Open Letter to a Ghost

Dear You,

I do not forgive you.

I am told that forgiveness is a gift to oneself, but in this case it would be an injustice. Because when I remember what you did to me, I see myself as something terrible. Do you remember cracking open my ribcage to reveal that red, muscular organ within, and leaving it there, exposed, for any passing bird of prey to pluck free and claim? Think how many meals my bloody heart would provide for those chicks. Lucky birds.

And I never knew I was an ocean until you came along. Alone and isolated, waves flowed from me, a seemingly endless saltwater cascade. It is no exaggeration for me to claim I cried, every night, for eight months. Did you know it was possible to cry 244 days in a row? I thought, surely the pain will dull, and surely I will convert from a liquid back to a solid once more. I was wrong.

If anyone had dared to impugn your name, your character, your honor, I would have thrown down a glove and demanded satisfaction. No one was capable of coming close to who I knew you were, and my conviction never wavered. Even when I lived the aftermath of your devastation, I believed you were so genuine, so unshakable, that you would return. I was wrong.

Closure is something I may never have: are you alive? In the state? Single or perhaps with someone who will never know the damage you have caused? Did you find your way to a real life or are you bogged down by your own failures? Did you run because you were scared? Did you leave because of something I did, or didn’t, do? I will never know.

I’m surprised by my own nothingness, as if I never knew I was a vessel until you filled me, and it is only when you leave that I discover I am empty. No one else can fill me, not the way you did, to the brim, but I have discovered someone can still drip, drip, drip in slowly. Will it ever become a torrent to rival you, one that overflows as you never did? I don’t know, but I will find out.

When I think of you now, I see a bad person: a wicked tongue liar, a destroyer of words, a pain too great to bear. But what does that make me? A gullible fool, a child undeserving of love, a shame too great to bear.

I don’t know if I believe anyone anymore. I am trying, but I will never allow myself to be opened up again, to be rendered in vivisection, vulnerable. Maybe I can be happy again, maybe I am with the person who is right for me, if you won’t have me. But that doesn’t change my mind.

I do not forgive you.

Character Profile: Ares [WIP]

Their kingdom is decaying - the ruins of the once prosperous civilization remain underground, undisturbed… The last refuge of a dying people. The basalt stones began crumbling decades ago, and it has only gotten worse as their God has abandoned them, their temples reduced to hollow remnants, homes nothing but abandoned husks. Only the castle remains relatively intact.

The king sits on his throne, despair now a part of him, visible in the hunch of his shoulder blades and curvature of his spine. His hands are blistered and raw from digging through the rough stones, from trying desperately to rebuild what has been lost. The luminescent mushrooms dotting the cavern’s interior bathe him in a bitter glow even as they cause beautiful colors to dance in the dust, reflections of the iridescent minerals in the rock.

Perhaps he ponders the dignity of dying now, or wonders what his life has been worth, or maybe he thinks nothing at all. It doesn’t matter because his calm acceptance of the inevitable death of his people is pierced through by a newborn’s scream.

It has been decades since an egg has hatched. The nursery had gone defunct, as their people continued to perish and no lives came to replenish them. Now, in the royal section of the nursery, where the King and Queen’s eggs lay, a babe wails.

Actions cease, tired bodies freezing as they slowly recognize what they’re hearing. The king leaps from his throne, running to see if his kingdom has a future after all.

Torn from the inner sack of the egg, surrounded by glistening white fragments, was the boy. His cherry red coloration and golden gem eyes proved that he was indeed royalty, the hereditary signs all in agreement. The salamander emitted another wail, his frail body suffering from this sudden exposure. There were no nursery workers to move him to a nest and blanket him in warmth, no meal prepared for him to eat. There was only the dank structure of the nursery and the trembling hands of the king, hid father, reaching out to him. His birth was a miracle.

Slowly, his membranous eyelids lower and raise, the spell of quiet broken as exhausted vassals peer into the nursery, crowding for a chance to glimpse this marvel of life. The king had but to cast his eyes toward the crowd for them to begin preparations for their new prince.

