated, the Na'wal is considered in training, and must go through three missions given by the Council of Omphalos with a Mentor of the House. A Na'wal is considered going on a mission for a specific House or more if the Na'wal uses a power or skill of a specific House on a mission. After the first three mentor-guided training missions, the Na'wal can choose to become a Seeker or Keeper, depending also on whether their mentor was a Seeker or Keeper. Seekers are those who discover new worlds in the ever-expanding cosmos and explore and gather information on them, like our infamous Seeker Hansine." Erasmus gestured to Hansine, who waved cheerfully to Pollux. "They are trained in the arts of diplomacy and information-gathering. Keepers, however, are Na'wal who preserve and rescue known worlds that are being corrupted by external forces. The Na'wal try not to tamper with the affairs and fate of a world, but if Trespassers come and tamper with it, it is the Keepers' duty to defend or rescue a world. Thus they are trained in the arts of battle and healing, like our rising star Keeper Daun."

Daun blushed at the compliment. "I'm more trained in healing than battle. I'm pretty sure Rani's Morg has more battle training."

"In any case," Erasmus continued. "After twelve successful missions done for a House, a Na'wal is qualified to be a Mentor. Those who qualify to be Head of a House are those who have done the most successful missions for that House as both Seekers and Keepers. They then take their seat at the Council of Omphalos. It is possible for a Na'wal to serve both as a Seeker and a Keeper. Rani is doing that." He smiled at Rani, and she grinned back.

Pollux turned to us. "What about you, Shae? Are you a Seeker or a Keeper?"

Hester's voice was cool as she spoke out of Shae's mouth. "I'm still in training. I've yet to complete three missions with a mentor of any of my Houses."

Pollux squeezed us compulsively, like an apology for a faux-pas, and Fiona nuzzled him. "Well, some questions," Pollux resumed, turning to Erasmus. "What are the Trespassers? Why do you guys need me specifically so badly, that these Trespassers also are after me? What's this... Cillian, is it? What's that all about?"

"Well, we don't have any contact with the Trespassers, understandably," Erasmus said slowly. "Some say when the cosmos was birthed, they were those born in the Void outside of the cosmos, and the farthest from the Axis Mundi, which is why they cannot enter Omphalos. They are the the deepest Shadow, and we are the Light, though Trespassers have been known to defect to our side, and some of our side to theirs, but people hush that stuff up. Another legend is the lost Thirteenth House of the Axis Mundi. In the Council of Omphalos, there is an empty chair in the center of the room, surrounded by the other dozen chairs. It is said that the Thirteenth House, House Nihil, had once been part of the natural order of the cosmos until they forsake the Axis Mundi, and became the Trespassers. The Trespassers' goal is to corrupt and destroy worlds. Regardless of their origins, people are also split as to whether the Trespassers should exist as a balance to the Keepers and Seekers, or whether they should all be wiped out, as they're destructive instead of chaotic."

Erasmus paused, and blushed a little. "I started rambling there, didn't I? Sorry, it's an interesting and favorite topic of mine."

Rani grinned and kissed his hand. "Razzigins sometimes gets like that. I think it's cute."

Hansine coughed to hide a laugh, and Daun mouthed behind Erasmus' back to Lana incredulously: "Razzigins? What the?"

Erasmus, as if sensing the change in mood, bravely ignored it and soldiered on. "As for the Cillian mission, and why we need you so badly..." He then gave a run-down of the plan, and Pollux's crucial part in locating the soul-pieces in the Underworld. "Basically, we know from other Na'wal that have been in contact with you in passing, not just Shae, myself, or Rani, that you've been blessed by House Psyche, and have unusually strong empathic abilities. You've also been touched by House Underworld. I'm the only one who has Mentor status in the group, so automatically it falls to me that this mission be your initiation into House Psyche, and that I be your mentor. House Underworld may also consider this mission your initiation into his House as well."

Pollux widened his eyes, as something just occurred to him. "So wait, the training is during the mission? I don't actually get to be trained beforehand? That's... kind of crazy."

"The Mentor and other Na'wal are meant to protect you while you learn. You also learn from watching. There's no other way we can teach you. Time is running short. We have less than three days to find the soul pieces of Queen Perdita. We should be leaving right now, but I want to give us another hour to rest and heal our wounds. In that hour, we can try to help you shift into your To'nal."

"Oh thanks, that's great preparation," Pollux muttered sarcastically. "How long will this mission take, anyway? I'm going to miss three days of class?"

"Ah, time works differently in Omphalos. The Na'wal of House Time can also manipulate it even further, but it takes its toll. If you spend too much time in Omphalos and other worlds, you can no longer return to your homeworld, since the time gap will be jarring. Three days won't be too much of a problem, as it can be shortened to three hours passing on Mid. Any other questions or concerns?"

Pollux shook his head.

"Okay, good, then we'll go through a fairly basic exercise first. The entire team has to participate."

Erasmus had all of us shift into our main To'nal. He began first, making sure people backed up. He shifted into a possum, and then a wolf. He apologized that he couldn't fully shift into his dragon form, but the room wouldn't hold him, so he showed Pollux how he could transform bits of himself, into dragon, like his eyes, his hands, and then had dragon wings sprout out of his back. He also mentioned that he was also able acquire new To'nal temporarily if a situation arose where his other forms where inadequate, which was a personal skill of his, and that Lana shared it.

Thus, Lana was volunteered to go next. She sprouted fairy wings and fluttered about the room, then she became a lynx, and lastly, Lana turned male, his face sculpted to an excruciating beauty, the mahogany hair glinting luxuriantly, hiding vestigial tiny black horns. All of us felt the pull towards him, and as Rani's eyes started to go black, her body taking a step toward's the incubus, Lana suddenly shifted back into her regular form.

Rani was already shifting into the Morg, and everyone backed away hastily as her body and her aura filled the room, red skin, ropey muscles, black armor, and curling black horns. Her great sword was sheathed on her back, and she snarled, before suddenly shrinking, armor billowing out to baggy pants, colorful clothing, lots of jewelry, and Hob bowed before us. but this time his eyes were a sparkling green, his skin pale, and a patch over one eye. Shifting again, this time the skin darkening to ebony black, long hair sprouting into unruly dreadlocks, laughing white teeth, starless eyes, and Mama Boh nodded her head regally, before exploding into a dark shape flying around the room, cawing, a huge Raven, then landing again into a shy wolf cub, and stretching lean and mischievous into a coyote. When Rani returned into her Mid form, she explained that her forms had names, specifically Morg, Hob, and Mama Boh, and that her To'nal were very individualized, and felt more like shared presences in her head than alternate forms of her.

Hansine went next. She sprouted her own black dragon wings, and the room became cooler, making everyone shiver. Then she shifted into a small black kitten. She explained that her To'nal the Jester had no form, and was more of a puppet master with her Mid form.She requested not to shift into her Fe'ral at this moment due to her concern that it could trigger others of the pardus, but she explained that whether it be dragon or leopard or warrior, her Fe'ral was called Tomoe. However, she felt that her To'nal were like different spokes in a wheel, and at the center lay Hansine.

Daun's To'nal were all nameless, various aspects of hir, as delicate multi-faceted purple wings sprang from her back in a female fairy form. She next, following Hansine's and Lana's leads, did not transform in her feline female Fe'ral, but into a playful lynx instead. Lastly, to the surprise of some, ze transformed into a shaven-headed and somber monk, who clasped his hands before him and bowed to the room.

As Daun shifted back to hir normal androgynous self, all eyes turned to me, now just Fiona in Shae's body, snuggled up against Pollux. Reluctantly, I slid off the bed and explained to Pollux that my To'nal were me, that there was no center that created Shae, Shae was the birth name and a body, and the six of us inhabited it. Some of us had more than one form, though we went by the same name, like me, Fiona, had a blue-haired, grey-eyed human form, but also a faery form, and a panda form, which I showed him. I, Hester, went next, and showed him my only form, which was silver-haired and black-eyed. Afterwards was Maynard, also in a single human form, with brown hair, dark-grey eyes, and glasses. I, Ardell, brusquely shifted into my long blond hair, blue eyes, pressed suit, and rumpled trenchcoat. Peregrine was the next form, and I displayed both my sexyass redheaded, turquoise-eyed ladykiller looks, and then did the little fly-around raven stunt like Hob. Lastly, it came Nemera's turn, and defiantly, I shifted into my human form, but with lazily blinking violet cat-eyes, grinning at everyone. Immediately, the the rest of the pardus started purring and growling, and even Rani's eyes were turning into the blackness of Morg, but Peregrine wrestled control, and I was a tall redhead once more.

"Whoa..." Pollux breathed. "I... well... I guess I have to woo you all over again."

Ardell quickly surfaced enough to sniff imperiously. "I think not, Pollux. I'm as heterosexual as I thought you were."

Erasmus cleared his throat. "I want to see Pollux try some shifts, please." That got Pollux's attention, as Erasmus continued. "Just feel out your psyche, what you have in there. I know you may not be ready to call your Fe'ral again, especially after..." Erasmus trailed off and stared down at the bed.

Pollux had vanished.

I shifted into Fiona, and walked over to the bed, picking up and cradling something soft and furry and squeaky in my hands. "Aww, it's an ickly-cute mousie! He's been blessed by House Faun, like the rest of us."

The mouse began to grow, and I dropped him on the bed with a squeal, and was left staring into the face of a grinning coyote. I shifted into Peregrine and glowered. "Damn coyotes."

"Heeey," Hob admonished, waggling his finger at me. "Geez, you non-coyote Raven-touched are so prickly."

Pollux was back again, hair dishevelled, eyes wild. "That was... awesome! And crazy! And..." his voice quieted. "I can feel him, back there... this other me, waiting. So full of rage... His name is... Castor." Pollux laughed, a little hysterically. "Of course."

"I think we're ready now--" Erasmus started, but the doors of the room were thrown open.

We stood staring at the frightened green eyes of a younger Na'wal, blond hair in disarray. "The... the mortuary where we were holding the bodies of the Trespassers... their bodies... their bodies are gone! There's just all this dried snake-skin... so much..."

"What the fuck?" yelled Hob. "We sliced her fucking head off! Castor pretty much beat the head off the other one!"

"We have no time to waste and figured out how they regenerated so well," Erasmus said crisply into the silence. "The stakes have gotten even higher. It's time to go. Now."

***

...to be continued...

The Cillian Mission #3

2007-09-26T16:35:38Z

Note: This is the third installment on what is now being referred to as "The Cillian Mission".

***

So far, this was the plan for the recruiting mission: I would go back to Mid as Shae (I couldn't be anyone else because the Axis Mundi only grants the true To'nal forms anywhere but your home world, though the Ton'al's powers can manifest to a limited degree) and I would be accompanied by Erasmus and Rani, since Pollux knew them both far more than Conroy, Daun, or Hansine, of which he hadn't met yet or only met in passing. We would use the mirror in Poll's room as the portal to get back to Omphalos, where we'd meet up with the other three and give Poll a crash course in being a Na'wal, controlling his To'nal, while being blessed by the House of Psyche. Then Lana would prepare us for our cover story and acts, and we'd slapdash our way to Cillian.

While Erasmus and Hob were explaining this all to me, I kind of just kept gaping at them, until I took my hand and closed my jaw because my face wasn't listening ot me. After they were finished and looking at me expectantly, I ran my gloved hands through my red hair, probably making it spiky in different places, and sighed.

"Alright, alright, I get it, I'm the rookie," I muttered. "I haven't finished any of my training period with any of my mentors at any of my Houses, because I'm initiated into six different ones, so I'm only in this mission to recruit Poll."

Daun rolled her eyes, still Fe'ral, and strode towards me, her claws on either side of my bare shoulders, trying hard not to slice into my turquoise vest. "You weren't listening, were you, Perry? You're coming with us to Cillian!"

"But why?" I snapped, frustrated. "All of you have already figured out your specialties. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do, what I could possibly contribute to a mission with stakes this high. I can't even properly recruit Poll because I'm not in House Psyche!"

"Fuck, Perry," Hob snapped, while Daun stepped back so I could get tongue-lashed by someone else. "Who says you can't initiate into House Psyche? That's what I'm doing on this mission." He bowed to Psyche compulsively, and she smiled bemusedly at him. "She's agreed that this mission will be me and Rani's initiation, and Erasmus will mentor me. You've got Psyche skills too, especially with Fiona."

I looked up at House Psyche, confused. She looked down at me, considering, and then opened her mouth to speak, but a voice cut across the stillness of the chamber and made us whip our heads around.

"I want Shae's Six to initiate into House Fate."

The one who spoke, voice like glass and iron, was a three-headed woman with hollow sockets in her young, maternal, and crone faces, as they held a single eyeball with shifting colours in the pupil, rolling it from one hand to another.

"Fate, this does not concern you," Psyche snapped, making us all turn back to her. They sat on opposite sides of the room. I was worried my neck would start to get whiplash.

"It is tradition," Fate rasped, chuckling unpleasantly. "Any Na'wal who is eligible to initiate into a seventh House must choose House Fate." Fate turned those sightless eyes and single eyeball towards Hob, and he gulped visibly, his own eyes wide."Remember that too, Mirror Shards. Your time may come."

"Am I eligible?" I croaked into the silence. "I mean, I didn't know we could go past six."

I flinched as that eyeball focused on me again. "You are eligible, Six-Spirit. Consider this mission your initiation. Your mentor will be revealed during your journey."

And that was that. Fate had spoken. Psyche looked kind of pissed, but she controlled her emotions, and soon was just ageless and neutral again. Underworld finished up the meeting, naming Erasmus as team leader, and each of the twelve Council Members gave us their blessings. We trooped out of the inner sanctum, walking in between Psyche and Matter, exiting the opposite way of which we had come. I tried to ignore Psyche's gaze as we passed.

When we got into the antechamber, I leaned against a wall and let out a breath. "By the gods, what the fuck was that?"

Hob was sitting on the floor beside me. "I know, dude, I know. That was fucking weird."

"Unfortunately, we don't have time to consider the meaning behind Fate's words," Erasmus told us gently, but firmly. "We have a mission to do, and a limited amount of time to complete it. Hob, if you could weave a geis over us and bring us to Mid?"

That was one of Hob's specialties that belonged to no House. Some of the Na'wal just are able to create portals to worlds they've already been to. I know Lana was able to do that as well, but it's something I never really got the hang of. I needed an established portal, and creating one took time and effort. The geis, however, was a universal Na'wal skill. You had to be able to phase in and out of different worlds without harming the minds of the inhabitants.

Hob was standing now, touching the wooden wall in front of him. His skin began to shimmer blue again, and the geis he weaved reached out and enveloped Erasmus and myself, while the wall in front of him began to develop a hole, that spiraled outwards, larger and larger. I turned my last gaze to Lana, Hansine, and Daun. Nemera rose in me, carrying with her the memory of the four of our furred feline bodies rubbing against each other, and then the portal was large enough for the three of us and Hob pulled us through.

***

We --Nemera and Perry-- immediately sensed something was wrong. Erasmus, Hob, and a violet-eyed, clawed Peregrine emerged from the tree outside of the townhouse Pollux shared with a bunch of other college guys that he hadn't met until they'd all moved in due to an ad in the paper by the landlord. When the geis left us, it was just the mid-forms of Erasmus, Rani, and Shae, with Perry forcing control and Nemera waiting in the wings, growling.

(The door's open,) I sent to Erasmus and Rani. (They always lock the door.)

I gave Erasmus a steady look, and he nodded, then turned to Rani. Her body had stiffened, and her eyes glazed over for a bit. I knew who was being called. If we were in Omphalos, she would be shifting, growing two feet taller than her five feet three, skin reddening, eyes glowing like black coals holding sparks of consuming flame. I heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed, its ringing clang in my ears, but saw no sword. Morg looked back at me through Rani's eyes, which had darkened to almost black. She was Fe'ral, though it seemed strange in Rani's small, curvy body, but everything about her seemed heightened, tense, ready to strike.

Morg lifted her face up, sniffing the air. (Trespassers,) she growled.

I heard a jaguar's roar within my mind, and felt Fiona fluttering alongside Nemera, her fear concerning Poll's safety flaming Nemera's battle rage. (Not yet, not yet,) I muttered to them.

I glanced at Morg. (Let me lead. I know the way, and they may still not know we're here.)

She gave me a curt nod, and I pushed the door open gently, and crept down the stairs and into the hallway where Poll and his other basement roommie kept their shoes. I paused before I turned the corner, and made sure Morg and Erasmus were behind me. Then I quickly peered into the next room, before darting back against the safety of the wall.

(All clear,) I sent. (His door is closed, but I can see movement from the bottom.)

We crept into the shared dining area, and up to the door. I could see one of Erasmus' Fe'ral start to rise in his eyes, feel the slither of ancient scales and the folding of leathery wings. Morg's ears twitched, and Nemera pushed Perry aside, using Shae's ears. We could all hear it now, a quiet masculine whimpering, and deep throaty feminine laughter.

Morg and I shared a look, our rage filling our blood, the desire for battle, for protection of one of our own, thrummed through us, our Fe'ral forms demanding to break out of these small and frail human skins.

(Do it,) Erasmus said.

We both roared and charged at the door, slamming our shoulders against the wooden frame and crashing to the ground with us on top, while Erasmus' psionic power flared through the room above us. High-pitched shrieks, and then I sprang to my feet, nails ready to tear into flesh. I glimpsed Poll tied up in his shorts on the bed, eyes bulging out of his head in panic, glasses askew, and then a tall, pale, Chinese girl with long black hair flung herself at my face. I ducked and grabbed her by the throat, my other hand punching her in the solar plexus. I vaguely sensed on my right that Morg had tackled an identical Chinese girl to the floor. Erasmus was immediately untying Poll, who was babbling crazily.

"What the fuck are you guys doing here? Shae? Oh shit... th-th-they wanted some 'fun', but then they started asking me questions that didn't make any fucking sense. I know Shae's involved in some interdimensional shit, but I wanted to stay out of it. And I don't know any fucking thing about sill-sill-sillin? Argh, what the FUCK is going on?!"

The Chinese girl struggled out of my grip, and I got scratched in the cheek as she hissed at me. I hissed back, and tackled her to the ground, holding her down while I straddled her. Suddenly, she stopped moving, and smiled up at me smugly. I was going to slapthat smile off her face, but then I felt it-- a shot of warmth in my groin that spread throughout my body, making my breasts ache and nipples harden. My body began to thrum and purr instantly.

I jerked my head towards Morg, and the surprise and rage in her eyes showed that she was being subjected to it as well.

"Raz!" she snarled to Erasmus. "They are well-trained in the arts of Eros! For fuck's sake, hurry it up!"

"Listen to me, Poll," Erasmus said firmly, forcing Poll to look him in the eyes. "You have a gift. Many gifts. The gods have chosen you--"

"I'm an atheist," Poll rasped. "I don't believe in--"

Erasmus sighed in exasperation, and lost a bit of his well-known patience. "It doesn't matter what you believe, they believe in you! You can see with your own eyes, man! You can't ignore this shit any longer. The Trespassers want you because they know you can do good, that you have power. They want to stop you, recruit you to their side. The choice is rather simple, join us, or join them."

"Join... you...?" Poll looked towards me, towards Shae.

For a split second, Nemera receded, and Fiona stared at Poll through wide, tear-filled eyes. "Poll..."

Just as Pollux whispered "I'll join you", the woman underneath me bucked, and I was sent flailing to the floor. Fiona faded, Nemera returned, and I let out a growl of rage.

"Hob! NOW!"

Morg vanished, and Rani's eyes were filled with Hob's panicked energy. She sprang off the one underneath her. "Oh shit shit shit shit," she muttered as she slapped her hand against Poll's mirror. Erasmus' hand was circled around Pollux's wrist. I grabbed his other hand and flung myself at Hob, pulling the two with me.

I heard a shriek of "Noooo!" and felt two bodies slam on either side of me just as I felt Hob's geis and portal swallow us.

On the other side of the portal, I could hear Hob's voice, now masculine. "This isn't the fucking rendez-vous point!" he yelled. "Where the fuck are we?"

I wanted to say something, but I could barely breathe. Things were coiled around my fur, squeezing my chest. I opened my violet eyes to find two kinds of serpent bodies sliding over me, one dark brown with black diamond-shaped rosettes, the other white with pale yellow rosettes. I struggled, but my claws were also immobilized by heavy coils. Suddenly, the albino python's head reared up above me, fanged jaws opening so wide, to enclose over my body, trap me within all those scales. I could not roar with my own jaws, but my mind bellowed and clawed out and beyond, feeling Morg's body rip out of Hob's in response, the growl of a wolf, and deep, dark laughter-- it was Pollux's voice, but... it wasn't Pollux. The scent of Panthera filled my nostrils, I heard the swing of a blade, a wolf howl, and the roars of a lion, a tiger, and a leopard, before I could no longer fill any more air into my lungs, and my mind shut down.

***

...to be continued...

The Cillian Mission #2

2007-09-25T22:14:54Z

Note: More IRL fanfic that takes pace in the Omphalos cosmos.

***

The inner sanctum lies in the heart of the Axis Mundi, and is a vast, dome-like chamber made entirely out of stone or wood. This time it was wood, since we were in the Great Tree instead of the Great Tower. The floor of the chamber was circular, and there were twelve wooden chairs molded from the floor, facing inwards. In the center was a wooden stool, dusty and forlorn. It was rumored that the seat belonged to the lost Thirteenth House of the Axis Mundi, but no one truly knew, since that was long ago. All we really figured out was that you'd be in deep shit if you sat in that chair during a Council meeting.

Lana and I, lead by Rani and Erasmus, entered the chamber through one of the four entrances that split the Council Members in groups of three. We entered conspicuously between Fate and Time, the Twelfth and First House. As we walked towards the center, that's when I noticed there were two figures already before the council, two Na'wal of which I knew. They faced the Head of House Underworld, who today looked like a tall, gaunt, dark man with a white skull painted over his face, wearing a dusty black suit and top hat while smoking a cigar. The two Na'wal turned to look at us as we approached them.

Since I had broken loose from Maynard's grip on Shae, the others within me began to clamor behind their mental doors, my heart beating fast as I took in the first figure. Hansine always had that strange affect on me, both reducing me to burning desire and bumbling social ineptitude. She was Shae's height, five feet two, with her dark curls, brown eyes, and skin shades lighter than Shae's. Hansine also had a weird tilt to her eyes, but not of any Asian heritage. Her nose was kittenish, and her lips full, always smiling mischievously and seductively. I could tell she was in the grip of the Jester, her To'nal that had no form but used her original body like a wooden doll, keeping her eyes neutral. She was clad in knee-high black buckled boots, a black and purple pleated skirt, and a black fitted dress shirt with a black suede vest that had purple embroidery in the shapes of vines that held roses and thorns. The purple in her vest and skirt brought out the violet flecks in her eyes. Her lips were glossy, and kissable.

I tore my eyes away and stared at the androgyne beside Hansine, the one known as Daun. Hir hair fell straight down hir back, golden strands that glimmered against the plain black shirt ze wore. Ze also wore black fitted pants, and plain black shoes. A top hot graced hir head, proclaiming she was initiated into House Underworld, and was situated in such a way that it did nothing to hide hir intense deep blue gaze, and elfin features. A black collar and matching cuffs encircled hir pale neck and wrists, making my mind wander where it shouldn't.

It must have shown on my face, because Daun's breath caught, and then the deep blue of hir eyes faded into honey and gold, hir body began to shimmer, hir hair turning into a darker, tawny color. I felt my own body shift, as my body and mind was consumed by Nemera's jaguar form, and Peregrine, though not locked out, was forced to retreat back into my psyche and simply watch. I knew my eyes were turning a dark, dark violet, with a slit-like pupil, the muscles and bones crunching and reworking themselves, my hair deepening to black and spreading all over my body, a tail erupting from my backside while my genitals receded inside my body and my pectorals bloomed out into breasts.

As our changes were complete, I padded towards Daun, now a lioness, and sniffed her face, rubbing against her cheek and ear, as she mimicked mine. Two other forms padded towards us, a hulking male snow tiger with blue-gold eyes, and a black leopardess with paler violet eyes than my own. Apparently, our shifts had also triggered Conroy and Hansine into their Fe'ral feline forms as well. Since we were all Panthera felines, we circled each other for a bit, and then roared our greeting. I wanted to bite into them, shove them into the ground, feel their growls against my fur, and have the tiger mount me. The lioness was already swiping at me in challenge when another roar echoed throughout the chamber.

We all turned to the chair on the left of House Underworld, which held House Faun. Faun was in the form of a gigantic male lion, who was lounging in front of his chair instead of actually being on it. His roar and growls reprimanded us for our lack of control, reminding us that we were not here to mate or fight, but to be obedient to the call of the Axis Mundi. Reluctantly, myself and the others began to pull back, pushing our Fe'ral into a more humanoid form. I felt my fur receding until all that could be seen was curly black hair, and dark violet cat eyes in a human face that looked a lot like Shae's, but with pointed teeth. I was barefoot, wearing only tight black jeans and a black tanktop that accentuated my full breasts. My hands still tapered off into black claws. Daun and Hansine had also reverted to their original clothing, with feline eyes and clawed hands. However, Daun was obviously female now, breasts filling out her shirt. Conroy towered above the three of us, hair white with streaks of black, wearing the jeans and t-shirt combo that my body favoured at this moment. Though we had all become a little more human, we were still Fe'ral and feline, and we reached out to keep touching each other, rubbing our hands on each others' arms, occasionally sniffing another's shoulder.

Faun shifted into a satyr, and sat back in his chair, laughing throatily. "I did not expect to speak at this Meeting, since this mission concerns the affairs of Houses underworld, Psyche, Muse, and Eros. But all of you are initiates of House Faun, and these four particularly may form a Panthera pardus. This amuses me, since it has been too long since a last Panthera pardus was formed, of a tiger, a lion, a jaguar, and a leopard."

An answering laugh came two seats from the left of Faun, where House Eros sat. Eros was a distracting naked full figured redheaded woman, with red eyes and red lips. "Na'wal Shae and Na'wal Rani are well-known for the unpredictability of their powers, especially on other Na'wal who are initiated into House Eros, like Keeper Conroy and Seeker Hansine." She peered down into Daun's lion eyes. "However, Keeper Daun, you do not seem to be an initiate of my House. Perhaps you should consider taking the initiation and see if you are suited to the arts of desire."

Daun flexed her claws and grinned. "Perhaps when I finish my training in House Faun, Eros. As you can see, I still need to learn control."

"Speaking of which," Psyche broke in smoothly, a bald and ageless woman in a silver dress sitting on the right of Underworld. "Will you not do obeisance to your Houses, as is custom?"

Erasmus stepped forward. "My apologies, Council Members." He walked to Faun first, bowed to him, then moved counterclockwise to Psyche, and Logos.

When he was finished, Lana stepped forward. She must have reverted back to this To'nal from her male Fe'ral form while the Council Members were being amused with us. She began with Eros, and also moved counterclockwise to Faun, Psyche, Logos, and Muse. Rani came next, bowing to Eros, Element, Faun, Underworld, and Muse. By the time it was my turn, Nemera had receded, and I was Peregrine once more. I began bowinng to Eros, then moved to Faun and Underworld. I continued walking to Logos, Muse, and lastly Upperworld, finishing the circle as I returned to face Underworld. Hansine and Daun made no move to make obeisance, as I assumed they already had done so before we arrived. I already knew which Houses they had initiated themselves into-- Hansine was of Eros, Faun, and Muse, while Daun was of Muse, Faun, Underworld, and Upperworld. I also noticed Hansine's eyes had returned to brown, and she no longer had claws or unusually long teeth. Daun's claws were also gone, but her eyes stayed cat-like and golden. She must have only begun her training in House Faun.

"Now that we've dispensed with the preliminaries," Underworld intoned, leaning forward so that he gave us all a dose of those completely black, starless eyes. "We will detail the mission. In short, Trespassers have come to wreak havoc on Cillian, a world that Seeker Hansine here had originally discovered and explored with Seekers Darl and Jerek. All the original Keepers of Cillian have been executed, which is further evidence of Trespassing. Seeker Hansine, if you will explain in more detail as to the political climate of Cillian?"

Hansine nodded and turned to face the five of us, her voice cool and clipped. "Cillian was a world that held five major kingdoms, with limited Jinn influence, i.e. no advanced technology. Similar to the post-Medieval European times. In the last five years, three of the kingdoms have been ravaged by war and assimilated into the fourth, the land of Ephah, which was previously very peaceful and not prone to war in all its thousands of years of existence. The largest kingdom, of the people of Onofrio, have been able to defend their land from the Ephanese. The Onofrian ruler, Queen Perdita, fought so victoriously, that she even began peace negotiations to end this brutal Great War. Unfortunately, it has become clear to those of her Inner Court that three days ago Queen Perdita fell dangerously ill, and has not been herself. The symptoms, when talking to the Seekers and Keepers of House Psyche, seem to be a loss of soul shards done by someone with extremely powerful psionic ability. However, when attempting to locate them, we ran into an even greater complication."

Hansine looked to Rani, who shyly stepped forward and began addressing us. "The soul shards weren't just ripped from her body, they were transformed into some kind of monster, or demon, and banished into one of the Underworlds. Since they now act like demons, they're harder to track and locate."

"Alright, I get that," I interrupted. "You need Daun to heal the Queen's soul, Erasmus to protect and fight psionic attacks, and Rani to traverse the Underworld. What about Lana?"

"That's how I'm going to get you into the Inner Court and an audience with the Queen," Hansine answered. "We can't just announce that you're Keepers, or Cillian's equivalent. The Ephanese and the Onofrians had a purging of the 'witchfolk', as they call them. So, you'll be a travelling group of entertainers, since many of you have trained in House Muse. Lana will help coordinate and choreograph your acts, as she's an Illusionist."

"But there's also a further complication, Peregrine," Erasmus said. "If Queen Perdita does not become whole enough to resume negotiations with the

Ephanese King within three days, then the Ephanese will invade. This last great battle will be so terrible it is not likely anyone on Cillian will survive it. That world will be in ruins, and the Trespassers will have achieved their goal."

"But you can't retrieve lost transformed soul shards in three days!" I exclaimed. "That's re-fucking-diculous-- pardon my Fe'ral."

Rani cleared her throat. "From the information Hansine has given me, these soul shards seem to be parts of the Queen's strongest Shadow emotions. Her rage, her despair, and her fear."

"They're made of pure emotion..." I murmured. "So we need an empath?"

"Exactly!" beamed Rani. "An exceptionally strong empath who specializes in the Underworld. Someone of that power can locate the transformed soul pieces within three days as long as they've come in contact with the Queen, they can recognize her lost emotions by scanning the Underworlds with their mind."

"Okay, that sounds logical," I acceded. "But even though I'm initiated into House Underworld, I'm not in House Psyche. I have some rudimentary empathic skills, but nowhere near the magnitude needed for this mission."

"We know you're not an empath, Peregrine," Erasmus said patiently. "We need you to help us with a Crossover. We need to recruit a new Na'wal, since there are no trained empaths of House Underworld at this moment with enough power."

I peered at Erasmus suspiciously. "Why me?"

There was a snort, and I turned to see Hob shimmer into existence and replace Rani, while he rolled his eyes at me. "Because he's from Mid. And Shae sees him almost every day. And they do the nasty once in awhile, which can be used as leverage, you know."

"What?" I spluttered, my eyes widening in understanding. "You don't mean..."

"Yes," Erasmus said calmly. "We mean Shae's boyfriend, Pollux Jones."

***

...to be continued...

The Cillian Mission #1

2007-09-24T23:28:22Z

Note: This is the first installment of a story/novel/la that takes place in the Omphalos cosmos. I'd also like to point out that I'd classify the narrative as "IRL fanfic".

It began at the party.

Noise swirled around me, and I downed a glass of punch to calm my jittery, socially frayed nerves before realizing it had been spiked with rum to an almost ludicrous degree. The nausea became worse, so much worse. A crowded livingroom swam in front of my eyes, people lounging on couches, standing in doorways, huddled together on the carpet in front of the booming stereo. They engaged themselves in conversation like a steady buzz punctuated with trilling or raucus laughter that made me wince. The floor swayed, then contracted, my breath coming in harsh gasps. Panic attack. Fuck.I stumbled towards the kitchen, squeezing my way through more bodies, feeling the rustle of cloth on my skin, the whiff of perfumes and colognes before I stepped out into the backyard. There were people out here too, but just a few clusters of two or three speaking in low tones. The cool night air caressed my face, and I gulped it in, leaning against a nearby tree.

A hand touched my shoulder and I jerked away with a yelp of surprise.

"Are you alright? I didn't mean to startle you."

I looked up. And up. He was tall, with long flowing chestnut hair past his shoulders, and dark glasses framing his pale face. Dressed in basic black-- sneakers, jeans, tight t-shirt.

My head was starting to pound. I was shielding so hard from everyone tonight that it was taking all my power, and the other doors that lay within my mind were weakened. I tried to remember where I was by pressing my hand harder against the bark of the tree. Oak. Good, strong oak.

"I'm fine," I lied. "I just needed some air. It's hot in there."

"Yeah, it felt kind of claustrophobic. And that bowl of rum with a pinch of fruit juice doesn't help."

I should have nodded, and started moving away, but I laughed. There was something about him, that tingled against my shields. I wondered if he had some form of psychic ability, perhaps a strong witch. I kept getting distracted by how his hair fell along his neck. It took me awhile to realize he had been speaking again.

"I'm Conroy, one of Jake's friends. I take it you're here for him?"

Jake? Who the hell? Oh right, Jake. This was his birthday party after all. "No, I'm actually Tina's friend Shae-- she's his roommate. She thinks I don't go out much because I spend all my time either at one of my two jobs, or at band practice, but I think it's actually because parties are just a collection of desperate or supremely bored people using random and inevitable occasions like births as a reason to indulge in substances and activities they wouldn't do otherwise."

I paused. Did I just say all that? Oh gods, I was rambling. Great.

"Which one am I?"

I blinked up at those black, glossy squares that covered his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Am I desperate, or am I bored?"

I just gaped at him, wondering if I had offended him in some way. "Bored," I spluttered. "You must be if you're talking to me."

"And let me guess, you're exempt from either of those categories because you were dragged here by Tina?"

"No, I'm bored too. And engaging in an activity I otherwise wouldn't be doing, which is talking to an attractive man."

He grinned at me, all white teeth, as my eyes widened in shock at what I had just said.

"Holy fuck, Shae, are you flirting?"

My eyes widened further as a face popped out of the tree, shimmering faintly blue. His eyes and hair were near-black, like mine, and his skin the same pale brown, but the facial features were different. While his had wide eyes and a narrow nose, mine had the small round nose, broad face, and tilted eyes of the Pacific Islands. I tried to minimize my external reactions, tried to make it seem like I was just gazing at the tree to gather my thoughts or hide my blushing. What I was actually doing was using my mind to snap at the intruder.

(Hob, what the fuck are you doing here?)

"You're needed at Omphalos. There's an emergency."

(What kind of--?) "What kind of--?"

My thoughts ground to halt, as I realized that someone had spoken at the same time as I had been sending my thoughts. My eyes glanced back upwards.

"How can you see him too--"

Trailing off again. The sunglasses were gone. Instead I was staring up at what would have been pure sky blue eyes, the kind of hue directly above you at midday in summer, except at the center was the colour gold, like a ring of pale flame around each black pupil.

My breath caught in my throat. I knew those eyes. The internal doors I had barred closed broke open, and another voice came out of my throat, deeper, husky with passion and promise.

"Lana?"

Conroy gasped, and almost took a step back. "How? What? Oh gods... Perry?"

The world seemed to freeze between us as we took each other's Mid-forms in. The muscular, towering six feet tall Conroy body, with the full, lustrous hair, and prominent jaws. My Shae body, at its petite and curvy five feet two, the wild black curls, the slanted eyes, the honey-brown skin. And the skirt. For fuck's sake, I was wearing a black and pink striped tank top and pink ruffled skirt.

"Okay, great, now we have two of you," Hob snapped us out of our daze. "Time to get your asses over here."

Before I could even take in another breath, Hob threw up a geis around us, the shimmering blue light over him expanding across both our bodies, phasing us out of the partygoers' memories and sight. The geis hit me like living sand trying to crawl its way into my pores and mind, but before I could scream in indignation, Hob's hand had grabbed my wrist and pulled me into Omphalos.

***

I was on my hands and knees, dry heaving, on what appeared to be a wooden floor. Nothing came out, for the food I'd eaten at Mid didn't cross over except through energy. I looked down at my hands, which were a lighter brown and covered in tight black leather gloves that reached almost to the elbows, but had the fingers cut off of them. I slowly stood up, making sure I wouldn't be dizzy again, while glancing at the rest of my new form to make sure I wasn't naked or equally embarrassing. I was wearing shoes. That was good. They were ankle-high black leather boots. My pants were a dark turquoise of rough linen that didn't go past the knees. I appeared to be wearing a matching vest. The only thing that crossed over successfully was the silver circle amulet at my neck, which I wore in all worlds on a thin cord of black rope.

As I stood up fully, I realized that we were in the Axis Mundi, and that today it took the form of a gigantic tree. Specifically, we were in one of the empty wooden antechambers within the tree, with huge, twenty foot tall double doors ahead of us leading to the inner sanctum. I also noticed how far away the ground was. It was something I wasn't always entirely used to, the height change. Though the other changes felt more natural me, as if finally I looked the way I was supposed to.I turned around, to face Hob and Lana, knowing they both recognized this form easier than Shae. My rust colored hair was getting long in Omphalos, the lank locks beginning to frame my face and get in my eyes, which I remembered would be the same color as my clothes. It amused me how impeccably dressed I was in the otherworlds, despite my frumpy, wild appearance in Mid.

Hob grinned impishly at me. "You're totally gay, dude. I mean, you even have embroidered ravens on your vest and pants. That's just too much effort."

I rolled my eyes. "Pot calling the kettle black, much?"

Hob was decked out in maroon baggy pants, a deep gold sash, and knee-high black leather boots. His billowy chemise, with its buttoned up collar, was robin's egg blue, and the thick jerkin he wore overtop was the same red as his pants, but embroidered with blue and gold patterns that may have been Kama Sutra positions-- though Hob would deny that or accuse you of being the pervert. His diklo covered his thick unruly mass of dark hair, the cloth the same blue of his shirt, but embroidered with maroon patterns of stars, moons, and skulls. Rings glinted on every finger, two in each ear, and one piercing his left nostril. He wore three different amulets on, for protection against the dead, protection against troubles on journeys, and protection against the evil eye. He also had a necklace where the metallic shapes of a coyote, a raven, and a skeleton with a tophat could be seen hanging together. To top it all off he had a pouch one hip full of his knicknacks mixed in with his appropriate magical tools, and a curved dagger off his opposite hip, the sheath blue and gold, encrusted with dark red gemstones.

"Besides," I continued amiably. "I can't be totally gay if I like girls, right?"

I offered a sweeping bow to Lana, and had the satisfaction of watching her blush on the way back up. She was probably the most modestly dressed out of the three of us, with a pale ice blue dress that came in two layers-- the first was plain, opaque, and spaghetti-strapped, the second was gauzy and covered her arms and neck, with silver patterns of roses and vines twining over the surface, looking like fragile filigree. She wore a golden locket amulet at her throat. The dress only emphasized her blue-gold eyes. Her hair, on the other hand, was a rich mahogany color that flowed down to the backs of her knees, a stark contrast against her pale throat.

"Are you well, Peregrine?" she stammered, unable to maintain eye contact as I walked up to her. She was tinier in Omphalos. Not as short as Shae, but I still had to bend my head slightly down to look at her. "You seemed nauseous..."

"Oh yeah." I turned and punched Hob in the shoulder.

"Ow! You bastard! What was that for?"

"That was for not warning us you were going to throw the geis on us and bring us here. You also didn't tell us why we need to be at Omphalos, you fucker." I turned back to Lana. "Anyway, to answer your question, it was because Shae mostly was channeling Maynard, and not me. You know how Maynard is."

"So that's your Mid name... Shae. I never thought to ask."

She still wasn't looking at me. I touched her chin lightly and brought those eyes back into my vision. "What's the matter, princess?" Ah, would I ever get tired of that rosy flush?

"You... you saw my Mid-form," she whispered. Her eyes told me she expected me to be revolted. I merely grinned.

"Yeah, I'd still do ya in Mid."

"In the ass," Hob muttered. "Totally gay."

I tried to punch him again, but he blocked me and continued ranting amicably while I doggedly tried to get into his defense.

"I mean, you're just as vulgar and foot-in-mouth as I am, and you seem to get all the booty. What's up with that?"

"I'm telling you, chicks dig a man who's a little gay. Plus, that's pretty much a prerequisite if you want to get it on with hot dudes."

"I can be gay!" Hob protested. "Like, look, I've got rings and shit."

"Good, then you won't mind this." I got through his defense and grabbed his balls, and was rewarded with a high-pitched yelp.

"If you children are done playing now, I can escort you three to the inner sanctum. We've got a new mission."

"Erasmus!" I said, pleasantly surprised, and nearly got ball-grabbed myself from Hob, but quickly side-stepped and Hob got Lana's crotch instead.

"Eek!" she squealed, and it was Hob's turn to blush.

"Oh shit, Lana, I'm sorry--"

Erasmus cleared his throat. "Perhaps another soul would be better, Hob. Two Raven-touched forms seem unwise at this present time."

Hob looked like he was about to protest, then glanced at my glaring face and Lana's still wide-eyed one, and thought better of it. He sighed, closed his eyes, and shimmered all over, as if his molecules were just separating into fairy dust, and then recombining. For all I knew, that was probably happening. Eramus seemed more able to understand this kind of thing, but I was too preoccupied to ask. When the dust cleared, it was Rani staring back at us, with her long taupe locks and fire engine red bangs. Black-red glasses framed her honey-colored eyes. Incongruously, she had Mid-clothes on, which consisted of black cargo pants, Doc Marten ankle-high boots, and a faded red hoodie with skull-and-crossbones patterns on it.

Rani moved over to Erasmus, who smiled down at her and kissed the top of her head. He was an inch or two taller than me, and burly where I was lean, with thick, wavy, dark brown hair going to salt-and-pepper shades, and a Van dyk on his face that framed his mouth with bristles the colour of raw umber. Behind his thin gold spectacles peered shrewd eyes, mostly a pale jade except for the thin inner circle of wolfish yellow. He was also in Mid-form clothes, with worn jeans and a pressed and buttoned-up green short-sleeved dress shirt.

Rani put an arm around his waist but her murmur was towards Lana and I. "Sorry about Hob."

I shrugged, and gave her a sweeping bow as well. I must be addicted to watching girls blush before me. "Nothing I can't handle, sweetheart."

She ducked her face behind Eramus' arm to hide her shy smile, and Eramus rolled his eyes and held out his free arm before him, gesturing towards the doors that lead to the inner sanctum, and the Council of Omphalos.

"Shall we?"

***

...to be continued...

Let There Be Rain

2007-09-13T14:37:24Z

Clutching on compromises
Pouring out pieces at a time
Mustn't let the damn break
Or everything goes to hell

We don't want to build another ark
When there's no covenant to bind us
Noah's gone to rest beneath the mountain
And we're left building paradise with twigs

They used to whisper as I walked past, with scabby knees on schoolyard gravel
Ask me "are you the girl who read the Bible in one hour?"
"Are you the girl who reads books instead of having friends?"
"Aren't you, little sir? Little boy? Monsieur? Oh... little girl..."

I'm wondering if Moses lives inside me
If I can raise water up and up and up
Stand righteous; break their golden cows
Every promised land comes with stone rules

Because God the Father swore on a rainbow
That he'd never drown us humans with his tears again
But I guess when the Hebrews were fucked over
The Egyptians got exempt

I was going to burn my Bible and tear down the crosses from every room
No way to be a good girl when they all told you you were damned
But I stared at the smiling statues of angels that used to guard my bedside
And wonder what it takes to have that certainty of divinity and fly

Sometimes the world needs a flooding
We all want to get clean again, pure again, pretty please
Sleep in the deep deep water
Crash our boats and start over

And in the beginning
God was a face on the waters
And in the beginning
God said "It's okay, let it rain, and rain, and rain..."

"This is what living like this does"

2007-09-12T12:03:57Z

I ride
the power chords
and Palumbo-screams from
A wave borne of teenaged dog days
Where ridicule and averted eyes
Were given to the shaggy-haired, black lipsticked, trenchcoat-wearing
Aliens that shambled through corridors
Afraid to be touched
Fearing isolation

When did emotion become such a stigma?

Now a tsunami of memory built from years of gazing out through
Holes framed with eyeliner; hands twitching from resisting
The familiar comfort of Southern swill and malt liquor

Can we ever take back Sunday?

Crashing into adult shores
Where maturity reigns in the silence of civility
Where tight-lipped sobriety and acceptable revelry
Are etched in calendrical boxes
And sea-foam nostalgia swirls on sun-bleached sands
Are the last vestiges of a storm that raged beyond puberty

So we scream on
Through closed throats
We scream on
Echoing endlessly
We scream on
Awaiting a break in the pattern
We scream on
On the spirals of necessity
We scream on
And
On
And
On
And

Progress or Transgress

2007-08-06T07:20:57Z

Finally working on that novel/la I've wanted to finish for a long time. About, what, 3-4 years ago? It's tentatively called Fantasmagoria. I was prompted by some random 3-day novel writing binge suggested by Gina Rinalli on the BizarroCentral forums. I'm targeting between 15,000 to 30,000 words. Right now I'm trying to get to 15,000 before Monday evening, but I'll be happy to reach 10,000.

Mouthing Off

2007-08-03T18:01:31Z

"I think you should put a frog in your mouth," Mendelsun announced, the winding road in front of us dwindling to a single, blinking red eye. "I find it always helps."

The eye contemplates me. I contemplate the eye. I cock my head at Mendelsun, who is looking for the road.

"Where would I find a frog in this Bavarian wasteland?"

Mendelsun clucks his tongue. "What gave you the impression it had to be a Bavarian frog? Or that this is Bavarian at all?"

I'm so astounded by his wit I say nothing, and wonder if he got it by putting things in his mouth. How vaguely erotic. I insert my fist between my teeth, and suddenly the eye infront of us goes demon-obsidian black, winking out in a fit of contorted rage and sending the landscape roiling with chartreuse clouds, screams from my past rebounding off of the lizard-forked lightning.

"Now you've done it!" groaned Mendelsun. "The path is gone. The I is gone. You've still got yew, right?"

I look down at my hands, clutching a slender twig. It burns a lime-green and clashes awfully with the background. Perhaps some chiaroscuro effects could have melded foreground and background together. Mendelsun suddenly has become as tall as dragon-tipped skyscrapers, and I sigh with melancholy. The proportions are asymmetrical, making an imbalance in the overall composition. I wonder how large the frame is that God uses to view us.

The firmament opens up, shrieking out the expletives and thoughts my mother had while birthing me in that long ago hospital. Down, mercifully, as if He realized someone on this withered planet had remember to think about Him after millennia of atheism and neglect, came a torrent of croaking, bulging, bulbous frogs.

I close my eyes, open my mouth, and wait for heaven to give me a taste of answers and miracles.

Lightning & Harrowing (pt.2)

2007-07-28T17:53:23Z

Rhees marveled at how different Erin's room was from his own.

Admittedly, the eldest brother of the Muses was also known for trying hard to be human, but while Rhees' and Stel's rooms felt more like studies and libraries, with their spartan decor and endless shelves of books and writing materials, Erin's room belied a rich, interior romantic world coupled with a bizarre technological obsession. The door of his room was a dark green, but the walls were a deep blue-grey, wires and computer chips embedded in the walls and ceiling, growing into patterns like spiraling nautilus seashells and cavern-born crystals. Rhees was sure that all the hardware was not just aesthetic but functional as well. Erin's bed was shaped like the the Millennium Falcon, the edges made of star-burnt faded metal but the insides cushioned heavily with silvery pillows and a circular mattress, the sheets neatly arranged on top with the design of the Falcon embroidered on it. A trashcan that looked like R2D2 whistled at Rhees as he walked by. The ceiling also had a hologram of scenes from movies or Erin's own mind based on books he had read, flashing from ships whizzing into space, to knights fighting dragons, wizards' duels and the vengeance of ninja babes. Gunmetal grey shelves also grew out of one wall, in various entertaining forms and shapes also taken from Erin's favorite movies and books, housing stores of novels, gaming manuals, boardgames, figurines, DVDs, and CDs. Strangely, a plain, beaten-up acoustic guitar sat incongruently on its stand, near the most dominating feature in the room: Erin's computer. The screen was huge, with smaller screens clustered around it, speakers growing out of the walls and ceiling near it, and what looked like a built-in coffee and tea-maker to the right of the glowing, lava-lamp patterned tower. Erin sat hunched in front of it, the desk, chair, and computer patterned and organic like the rest of the room, typing feverishly, occasionally delving into what looked like an industrial tin can filled with chocolate covered almonds, sipping creamy coffee, while a pop punk band with techno influences blared throughout the room.

"Want some tea?" Erin asked without turning around.

"Sure," Rhees answered awkwardly.

"Computer," Erin commanded in a deeper, accented voice, making Rhees' brow twitch. "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."

Immediately, the strange device near the computer tower whirred and hummed, and a cup was pushed into a slot, water poured boiling onto a waiting tea bag. Rhees reached over and grabbed the mug --an electric blue color, he noted, like his eyes-- and almost tripped backward as he realized there was a chair behind him, that had grown soundlessly as the tea was being poured.

When Rhees sat himself down and began blowing on the tea, Erin finally spun around in his computer chair, and almost choked on the chocolate he had popped into his mouth.

"Holy shazbot, Rhees, you look like John Constantine!"

Rhees just raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Who's--?"

But Erin wasn't paying attention. "Though of course, the one in the comics, not the Keanu-Constantine" --Erin shudders, sipping more coffee manically-- "I mean, the movie wasn't bad, per se, because which movies live up to their humble comic beginnings anyway? Maybe Sin City--"

"Erin," Rhees coughed politely.

"Oh yeah, hey Rhees," Erin smiled pleasantly, offering a chocolate. Rhees shook his head, Erin shrugged and began chewing on it. Despite his caffeinated energy, his grey eyes behind his thick black-framed glasses were steady, watching Rhees' face, and the emotions that surged there. "Well?"

"Uh," Rhees was at a loss for words. He had always pictured Erin as moody, whiny, and excessively timid, forgetting that he was older than both Aster and himself. But in his room, surrounded by his dreams and creations, Erin was at home, friendly and engaging. "How's Fiona?" he asked abruptly.

Erin leaned back against his chair, tucking some of his longish brown bangs --cut in a typical emo-kid style-- behind one ear. "She's good. Well, she feels a bit guilty, thinking she made you lose the job--" Rhees opened his mouth to protest such a thought, but Erin continued "--but we've made her realize that it's not her fault, of course. Then there's the Pillsy thing."

"Pillsy?"

"It's that dude. Anyway, she's calmer about it now. What happens, happens, right? She's always so strong, even though she doesn't know it. I'm seriously going to push having her talk with him next time they meet instead of Aster or myself. Just let her speak, and have done with it. She knows the most about matters of the heart. We know what we are, and what we want. Accepting it..." at this Erin looked shrewdly at Rhees "well, that's another matter."

Rhees sighed and raked his hands through his unkempt, uneven, now spiky blond hair. "How... How do you get through your harrowings, Erin? We're different from the women. They have an essence that they must hone and express. And we? What are we? Where and how can we express who we are?"

"We three are creatures driven by meaning and vision," Erin said quietly.

"Oh yes, we are that, but it seems so much easier for you. You've got the entire geek culture to delve into. You can express it there, find people who appreciate that in you."

"I create meaning. This is how I bring my vision into the world-- through creation. What use is it there, stuck in my mind?"

"Yes, that's all very well and good, but..."

"You don't respect it," Erin said frankly.

"It's not that... well, maybe a little. See, I find it a beautiful sentiment, and it does work in its own fashion, but I was always more of a... direct-action kind of person, not like Cata, but just getting your hands into a problem and solving it right there. Stories, movies, yes, they inspire people to heal, to do great deeds. But I want to do those deeds, Erin. I want to make the world a better place through that. If that makes me full of pride and hubris..."

"Meaning through action," Erin smiled gently. "A princess once asked me that if all you are is what you do, what are you when you are doing nothing?"

"Nothing," Rhees whispered.

"In that, Rhees, you are surprisingly wrong. Like I said, we are creatures of meaning and vision. We each hold and create meaning and vision within us. We are given the desire to express it, like in Aster's Star Shard Myth. If and how we choose to express it is the mystery and beauty of being mortal. Just because you can't or won't express it doesn't mean you're a void, it just means the world is deprived of some light, or that this isn't the best way to illuminate."

"I thought... I thought I could make a theory, a long time ago, about what the Good is, and how to achieve it. About what the world needs today, you know, some super-doctoral thesis. Or I could be right there, with the poor and working classes, rallying them to their cause, breaking the entrenched apathy and defeatism that plagues the people so that they can rise up and make a better world for themselves. But I find I cannot do either, though I have the will, I seem to lack the skill. It fills me with despair, Erin. I should have been good at either or both, but it seems to me like I always have to compromise with the rest of you. And I know, I know, it's all for the Balance, but..."

"We will always continuously be fractured and broken if we only think of the ways we contrast and inconvenience each other," Erin said firmly, his gaze intent over the rim of his mug. "Instead we must remember we're still shards from the same whole. We fit together, we complement each other. We must remember how. You must remember, Rhees. How do you fit in with all of us?"

"I don't know," Rhees sighed, staring into his tea at the blurred reflection of his eyes.

"First thing you have to do is accept and respect what we are, and what we do to express it. Remember the three precepts for the three women: Darkness isn't evil but necessary, Life is meant to be lived, and Love really is that simple. I Dream; I create meaning. Aster, through his deviant ways as a trickster figure, finds solutions and creates meaning. As for you?"

"I'm a Seeker. I Seek Truth. It is hard for me to 'create' meaning-- hard to think that something can come of nothing. I don't know how I 'fit'..."

"We can still use your theories. We can still rally people together, break them out of their apathy and defeatism. Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, but..." A light sparked in Rhees' blue eyes. "But through the ways of the Dreamer, and the Trickster?"

"It's the beauty and the curse of having a Trickster for a Prince, isn't it? All things have to be done differently, have to be done our own way. Trying to do it another's way only seems weird, and awkward. That was why the job seemed so good to us, and yet felt strange, like a glove that didn't quite fit."

"So... working as a team, this is how we become whole? How the Star Shard Myth and Soul Throne Prophecy is fulfilled?"

Erin grinned wryly. "Now you're starting to sound like me and Aster."

The comment went unnoticed. Rhees was deep in his thoughts, and Erin was contented to watch the wheels turn and click. When he finally looked up, staring right into Erin's eyes, the eldest male Muse felt a warm shock of pride and amusement as he heard the words he and Aster had composed come softly, and certainly out of Rhees' lips:

"We are born into this world with certain roles laid out for us... but sometimes, we have to find our own damn Way."

Lightning & Harrowing (pt. 1)

2007-07-28T01:50:43Z

He stood uncertainly, the deep carrot hue of his hair clashing with the bright orange door frame, his tall lanky figure uncharacteristically awkward, one hand raised, curled into a fist, but unable to knock. Finally, he dropped his arm limply and called out a word:

"Rhees?"

A pause. Aster waited, not realizing he was holding his breath.

"Yeah, come in." Muttering, which sounded like "I don't give a fuck anymore..."

The words were harsh and hoarse. The Prince squared his shoulders, but still tentatively opened the door. He nearly backed out again, so confounded he was by the sight that greeted him.

Rhees was only in his boxers and white dress shirt. Not only that, but the shirt was open, dirty, crumpled, with sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Aster had never seen Rhees with anything less than an impeccably ironed and color-coordinated suit-and-tie outfit, complete with vest and suspenders if he wanted to feel fancy. The more pressing matter was the physical state the youngest of the male Muses was in-- Rhees' usually baby-smooth face was dotted with dark blond stubble, shadows hung around his piercing blue eyes, and... his hair. There was a wild mess of uneven wheat-gold clumps on his head, his shorn locks littering the usually pristine ordered room. Everything was a mess. Books and papers were scattered everywhere, apparently thrown there, with clothes and overturned armchairs, oaken tables, pillows, and blankets. Rhees himself stood before a mirror, cracked, the face Aster saw was haunted and haggard.

That's when he noticed the blood.

"Rhees!" Without thinking, Aster strode forward, his Doc Marten'd feet crunching over hair, paper, and glass. "What the FUCK, mate! Your hands're bleeding--"

Rhees whirled around before Aster could grab him. "Don't touch me!" A small glass shard glittered near one of his knuckles, stuck to his hand by a drying clot of blood. "Don't-- not you-- I-- who the fuck am I, Aster?"

Aster's alarm grew and almost overwhelmed him as he saw the glint of liquid in Rhees' eyes. But no, it would not due to pity the Seeker, this Aster knew. Straightening his spine, Aster let his voice cut the air between them imperiously. "Wash your hands, Rhees. Now."

Numbly, eyes glazed, he went off to his bathroom to do just that. Aster shut Rhees' door and sat down on the crumpled bed, waiting patiently. He surveyed the room again, with veiled dismay. Things were worse than he thought. When Rhees stumbled back into the room, he collapsed on the bottom half of the bed, arms at his sides, hands clean, but still threatening to well up with more blood if the cuts were pressed or scabs ripped further open.

Aster let him lie there, listening to Rhees' ragged breathing. He waited.

"That job..." Rhees choked on the next word, inaudible. "I... I should hate you. Why did you make us quit? You shouldn't even be here right now. I should... I should fucking kill you..."

For a minute, Rhees' old spark flared in the last few words, but it died quickly, replaced by a feeble rasping sound that must have been his attempt to laugh.

Aster fell back on the bed as well, so that their shoulders were brushing, but both their eyes trained on the ceiling.

"You know why I did it. I am the Prince, Rhees. I am sworn to uphold one thing, and that is the Fairy Star--"

"Balance," Rhees bit out. "You know I'm the most selfish prick in the Daedalirium, Aster. I hate this idea of Balance. I hate... I fucking hate all of you. Do you know that? If you were all gone, it would just be me. And I'd never have to compromise with any of your idiocy, your drivel, your snivelling and weakness..."

"Is that all we are to you?" Aster asked quietly. "A weakness? Is that what Fiona is to you?"

"You've started calling her Fiona now, eh? She likes it better than her old name?"

"She'll always be the Fairy, no matter what. But you still haven't answered my question."

Rhees reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Damnation and hellfire, Aster. I don't really think each one of you is pure weakness. We all have our weaknesses. I am just unbearably tired of all of this. I am tired of always Seeking, and never... succeeding. I always hated you for your smooth confidence, your unfathomable and usually unerring intuition. You will always be what you will always be. While I... my hopes of being a university professor were dashed. Now I sought to work for this non-profit, community-based organization, and that's all gone to naught. Both by your fucking decrees. What's left to me now, Aster? Should I just quietly self-destruct and leave you to your devices--"

Rhees exhaled sharply out of shock, as Aster, quicker than an eyeblink, was on top of him, hands grabbing his collar and shaking him roughly, a mad and furious look in his turquoise eyes. "Don't you ever say that, you hear me? You're my fucking brother, Rhees. You're The Seeker, you're one of the Muses of the Daedalirium, and if you ever fucking think of offing yourself, I swear I will resurrect you and kick the SHIT out of you."

Rhees' gaze softened, staring up at Aster's enraged face. Then he began to be uncomfortable once he realized how intimate they were. "Get off me, will you? I'm sorry. I just..."

Soon they were sitting, cross-legged, staring at one another.

"Who am I?" Rhees asked again, voice lost. "You've destroyed me, Aster. Are you happy?"

Aster's eyes smarted, but he blinked and kept them clear, clenching and unclenching his fists, looking down at the small space of bed between them. Then he faced Rhees' eyes.

"How dare you ask me if I'm happy? How dare you? Do you think I want to do this, Rhees? You're right, you ARE the selfish prick. But I thought you had some brains in your goddamn head. I never meant to destroy you--"

"Well you have!" Rhees shouted. "Look at me! I'm a fucking mess. So tell me, oh fearless leader, what I'm to do next."

"You keep working for them," Aster said, a bit of calmness returning to his voice. "You keep learning about the organization, and furthering the cause. Meanwhile, we get another job."

Rhees placed his face in his hands, shaking his head, before speaking again. "I just don't get it. All the pieces fit. We could've been good at this. With your people skills, my zeal, Cat's directness, and--"

"And what about Erin's shyness? Stelle's even-handed logic? And Fiona? Sweet, guileless Fiona?"

"We could have kept them in the back! We could have..."

Aster shook his head, making Rhees trail off. "No. Fiona came out at every stranger. She smiled, and put them at ease, and then proceeded to cutely, and stammeringly explain the organization, forgetting lines, forgetting sales pitches, and even pouring out her own life and problems as they offer her an ear to listen and a couch to share their woes. Who would have been the best to do it? Probably you. But you're not automatically shoved out when dealing with people. When she tries to channel you, it almost breaks her, your fire. We're not meant for this, Rhees. Perhaps if given months to adjust, yes, but they wanted results in the first two weeks. As much as me and Erin working together can produce amazing results, we can't deprogram and rewire the Hex's social schematics fast and thorough enough. I think..." Aster paused thoughtfully. "The way we disarm strangers, I think we could be a therapist or a counsellor. Or maybe we need one."

They both laughed ruefully at that.

"Could you have told her to go away?" Aster asked.

Rhees hesitated, then resignedly shook his head. "She believes in it as much as I do. I hadn't expected it when we took the job, how much she put her heart into it as well, how much it made her happy to talk to people and offer them hope. I thought you would do all the speaking, but she ended up taking the stage."

Aster grinned. "Yeah, I'm pretty proud of her, actually. I was surprised too, but I think it's taught her a lot, about people, about herself."

"How unfortunate that it did the exact opposite for me," Rhees grumbled. "Where is she now, by the way? I thought perhaps all of you would come storm my gates."

A shadow of annoyance, or sorrow, flickered across Aster's face. "Erin's trying to distract Fiona with fantasy books that hold a touch of romance. Stelle has sequestered herself in her quarters for reading and does not want to be disturbed. Cata... who knows what she's up to? She's been pacing and growling and lashing her tail and..."

Rhees narrowed his eyes. "It's over a guy, all this ruckus, isn't it?"

Aster sighed. "Yeah. Stel's quietly preparing herself if he decides to break it off. Fiona's taking it badly, but Erin's doing a passable job distracting her and keeping her from any weepiness. Cat, however... Cat's growing impatient waiting for his decision. I can feel her, just like I can feel all of you in the back of my head somewhere... and she just... the images and impressions are so strong. She wants to rend flesh, make people scream underneath her..."

Rhees flinched. "I fear that darkness. I am of fire and rage, the lightning that tears open skies, but her darkness is from watery abysses, the hidden parts of the soul. I don't want to see her caged again, but..."

"You're going to have to accept her, Rhees," Aster said gently. "You're going to have to accept all of us. Most of all, accept yourself. We can only be what we can be, eh? The Hex creates, performs, loves, and seeks truth and dream, treading lines both light and dark. I am tired too, brother. So fucking tired. I am tired of the schisms between all of us. I seek healing. I seek to make each of you understand how sacred and important you are."

Rhees stared at him wide-eyed, unmoving. He didn't shirk away when Aster placed a hand on his rough, unshaven cheek. They stared at each other for a goodly while, brother drawing strength from brother, before Aster finally let his hand drop and Rhees spoke again.

"That story... that myth you told at the storytelling circle... is it true? Do you believe it?"

"Of course. Why would I have told it if it wasn't? We all believe it, and deep down, you believe it too, Rhees. That we are meant to remember what we were and are, and let each star shard shine through in this life. You're going through one of many of your harrowings. Such is the process. You, Stel, and Erin have gone through far fewer than the rest of us, but also because you all are guarded and withdrawn in your own way. All will be well, in the end. We did not feel the joy at the job, the way we feel when we write a good story, essay, or poem, when we perform with words and song, and when we heal a wound in someone's soul and they show it through a hug. This is what we are meant to be, Rhees. You have a place in this too. We need your fire."

Rhees heaved a heavy sigh, and rested his head in his hands. "Let me think on it, Aster. I am confused and lost."

"I am here for you, brother. Remember that you do not walk this road alone. There are many inside and outside the Daedalirium who will give a ready ear or hand... even if you do look like some squirrel with a machete started hacking at your hair while tweaking from crack."

A faint smile crossed Rhees' lips, and Aster dodged a friendly, swinging fist.

"Get a real hair cut, man, this look is totally not you." Aster clapped him on the back, and left Rhees to his mess of a room, and the even more tangled conundrum of his thoughts.

Pumped and Pumping Out

2007-07-06T20:42:48Z

Well, well, look who's back, out from the ether and nether. What have you missed, then?

I'm a wannabe unpaid journalist! Yessiree bob, I will be writing an article on the Ottawa Small Press Book Fair for Bywords, and a profile on the badass Nathanael Larochette for zygote magazine. I've also been doing some minor editorial/reading work for Dusty Owl Press.

I've also composed two new songs-- "The Path" and "Pandora's Box". Playing guitar almost every day is helping to get my fingers back in shape, but I still need a lot of practice. I'll be hitting up Open Stage at Rasputin's Cafe on Wednesday to unleash at least one of those songs onto the world.

Working on new poetry. "Serendipity Vs Synchronicity" is very rough, and will need some major transformations if it's going to hit a slam stage, but I feel rather confident enough to use it on poetry open mics. I'll also be composing a new poem for the Poetic Intentions Show at the end of the month (theme: Balderdash).

I'm planning to attend more readings and shows. I also want to make it to the In/Words Writer's Circle and have a regular group of hombres critique my work. In addition to that, I've set the ball rolling for an Art Club called "Still... Life?" which will hopefully get my rusty graphic skills back in shape.

Lastly, I've written a new story! I plan to submit it to The Dream People. It's called Angels Don't Fuck In Heaven or, alternatively, The Hole World. Comment if you're interested in proofreading it, and choosing which title seems more appropriate. Its genre is "bizarro", and it's about 800-900 words long. I can't really explain what it's about, so here's the first paragraph:

"Bleary-eyed and cotton-mouthed, Philip had stumbled into his bathroom to brush his teeth when the Pulse hit. The walls contorted slightly around him, his toilet gurgling in arousal and the drains in his sink and bathtub squelching and moaning, their silver mouths flexing in anticipation. His heart suddenly thudding in his ears, his breath coming in fast, he groped for his toothbrush and tried hard not to let his hands shake from jangled nerves and glaring inexperience."

Serendipity Versus Synchronicity

2007-07-03T05:20:02Z

"Some things are just that simple," he says
And for a second, I let the silence seep in that pinpoints
The moment when a heart crashes from a
self-induced euphoric high of enlightenment
to the grim truth of
welfare, debt, unemployment, separation,
stone-cold faces and mortgage races
and the blown-up pride of an ego
hell-bent on a transformation
that happens as fast as
trees grow rings
angels gain wings
and arseholes sing
Justin Timberlake titillating tunes backward and with a touch of wet
Surprise, Canada, it's your birthday
I'm left in the lurch, rollercoasting on
full moons and long-haired princesses
trapped in a lost man's body
where, on a marshy islet, surrounded by broken shells and tattered feathers
since the chicks must have crawled from sheltered nests
to fly or sink beneath the lily pads,
I am currently drowning
on the roots of my past, staring up at the flower floating
near the sunlit surface far from my out-stretched hand
while smatterings of kisses try to save me
strawberries, shortbread, spices, and cream
but not all tongues are silver
not all hearts are gold
not all coincidences have meaning
not all accidents ruin mothers' lives
no matter how artfully or discreetly they insist on all of the above
and sometimes i wonder what it's like to feel
that belt around your neck, as you swung there, clawing
your feet unable to listen to the yearning for release
your mind craved from the unceasing chatter of void-eyed voices
a tiptoe, a slip, a well-placed kick away from blue-in-the-face
finality, a footnote on fatality
but on that day Death did not take you
gave you the wisdom to stare into my wide-eyed, bright-eyed rambles
and tell me of my hopeful theories, my grandiose epic meanings that
"sometimes, things aren't that complicated
sometimes, things are just that simple"
And I had the gall to think I had to follow in your footsteps
That I could walk that same path with more accuracy
and less last-minute-mercy, that simplicity meant complicity
in meaninglessness and bleeding slashed wrists
when in all sincerity
you were telling me
to use Occam's Razor and not my own
to dissect reality to find beginnings
not dissect the flesh to find endings
because meaning
is what you can take, and what you can make
what you can bear, and what you can share
and sometimes, just sometimes,
it really is that simple

Red Zone

2007-06-04T17:09:35Z

She was born with red-stained hands.

The doctors were baffled. They tried, with different chemicals, solvents, mixtures, and medications to wash her clean again. But her palms, her fingers, her knuckles stayed scarlet, the deep red of poppies and robin's breasts. Her family was deeply embarrassed for her. They tried to cover it up, give their child a sense of normalcy and propriety, but to their bewilderment, the red would seep through somehow. They'd look away, they'd let her sleep, and when their eyes fell back on her hands, the gauze or the gloves or the mittens would be the same fresh-blood color. Leave the cloth on longer, and it would disintegrate into flimsy shreds that would fall away and slough off like old, dead, carmine snake skin. Her family began to experiment simultaneously with the doctors. While the latter continued to concoct their cocktails of pills, creams, and liquids, the former searched for any material, any substance, that could hide their daughter's dire affliction and burning-flame shame.

They did not understand her. However, she did. She knew, instinctively, what she was, and her mind was a shining bright ruby, hard and glittering and sharp when cut the right way. She understood the paths of her life unfurling before her, had read voraciously and persistently. She had done experiments of her own, on the rare few moments of solitude. Anything, absolutely anything she touched long enough would turn red, and then, would begin to corrode, and fall apart. They might put her in a factory for the rest of her life, when they realized there would be no way to "cure" her. She could turn objects red for a living. They could give her away to the military, attempt to isolate the compound that suffused her touch with vermilion venom, or figure out how to weaponize her, corroding and destroying for a living. She could run away, find people who could love her without ever touching her bright bloody hands. She had so much more of her, so much more to her. Perhaps there were others out there, a man with blue hands, and a woman with a forest green touch, a child just born with deep violet fists waving in the air. They would not be affected by each other's touch. They would colour the world; destroy it and make it in their own images.

Right now she felt alone. Deep down, terrified. Despair eating away at the edges of that hard ball of fear she kept hidden, knowing that when the sorrow consumed it, her hands would turn on herself, wielding a razor to get all the red out of her for good.

She teetered on the edge every time she stared down at them, her red-stained, red-staining appendages. On the one hand, there was nothing but woe and doom, to be an outcast and freakshow all one's life, singular and suspect, staining and corrupting everything she touched until she or someone else finally ended her miserable existence. On the other hand, there was the slim possibility that there would be others, to be like her or to love her, or (she dared hope) both. A life of agony, or a life of tentative happiness.

Twining her fingers together, she knew both paths of shame and triumph would be there together, vying for her fate, red against red, rage against passion. In this sense, the burden eased slightly from her soul. She was like everyone else after all.

One morning, before her eighteenth birthday, she woke up to find her hands plain, fleshy, and powerless. And yet, the futility and possibility of life still stretched before her, endless.

DreamFiction Experiment #1

2007-06-01T14:26:41Z

He recalled a story of when he first met her, and told it loud and gesticulating to all of his buddies, shadowy faces that ebbed and flowed on the frayed edges of time and sleep. Muppet-like was his grace, his voice slicing through existence with each quirky spasm and rising inflection.

A poetry event-- he had organized a poetry-music-drinking event, where all poets to perform had a song on a CD from an ominous stereo to be used by strangers like a drunken slut, played to the number beside each poet's name. What a miracle! But then, even more: saunter over to the bar, and there you will find a mixed drink of various alcoholic proportions awaiting your greedy gullet if you let escape a specific poet's name, covered in the bubble of your speech, to pop on the nose of the smiling bartender. So the music, and the poetry, and the drink wove on, like a Dionysian fairy tale, and then he strode-minced towards the counter, demanded a drink of a poet, played her song, and watched her explode like a supernova on the stage of life and liberty. He sipped the concoction that was floated into his hand, and BY JOVE! He cried. BY JIM HENSON! He told his listening buddies. It was a synchronicity of wonders for both tongue, and ears, and eyes. He fell in love, brushed the goo off himself, said a thousand pardons, and tried to get up again. And she helped him to his feet.

The story amused everyone. It was a perfect appetizer of fundabulous fun before the Live Action Role Playing Game-- he'd organized it too, his next main event after the poetry-music-drinking extravaganza. They'd rented a hotel, with rooms of marble, crystal, fluted gold. Some rooms with singing, dancing, shifting gamer books filling shelves wall to ceiling, all for perusal. This was to be the best LARP ever played on the planet. The poet had come to the LARPer's baby --he the gamer, she the poet, what a tragicomic romance!-- and was insistent that this time, there would be bloodshed, there would be combat! All done, of course, in the guise of rules and numbers and rock-paper-scissors. Her opponent: a bespectacled woman she thought cute, would be her enemy, an unsteady vampire clan leader of the city whose shattered mirror was the emblem for their bloodline. However, as they stared each other down in their ornate and detailed costumes, they found that neither knew how to do battle. Thus they prance-flew up to one of the rooms, up the stairs, to a book, flittering and glittering in their hands, and attempted to find out how combat was done in a vampire LARP. They spent almost the whole evening there, reading regulations, until he came and took the poetess away.

"I will tell you another story," he said.

"I will tell you another poem," she said.

And so they did.

The Case of the Disappearing Quill

2007-06-01T04:13:44Z

More announcements! GASP! Who-what-where-sex-now? No. Just stuff. Here we go.

So... real life is pounding on my doorstep, demanding that I get a 9-to-5 like everyone else, because what I love don't pay the bills, not at all, not at all. I've got two, up to three possible bands to jam with, and still trying to make it out to an Open Mic and perform songs-- this is where I complain about not paying enough attention to my music, as usual, but instead some other things that are actually making progress, yes!

As most of you know, the Ravenswing D-I-Y Fair went splendidly.

I am also getting published in The Harrow come November.

Due to this somersault of events, I've been screening/deleting stories on this blog that are being submitted to publishers and magazines to avoid legal repercussions.

There are still three more upcoming performance gigs that are in the works besides WestFest, and bwanageek insists I may still have a chance at the slam poetry finals, even though I technically tied with Queenie Tirone so how they're going to resolve that one if Thomas drops out, I've no clue. In any case, I've sent a press kit to one performance gig, and the other I've yet to send one because I'm not quite sure what they're looking for and if I could perform without an equipment on a boat cruise. The Ottawa Fringe Festival opportunity is slipping through my fingers unless I pull a brilliantly crafted poem out of my arse.

Quick! Give me some full-fledged inspiration of love, lust, couples, queers, and pretentious English pseudo-Romantic, pseudo-Shakespearean vernacular! Wait... why don't I just shuffle through my own memories and syntax? Saved again. Now to actually write something worth a damn, that I can pitch to the director.

This single acceptance has renewed and rekindled the hope that perhaps I can find a place for my tattered and scattered work, and thus I shall produce more written filthy madness for eyes and brains. However, I will no longer post stories on here. Instead, I may post story concepts/ideas/summaries, and you can post on whether you'd like to read the thing and proofread. If not, well, I can always make fake accounts, post on this one, and pretend I'm loved and admired. I don't need you. I've got hands. Pfft.

And now... into the night!

Tapping the Vain

2007-05-22T00:28:37Z

(Note to self: use the above as a title for a story or poem at some point.)

Assy news: Didn't make it to the Capital Slam Finals.
Non-assy news: I've submitted three stories in to two online magazines today, I suppose as a salute to the slam poetry scene for this season. I submitted the old "Sweet Blades, Rusty Kisses" to already-rejected-me-once ChiZine and the recent "All That Glitters" and once-rejected "The Heart of Old Magic" to the Harrow. Let's see how many more rejections I can get! Collect them all!

I'm still doing some upcoming gigs, mainly WestFest with my spoken word. Still planning to go to Open Mic nights on Sundays and Thursdays, with my battered voice and even more shit-kicked guitar (unless I just want to drop my poetry on people instead like festering divine feces from the pink-tinted clouds of my genius).

Due to my ongoing lack of so-called "real" employment, I've been doing nothing but organizing events, ~~stalking~~ being with loved ones, and reading and writing stories. So many... stories... so... much... minkle. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked Steve Sauvé to recommend me anthologies in addition to the ones I was already reading. I'm reading seven different authors (Gibson, Vonnegut, David Foster Wallace, Kathy Acker, Henry Rollins, Antonin Artaud, Arno Schmidt), and they're mostly all bleak. Very bleak. Thus I've only been producing bleak stories, except for the weird tales about what's going on in my head, they at least have a smidgeon of hope in them. I've taken to reading online magazines and the online work of bizarro authors again as a respite.

My other projects (compilation multimedia Seekers CD, comic book, some novel) are going at a deformed, hideously mutated, dire snail's pace, as usual. Still looking for people who have anything constructive to say about my work, beyond the "wow that's good" and the "now I shit on your hopes and dreams you're so damn mediocre but I will tell you I read it anyhow" and the "I eat your muses at night that's why you bleed when you pee". Hrmmm... I think I'm just out of practice and out of touch. I've got to read more, keep writing crazier, stranger, edgier things, and eventually they'll get good enough for the indie presses, and as usual far too bizarre for the mainstream.

Oh, and a bigger ~~evil plan~~ project is in the works. In collaboration with Steve Sauvé. You will see. When the time is ripe. You will see...

Crossroads

2007-05-12T08:34:29Z

"We've come a long way," Aster said solemnly, one of the rare times I see him serious. It always makes a lot of us nervous. Never Cata, but the rest of us realize something dire in the air. "We've come a long way," he repeats, "and yet, some things are still the same."

"Change doesn't happen overnight," I respond.

We all sit at the round table in the main cavern, holding Court, all of our bodies and attentions mostly focused on Aster, his black raven wings haloing his figure. Rhees with his arms crossed in a rumpled suit; Stel with her hands in her lap and starfall of hair in a tight braid; Feyr with her head down on her arms but eyes open and alert; Cata sitting erect and claws drumming on the table; and then myself, of course, two fingers thoughtfully placed against my lips.

Aster nods slowly at my response. "No, no it doesn't. But Erin, do understand, that for change to be permanent, we have to commit to our course. There are still a lot of things we haven't completely resolved. Take, for instance, the Triad-- Feyr, Cata, and Stel. Yes, they understood that the Blue Rose was both a quest and a delusion, a poison and noble dream, of love, lust, giving, suffering, pleasure, and pain. It bound Cata and Feyr into a terrible sadomasochistic, dominant/submissive dance. When Stel was able to break into it they were able to exchange 'gifts', of Clarity, Perseverance, and Action. These 'gifts' helped each grow a little. Stel was able to feel more, and act on her feelings, i.e. better self-knowledge. Cata was able to understand and empathize with situations better, i.e. better self-discipline. And Feyr was able to both understand and act on her feelings, i.e. better self-reverence. Yet... Stel is still shy, Cata is still wild, Feyr still has a martyr complex."

"And what of you?" Rhees interjected softly, dangerously. "What about your irresponsibility, your 'zaniness', your recklessness and hedonism? When you fuck up, we all go down, Aztheru."

Aster's face was an impassive mask. "I know. And I accept and bear the responsibility of my actions. Erin still is a pessimistic escapist. And Rhees, you're still a pompous ass afraid that everyone thinks you're an idiot. We've all got our shit, and we've all got our baggage. Now that Graduation is confirmed, what do we have to show for ourselves? Nothing... well, not nothing. But, we're at a Crossroads, ladies and gentlemen. Some things needs to be decided upon."

Cata stopped drumming her fingers on the table. The silence was so jarring, we involuntarily looked at her. She showed her pointed teeth. "I know what I have to do. Self-discipline. The body, what it eats, what it shits, what it burns, what it fucks, what it looks like. And that don't work unless the rest of you work with me, as much as I hate to admit it. But I also find it highly fucking amusing that for once, it ain't my damn problem. So I'll say this only once and make it crystal fucking clear, since I have all of your attentions, and I'm in a talkative mood: Shape up or get the fuck out."

We let that sink in for a bit, and then, timorously, but each word gaining strength, Feyr spoke up: "I... don't know what to do. I want to 'shape up', really, I do, I just... I've tried, you guys, believe me, I've tried real hard. I know I'm to work on 'self-esteem', but I dunno how. I'm so used to believing that I'm a terrible person and I need to be punished, violated, and brutalized. That I can't take care of myself and somebody has to take control away from me. That I am meek and weak, and have no other role but 'submissive', 'bottom', and 'prey'. That I have nothing to offer anyone. I've tried to ignore it, and I've tried to explore people being nice to me, but then I still desire all this dark stuff. The demon-things don't haunt me anymore, I've tried to make friends with them, and instead, now I find myself demanding to have these needs met, instead of ignoring them. But it still makes me feel guilty because you guys think it's wrong. And maybe it is, but maybe that's all I have."

Instead of responding, Aster directed a steady gaze to Stel, who was uncharacteristically worrying her lip. She unclasped her hands and leaned towards her youngest/oldest sister.

"I don't think that's all you have, Feyr," Stel said gently, and then, with only a slight hesitation, reached out a hand to place on Feyr's shoulder. "It's only been a couple of years since the sexual and emotional abuse. It's natural for it to still haunt us. And yes, we were in terrible shape back then. Cata was on the rampage, Aster was inebriated and out of commission the majority of the time, and your innocence was ravished and violated. Erin, Rhees, and myself walled ourselves off. I can understand how that time in your life, compounded with the unhealthy highschool situation, and the unfair childhood we all shared, created and continuously reinforced a distorted and negative self-image. And part of it is that such a mind-set is easier to return to, that you don't have to try to create something new and make something better for yourself if you're just fated to be this 'waste of flesh' for your whole life. Part of it may be that your self-deprecation will feed your starving ego compliments from other people to reassure you of your goodness. And lastly, part of it may be that Rhees, Erin, and myself are ashamed of what the three of you did during that time, and ashamed that we were helpless to deal with such a situation."

"I let it happen, Stel," Feyr whispered brokenly, words heavy with tears. "I... let all of this happen. I let myself believe in what Mother told me. I let myself believe that he loved me. I let them all use me. I let them all empty me out. I must want to be bad, and dirty, and nothing. I must want it deep down."

"And now you're letting yourself believe in further nonsense," Cata snapped.

Stel shot Cata a look of "You're NOT helping", and the feline creature rolled her eyes. Stel continued in her steady, calm voice.

"Feyr, listen to me. You did want it" --at that Cata and Feyr recoiled in surprise-- "but not for the reasons that you believe. I think it was misguided intentions. You wanted love, acceptance, intimacy, caring, belonging-- a way to ease the emptiness and loneliness. You thought this was the way to get it, through sex, through letting people use your body, punish you. After all, this seemed the only way most people, starting with the parents, would pay attention to you-- if they were hurting you. You wanted your existence to mean something. You wanted to stop being invisible, and you mistook attention for love. Thus, they hurt you means they were paying attention to you. And thus the hurting must be good because your existence became meaningful. And that's why you weep when you see love without suffering, because you fear that no one could love you without hurting you. You wait for that hammer to fall."

"So what is love, then?" Feyr cried. "I don't understand! How do I get it? Do I stop giving? Do I stop receiving? What do I do?"

Stel genuinely thought hard for a moment, her head tilted and her lips parted slightly. "I'm not sure that I know that answer. However, I do know that love is not attention, and thus not suffering, and in conclusion your existence should not be predicated on suffering and abuse for the sake of 'love'. Though connection and intimacy with others is important, and even on the plane of 'spiritual' if it is deep and enduring enough, it should not become the meaning of one's existence, especially if it is predicated on suffering. I think you were looking for purpose, for the sacred, and you found God in the hearts and beds of others, i.e. manifesting in the concept of a 'soulmate', which started this whole thing. What did you believe in before that?"

Feyr scrunched up her nose. "I dunno. Nothing. Everything was happy fun times. And then things got dark. Mummy got dark. We moved to a new country, and people were mean, and looked different, but they said I was the different one. I looked wrong. I wanted somebody to love me. I wanted to be important to somebody, to accept and want me for who I was. Then I found out people express this through their bodies, and that I had a special thing to give them called my virginity, and that I would give it to my husband when I met him, he would be my soulmate..."

"Did you believe in anything else, besides this quest for love?"

"In fairies... angels... beauty. That things could be beautiful, special, divine. And that's things that we love. And... and that I couldn't be those things. Because I was ugly and wrong. But how else could I know? Nobody else saw those things in me. I needed to find somebody who could see that in me."

"I think you have to believe that even without someone else confirming it, Feyr. Perhaps you're an angel, or a fairy, trying to earn your wings" --another blink of shock from Feyr, but this one of pleasant and revelatory surprise-- "and thus though you're not 'better' than anyone, or trying to be 'better' than anyone, it becomes a symbol for your quest for the divine, for the sky. If meaning is not given, then it must be created. I don't think you need a soulmate, I think what you truly need deep down is meaning, which is something that does not have to be dependent on others."

Feyr sat up straight, her fingers curled against her cheeks as she spoke softly to herself. "Earning my wings? Well, how would that fit with the other things I like to do, like help people, and be nice to people, and be intimate and connected? I mean, I don't want to do that to earn my wings, I want to do that because I think everybody can earn their own wings, whatever wings they have inside, and I want to help them get there as much as possible. But how can I believe this isn't something selfish...?"

"Because if you weren't trying to earn your own wings," Aster interjected. "Then how could you help others? All you would know is suffering and pain. All you could teach is suffering and pain, not forgiveness, or growth, or joy, or beauty, or love."

Feyr paused, and then a smile radiated all over her face, and she leapt up, hugging Stel and then Cata, both taking it stiffly, frozen in bewilderment and surprise.

"Is Court adjourned?" Rhees finally asked, part hopeful, part bored.

Aster shook his head and I sighed. "It's going to be a long night," I mumbled.

"Do you know what you have to do, Stel?" Aster asked, ignoring my comment.

"Yes," Stel answered. "Self-Knowledge. Clarity. In emotionally taxing situations, instead of withdrawing, I should assert my authority, become the middle point between Cat's immediate rage-driven fight response, and Feyr's despair-driven flee-or-sacrifice response. Assess the situation for what it is, instead of either as a justified or unjustified attack. I have to be both more active and expressive. I want a conversational or mental rapport with a partner or friend, and to cultivate such a fulfilling bond. I want an ordered and tidy living schedule, and living arrangements." Delicate pause. "And what of you, the Trio-- Aster, Erin, and Rhees? The Triad has always had the creed 'self-reverence, self-knowledge, and self-control', but do you three know what you have to do?"

"We made a Promise to each other," I spoke up. "A Promise to be true to the Way, of Dreamer, Seeker, and Bard. I weave worlds, Rhees seeks truth, and Aster is a rogue, a spiritualist, and a performer. But I know we have individual and whole problems. For one, we're not adequately self-sufficient. We need to take care of our basic necessities, of our domestic situation. However, I spend much of my time avoiding what needs doing. Aster spends much of his time being reckless and impulsive in various ways, and Rhees spends much of his time in wasteful and useless outrage. What we need to be doing is becoming more self-sufficient, more socially and politically aware, and more... at peace with ourselves, doing what we need, want, and love to do."

"And why is this not happening?"

"Various reasons," Aster chimed in. "One of the reasons is because this was not what some of us thought our lives would be. Rhees thought we would be a professor. That we would become self-sufficient that way. Well, that potentiality is never really closed, it just seems highly unlikely. But we're not going to become self-sufficient in that way at all. Whatever our occupation, it's going to involve some form of expression or communication, I'll tell you that much. Rhees is also afraid. We're all afraid. Rhees is afraid that he won't be smart enough, that he won't be able to handle or get an awareness of what's going on with the world, that it's much too big for him and we really are all doomed. Erin is afraid of losing control, and in his escapist habits, he has all the control he needs, the internet lies open and ready for his commands, the games he's in has rules he can read and understand, the books he reads have a beginning, middle, and end that are consistent and make sense. I'm afraid... of losing my freedom. I'm afraid of society's rules, of rules in general, I want to be free to do whatever I want, without hurting anyone. And yet... something always hurts somebody..."

Aster massaged his temples. "Rhees is right. When I slipped up, it triggered Feyr and Cata. It made an unpleasant situation bad, then worse. I need to lose control. It's the wildness in me, the Chaos. I do it haphazardly, through sex, sensation, alcohol, food, money, stuff, situations, locations, conversations. I want to live life to the fullest and experience all the things I can before I die. I want to run off into that horizon without leaving anyone a note. I want my house to be a wilderness, my clothes to be a riddle, my laugh the heralding of a maddening storm. How can it be that I have been given this responsibility as Heir, as your Prince and servant? All my other skills can help you, but this fundamental Chaos makes me the worst choice. I have tried, ever since our 18th birthday, to live up to these expectations. And from what I can divine and divulge from four years past and to come that I am not meant to abdicate, but in this area, I do not have the ability to help myself. You others are my only hope."

Rhees groaned. "I really don't know how to help you, Aster. I don't even understand this wildness that runs in your veins. Is there any way to excise it without losing your essence?"

"No," Aster said flatly.

"I thought not. Well, the next reasonable course of action would be to find an outlet that doesn't completely set the rest of our five lives in disarray. Being Prince is hard, and almost unceasing work. I can understand that you need time periodically to cut loose. The true questions are how, when, with whom, and with what? We can't just simply declare one day per week an 'Aster Day' where you're free to do whatever you want, because whatever you do in that day, whether it's sleep with a random stranger or crash a party and take their lampshade, will have repercussions on the rest of us on the other days of the week. But then even saying that creates restrictions, rules of which you loathe. You've made quite an interesting dilemma for yourself, which now has become everybody's damn problem."

"Now Rhees," I finally broke in as amiably, but firmly, as possible, "I know neither you nor I are able to completely understand Aster's point of view. Frankly, I don't know if any one of us by ourselves can, though we have a chance at it altogether. But that doesn't mean we can't offer helpful suggestions. I have a couple myself. Such as learning a new skill per week or month. It'll feed Aster's need for the 'ooh! new and shiny!', and be good for the rest us too. As for freedom, or, in another light, loss of control" --at this, I swallowed visibly, but kept going-- "perhaps this is that impulse which sets Feyr and Cata off. Aster gives up his inhibitions to alcohol, and his constant control of situations, letting Feyr and/or Cata's darker passions rule, enjoying his lack of control, his so-called 'freedom'. For this, I propose two things: 1) Random wandering adventures, and 2) controlled sexual situations with people we trust that focus on letting us lose control, as paradoxical as it sounds. In conclusion, the 'Aster Day', instead of being a negative and destructive day as Rhees fears, can be a positive and boundary-pushing day, where Aster can learn a new skill and/or take a friend or lover or a bus pass/money and safely wander the city randomly and/or spend some cathartic physical and emotional time with a lover."

Rhees blinked several times. "Well... yes, I... I agree completely, Erin. Good show. Well played."

"I now rename Saturday as Aster Day!" Aster declared, smiling for the first time during this entire ordeal. "Because it's an anagram, you see? saturday = asturday = astur day = aster day. Get it?"

"Once again, your madness never ceases to amaze me," Rhees muttered. "But what of Erin and myself?"

Aster cocked his head. "You know that your problems intertwine. When Rhees could be spending time researching and getting aware, Erin is fucking around on the Internet. When Erin should be dreaming up things to write, he's becoming depressed by Rhees' slow build-up of rage and pessimism. So Erin, stop fucking around on the Internet. You're an addict. For serious. I know sometimes it seems this is the only way to communicate with certain people, but give checking email and chatting no more than an hour. Then give another hour to Rhees for jobhunting and newsfeeds. Then you two should DO something. Read a book. Work on your gaming. Make plot and/or character sketches. Participate in a rally. Go to a town meeting. Hang out at Exile Infoshop. Work on our various organizations and projects. 'Get off the Internet! Meet me in the streets!' It's admirable words to live by."

"Alright, alright," I said. "I get it. Do you get it, Rhees?"

"Of course," he said curtly. "Give me some free time, and I'll show you."

"Awesome possum," I grinned. "I'll draw up a tentative schedule for you guys starting Monday, and I've already recorded the minutes for this gathering. Is there anything else that needs to be covered, Aster?"

Aster stood up, flexing his wings in response. "Nope. We'll review how we're all doing in six months to a year's time. Until then, good luck on your various quests! Court is adjourned."

Some Kind Of Normal

2007-05-09T23:13:59Z

"You meet the most fucked up people on Goth Night," he declares, sipping shitty scotch-on-the-rocks, eyes shifting everywhere but other people's faces, lingering on a PVC-clad ass here, and a corseted, bulging bosom there. "I mean, face it, anyone who's a goth is fucked up, all right? Ok, ok, fine, everybody's fucked up, yeah, but the goths, they embrace it, that's the difference. They revel in that shit. I mean, at least punks have roots in social activism, but most goths... it's like they're in on the Big Joke, the Big Joke that is humanity. They're willing to try crazy shit because they're crazy, people are attracted to goths because the goths embrace their fucked-up-ness, they see the world as just an extension of that fucked-up-ness, and most of humanity as useless maggots, imperfect as themselves except that they're blind to the Big Joke-- they don't get it. But the goths do, y'know?"

I sit with my head cocked slightly as I rest my chin on my fist, staring at Dillon's scruffy face, his lip piercings like silvery hoops buried in the dark underbrush of his Van Dyk, greasy black hair across narrowed, glinting eyes. Basic black from head to toe, swathed in a leather trenchcoat, he seemed to merge into the wall, except for the paleness of his face, especially his teeth, glowing under the black light.

"The biggest drama-mongers are in the goth scene, y'know? Because most of their narrow fucking worlds, their narrow little minds, are trapped in some kind of hate philosophy, shit has happened to them that you wouldn't believe, everything from narcissistic middle-class princesses doing goth for attention while they cut themselves at night and dream of drinking blood like some Rician homo-vampire, to gang-raped street-raised nearly-ex-cons sporting an array of guns and knives on their living room wall. You can find compassionate people in the goth scene too, I ain't arguing against that, but they're rare, and you bet your ass they've gone through shit, if they're REALLY compassionate, if they're not thrill-seeking 'dark'-hungering baby bats. That's why I call them 'Batfights', y'know? When two goth bitches start shrieking at each other louder than I can hear the KMFDM beats, then it's an out and out Batfight. Fuckin' drama. I don't know why I stay in this fucking city, so much drama, people'll knife ya in the back, try to take everything and everybody from ya, but goths are sneaky shits. Cloak and dagger bullshit. Maybe it's all that gamer training. That's the difference between satirized pathetic D&D nerds and WOD fanatics. One of them is generally useless in social schemes, and the other one is generally a bit of a mastermind. 'Course, never been much of a LARPer myself... as much as I hate real life, ain't no way I'm gonna debase myself like that, whether it's boffer bats, or vampiric pretensions."

"How much have you had to drink, Dillon?" I ask softly.

He burps loudly, leering at a "baby bat" who had been walking by our booth, her thickly eyelinered eyes wide, lip curling up instantly with disgust, face becoming a cold, impassive mask. Flips her head away, black-and-red dread extensions, mesh-covered back, and a dagger-ass beneath a swaying vinyl skirt and over shit-kicker Docs is the last image we get before she struts through the door to complain loudly to her clove-smoking posse outside.

"Juss my fourth," he slurs, his eyes still staring at where the gothling used to be, radiating hatred and lust in fluctuating proportions. "No wait, my fifth. You see the legs on that one? Not much of an ass though. And that motherfucking attitude, it's just asking for me to--"

"Lemme pay your tab, man," I say quickly, getting up. "Music's getting loud in here. Maybe we should hit up a diner."

Dillon shrugs, waving me on, his attention back to the scotch, grimacing as he takes another sip. "Fuckin' bitch had to leave me," he mumbles. "Been with her for three years, didn't fuck no other pussy, and she had to fuckin' leave me..."

I sigh as I move towards the bar, maneuvering through small clumps of laughing or talking-loudly-over-music kids in various states of gothness, from black t-shirts and leather pants to full-blown chains, studs, fishnet, spikes, make-up, and PVC regalia. They hold drinks in their hands that swirl in strange combinations of effervescent colours under the UV bulbs, echoing the neon paint smeared and splashed in patterns, portraits, and landscapes on the walls. The bartender, a bored looking bespectacled blond with perky breasts under a plain, glaring white tank top, has her back to me as she mixes another drink. I drum my fingers on the worn wooden counter, leaning up against it for the long haul and looking around for an easy distraction.

And, like Satan himself giving me a friendly smirk (if I believed in Satan, that is), that's of course the moment when I see her.

She's sitting at the very end of the bar by the wall, up on a stool, legs swinging idly, elbows on the counter and fingers delicately moving the straw in her drink in slow, graceful circles. Moody lidded dark eyes staring somewhere else, a soft cascade of natural black hair around a heart-shaped face and cynically smiling lips. Dark jeans hugging full hips, a sleeveless black shirt clinging to a small frame. She looks fragile, ready to break in your arms, and yet stronger than you can ever be or imagine. Just sitting there, between the inverting black light and the regular luminescence streaming from the bartender's area. Shadow and light playing over her, framing her. Untouchable.

I close my eyes for a second, just a second, and though she's farther than an arm's length away, I remember how she smelled. I even remember her name. How her lips tasted, cigarettes and rum, while mine had tasted of tequila shots and fear. The bar melts away, everything melts away, and I'm back there, in a smoke-filled room, ropes around my wrists, my thighs, my hips, my chest and shoulders, a flimsy layer of clothing on my nether regions, my back arched painfully, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing in my head. Everything was tingling, rising up and exploding within me. Physically shackled, but freer than I've ever felt, more free than when I moved out of my parent's house, more free than every fucking graduation, every melodramatic exit from shitty dead-end jobs and dead-end relationships. A crack of the whip, a swish of a knotted flogger, a wooden thud of a paddle, implosions of sensation, keeping my spirit on an edge that soared beyond any intoxicant or orgasm. Hands touching me, lips exploring me, and she's there, sliding her black-lacquered fingernails over the roundness of my reddened ass, tongue in my ear, and I'm squirming and moaning, vision tunneling until I'm gone, onto a plane of absolute release, absolute lack of control. Sub space.

I open my eyes, and the bar slams back into my vision, into my ears and gut. The loud bass, the shrieking vocals, and synthesized notes of an industrial song grate into my head and collide with the thudding of my heart in my ears, my blood aroused, my clothes too tight, sweat tingling at the back of my neck. I'm leaning on to the bar for support, and that's when I realize she's noticed me. And she remembers. I can see it in her face, the look of recognition, the sly quirk of her lips, even though it's been years, even though I quit. Or at least, I had told myself I'd quit and it was all behind me.

Somehow, we're drawn to each other. I'm sitting beside her, she's leaning towards me, that straw between her shiny red lips, eyes intently watching my face.

"How's it going?"

"I'm good, good. You?"

"All right, even though they've been giving me shit shifts at work."

"Oh really? Where ya work?"

"At a bar down the road."

"Nice."

We're trying to talk normal, but it's hard. The memory surges behind her eyes, and she finally breaks open.

"We met at that party, right?"

"Yeah."

"You remember me?"

"Of course, how could I forget someone like you?"

She laughs at that. "I remember you. Tied up, hanging nearly suspended from the ceiling. Nearly naked too. Getting whipped."

I can't keep eye contact, my eyes flit away, a flush creeping over my cheeks. Maybe that's all I was to anybody. A freakshow. But that time, I wanted to cash in on it. Do it for a living. Learn the ropes, literally, between that delicate and vicious art of pleasure and pain, no sex necessary. Just wear the gear, and know the tools, and know the body, and know that spirit... that spirit that yearned for the kinda freedom like riding a motorcycle without lights on down an unknown road at midnight, no moon, no stars, right on that edge of madness and life.

Jared had said he'd train me, he'd make me rich. I'd pay my own way through college.

"Whatever happened to that guy?" she asks, taking another slow sip. It's like she's perusing my thoughts, quietly amused by them. "The guy who owned the place? Wanted to start up his own... y'know... house?"

"Jared?" I whisper. Still was barely looking at her.

"Yeah. Wasn't he arrested? For sexual assault? Child molest--"

"I don't know," I cut in, my voice part bitterness, part rage, but all quiet. She arches a brow, and our eyes meet again for a second. "He was at my place for Valentine's. He didn't stay the night, walked back to his place. In the morning, cops were everywhere, took him, some of his shit, raided his place, interrogated his roommate, and I never saw him again." I don't tell her about how I keep some of his floggers, his paddles, his whips in a box in my closet, hidden by piles of clothes and bags.

She's shaking her head, laughing tiredly, acridly. "Man, you think you know somebody... it's crazy how people like that can just fool you into trusting them, how they can fool large groups. Everybody liked him, and then to find out he's a monster..."

I can't stand the conversation anymore, but we keep talking. About her work, about my work, about the music, some people we know. I scribble down her number and her email, shove it in my back pocket, remember to pay Dillon's tab. Then I'm walking, steady breathing, keep it steady, finding myself under a cool sky, in a haze of clove smoke. The music's a dull alien sound through layers of glass and brick behind me.

I close my eyes again, and I'm curled up under dirty blue bedsheets, my cheek against his arm, the other one flung around my waist, our legs entwined. His room is lit in shades of grey and indigo, and the witching hour plays tricks on our eyes. He's whispering things to my hair, about his deadbeat dad, his old school chums slain by their own hand or somebody else's, the ex-girlfriends and ex-wives who taught him how to be masochistic, how to take physical, emotional, and verbal abuse till there was nothing left, the children they won't let him see, the doctors, the imprisonment, the hallucinations he swears is real. They abducted him, they did things to him, he's not the same anymore. He thinks he sees them sometimes, he knows they're always watching. He knows the end is coming for him, for everybody. But he has to try, to try to keep living, to try to even be some kind of normal, even with this fear that constricts in his chest, insomnia rattling his skull, the voices telling him, goading him, trying to make him do things. I stroke his tattooed flesh and feel the rise of goosebumps. I don't say anything, I just kiss his stricken face. Jared smiles weakly, he says he can't believe he's found someone like me. He falls asleep, nuzzled against me, his tears drying on my back. "Fuck being normal," I whisper into the dawn, my fingers locked in his.

"Hey, ya pay for m'tab?"

Eyes flutter open. Dillon's sweating face in front of me, unsteady. Holy fuck is he plastered. I nod, and he grunts his gratitude. We start walking down the street, towards a 24-hour diner, the goths and the scene behind me, fading.

Dillon hacks up a big one, and spits, nearly hitting a bum who lazily curses us as we amble past.

"Anyway, where was I? Yeah, Goth Night. Just a place where all the freaks gather, looking for somewhere to belong, but they can't belong, y'know? Anywhere. Because they're freaks, see? That's the patheticness of it all, the utter sorry bullshit of it all, they put on this whole badass facade, this antisocial outcast bravado, and in the end, they're looking for a sense of belonging with their own kind like any other normal person, forgetting that what makes them outcasts will keep them separate from each other..."

Tears were rolling down Dillon's face. He's sobbing loudly, his body hunched, ready to kick the ass of anyone who laughs at him, but we're alone on a side street, and I stand there awkwardly and stiffly hugging him, as he mumbles about how I'm his bestest friend.

"I'm just gonna go home," Dillon says through snot and salt and water, his face a wilderness of drunkenness and pain.

Before he turns away, I jerk my head towards the direction of the club, right when a loud bout of laughter erupts, I assume, from the clove-puffing crowd, the sound carrying through an otherwise still night.

"Same time next week?"

He starts rocking, literally, deciding to laugh or cry or maybe even beat the shit out of me. But he doesn't. His gaze becomes unfocused, and his head falls, then rises. Slowly nodding.

"Yeah... yeah, of course."

Blowing Off Steam - Pt 3

2007-04-30T19:02:55Z

There was only one place in the Outskirts Steam really knew of, and that was Darcy 6057, an upside-down three-story high steel-and-wire bird's nest with a single neon sign stuttering and flickering the bar's name out into the debris of the surrounding clumps of metal and mortar. When he and Brad used to venture out of their domiciles into the dirty chrome streets to this dead-end tavern, Steam would wonder aloud every time as to whether some giant cybernetic avian had made a home for herself out among the spires in the Ages of Wonder back in the 2020's, and during the Fall the nest had come crashing down like the rest of humanity's hubristic aspirations to be remodeled into a cesspool of cheap alcoholic swill and seedy gatherings. Brad would do the customary punch to Steam's arm, slicing into Steam's reveries with logic and historical anecdotes, debunking myths of "cybirds" for the much more boring stories of "airplanes", as well as dating the bar itself to only fifty years, not even close to the five hundred needed to sync it with the Ages of Wonder.

Brad had been the brains, always. The brains, and the pervert. Some hybrid cross between Geek and Criminal that Steam never could completely figure out, but strangely set him at ease. In turn, Brad was fascinated with Steam's hybrid social caste of Dreamer and Brawn, a lanky bastard decked in leather and steel studs, able to hold his own in a bar brawl and at the same time forget it was happening around him as he stared up at the ceiling drunkenly pondering on human nature and the philosophical relevance of spilled beer on new pants while Brad himself was ducked down behind the counter getting a blowjob from the bartender-- man, woman, android, eterran, never mattered to Brad. They were the odd couple, and most bars loved when the two stormed in, dropping loads of hard-earned (in the case of Steam) and easily pilfered (in the case of Brad) creds on the counter in exchange for local mead without even pausing in whatever they were hotly debating. Something entertaining always happened around them, whether it was an avian eterran ceiling orgy (that Steam was always pissing in the bathroom for much to his fury and Brad's smug self-satisfaction), or a street-wide fight that ended up in a house party and new gang pals.

Darcy's especially loved them, but for different reasons entirely. Brad had a special place in his blackened, filthy, fan-boy heart for Darcy's, and as a strict rule, him and Steam swore they would never drink there. The place was the crème de la crème of bad scenes, literally foxy ladies and houseboys, top notch stolen merchandise, exotic and bizarre forms of fornication, and the most important thing of all-- information. Info was Brad's true drug, and he didn't let sex or beer or even Steam truly interfere with his beloved, even if it made him switch bodies and neighbourhoods. Steam had known Brad in already three incarnations, before his most recent and jarring one where not only did he change his age, but his sex too. The other three were just race-and-build changes, one a feline eterran, another a dark-skinned cyborg, and the last one a balding, pimpled human fatass. The only reason anybody ever knew it was Brad when he went info-hunting was the recognizably tall and unchanging figure of Steam at his side, with his trademark spiky-hair, indestructible titanium and tricrystal glasses, scruffy goatee, and battered, studded, dark trenchcoat. When the two walked through the door of Darcy's, everyone knew the recent bounty had been lifted, and the king had come home to roost. Brad knew how to settle everybody's deals, knew what people wanted and how to get it to them, with no hassle and no evidence. Every visit to Darcy 6057 was a good one, except for that one terrible night etched in every regular's memories, the night Brad and Steam got shitfaced.

...to be continued...

Blowing Off Steam, Part 2

2007-04-27T19:30:48Z

Burned on the inside of his eyes, the outline of one and the solid shape of the other, with no relation to any humanoid shape and yet he saw them like demigods etched into the probability of space-time as if sliced into his reality with a knife made of light and fire. He had blinked, face awed, stumbling backwards in surprise, and that's when the explosion must have happened within the containment field, an expression of their displeasure at being seen, and the realization... they had no eyes, but their very essences saw him, saw through him, and recognized what he was. Grew afraid. Him... or them...?

Hands pummeling against his face, slapping his eyes back to open, wide, and scared shitless. Brad-Emilie's voice shouting down at him. "Steam! You have to get out. I... they... I'm so sorry. I just wanted to ask about your hallucinations... But somehow, even with a new body, they can trace my feeds. And they're not interested in me anymore, you've got something they want."

"Wh'fuck?" Steam mumbles. "Me? I'm a fuckin' hobo, Brad. I don't got..."

"It has something to do with what you saw. All I got was dragon. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Wh'fuck's a drag on? Is that when you take a shit and--"

The thirty-year old man appears again in the twelve year old girlish body, as Brad-Emilie roughly forces Steam to his feet, screaming up at him, high-pitched female tones melding with the gruff panicked way Brad used to talk when he was really pissed, really drunk, or both.

"I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND, DUDE! They're going to KILL you! Get the fuck out of here, and remember what I said!"

The situation finally hits Steam full in the stomach, like a ton of ancient concrete thrown at him from a wind-up mecha, and spliced with electric charges for spice. He wants to heave; he thinks of passing out again. Brad-Emilie stamps on his booted foot, hard.

"Fuck! You didn't have to-- how th'fuck am I going to run away with a broken foot, Brad? And where the fuck am I going to go without them finding me? These are high-high-ups... they... they saw into me..."

"I've got some friends on the Outskirts. You tell them my old name and my new name, and you tell them about that time we got shitfaced at Darcy's. And you tell it to them in that order, as fast as you can. These people will slit your throat and sleep in your dead carcass for fun if you don't mention you're a friend."

Steam's eyes are bugging out of his head, he's thinking of the kind of people that would slit his throat for jollies, and he opens his mouth to argue with Brad-Emilie's so-called sanctuary, but the entire house starts to shudder, as if caving in on itself. Steam's eyes flick back to the containment field, grown dark and obscured in lock-down, but faltering as brilliant angry red cracks spread over its gleaming round surface, seeking to escape into this reality, into this home.

"Brad, we have to go--"

Brad-Emilie shakes her head. "I've gotta throw them off your trail-- and off mine. Don't worry, dude, I know what I'm doing. I've done this plenty of times before. We'll see each other again."

Steam is being pushed out of the observatory, stumbling backwards over the wreckage of the livingroom, grabbing onto the couch so as not to trip as the floor ripples, and the walls groan. Brad-Emilie gets him to the front door, swinging it open, her small pale hands with their unusual strength shoving him out on his ass, the familiar gravel smacking his tail bone.

"How... How am I supposed to find them in the Outskirts?" Steam calls out one last time.

"Ask for David Helm," Brad-Emilie shouts. "David Helm and Finn Duval."

The door slams shut, and then a terrible world-ending, heaven-and-hell-merging sound of snapping cables, screeching insides, great winds of sound-shattering speed, and the death knells of furious titans, before the house implodes in a scarlet blaze that shrinks into a single red dot, finally winking itself out of existence and leaving Steam weeping on cold and desolate streets.

... to be continued...
Read Part 1 here.