**Pallas stands in front of the throne, a little boy of sharp edges and stony silence. For the umpteenth time, the king wondered, was his son like this because he had no mother? He was constantly landing himself in fights with his caretakers, to the point that they had been authorized to use violence against him. Now, here the child, only eight, stood once again with scratches on his arms, a bloodied lip, and cut cheek. No words get through to this child who stares with cold defiance. The king’s eyes narrow and he does what he never believed he could - he turns his flames on his own son.

There is a short cry of agony from within the fiery maelstrom, but it ends suddenly. The air is filled with dancing embers and sparks which crack and pop as the smoke lifts up into the vaults of the cavern, but there is no sound except sizzling heat…then, the king sees him.

Though his skin is partially burned, Pallas is grinning in delight, arms widespread as the blistering heat curls around him, the flames still engulfing him. His golden gem eyes turn to the king, narrowing in thought. In this moment, the king knows, from that egg was hatched a tyrant.

**There is fire in his veins, and he stands in the nursery, waiting. Why have no other eggs hatched? He wonders. He wants other children to play with. His teeth pierce the meat of his arm and he waves it like a wand, blood splattering onto the multitude of eggs. The king enters, but the question on his lips dies before it can even be born as a blaze kindles from the blood.

”No!” The king shouts, shoving his son aside in an effort to reach and contain the flames.

”It was too cold,” Pallas chides, brazenly dismissing his father’s fear. His face has the smug arrogance of someone who has figured out the answer to the riddle first. The use of his power has turned his eyes golden, a mirror to his father’s.

As the flames begin to die away, there is a crackle, multiplying into a cacophony of sound as salamanders break free of their eggs with shrieks of life. The king stands, shocked into silence. How could this be? For decades, they have waited for new hatchlings, and believed their race was doomed to die. This solution is too simple, too mundane. The temperature has never changed before, how could it be the key?

As if telepathic, Pallas speaks, his voice ringing clear over the crying newborns, “They were waiting for me.”

**Blood drips off his knuckles, glistening and cool in sharp contrast to his flushed, heated skin. The body broken on the ground before him shudders, still alive, and is unceremoniously hauled away. Pallas turns to his father, his king, and asks, “Do you believe me now?”

Though the salamanders are once again rising, their enemies attack in spurts, pillaging and raiding their stores, killing their women and children. These kobolds are their opposite: gray, hairy, cold, little more than deformed garden gnomes come alive with only destruction and death in their hearts. Pallas believes they can be easily broken in war. The king does not.

But this demonstration of Pallas’ does seem to galvanize the soldiers in the restored courtyard serving as the stage, and thus the king has no choice.

They go to war.

**It ends as it began: in blood and flames. Corpses, salamander and kobold alike, are strewn throughout the vast cave which serves as killing field. The kobols have been annihilated, but at a high price - 3/4ths of the salamanders are dead, and the race is dying once again in an exponential free-fall.

Pallas stands, as prince, upon a mound of bodies. It is no exaggeration to say he did most of the killing, for each drop of his blood spilled seemed only to ignite greater tenacity within him. He enjoys killing to secure the future of his people, even with the unimaginable toll.

He casts out his hands and burns. Bodies smoke and smolder, the carnage rendered to ash in the span of five minutes.

But there will be no celebration for this.

Camelot, 1885 pt2

     Neither man knew what to make of the vampire Cassandra, Cassie, Ezekiel mentally corrected himself. The purpose of why she was there, and why they had been brought in, was a mystery as well, and it took several minutes before Solomon finally cleared his throat and addressed the matter at hand.
     "She is in possession of information. We need to know the validity of this knowledge, and that means..."
     "Combining our powers to compel the truth," Adam supplied. Solomon nodded gravely.
     "Exactly."
     Ezekiel had kept his eyes on her, and she on his. Her attention was causing him a distinct discomfort, and it seemed she picked up on it, for as soon as he thought it, her eyes flicked away. However, he was not prepared for the intrusion upon his mind.
     You needn't fret on me, sire. You are Merlin's blood. I could never harm a child of my Master. Her voice resonated through his head, and he struggled to keep from showing the confusion on his face. The entire exchange merely raised more questions; why did she call him sire? Had Merlin been her master in some shape or fashion?
     "Begin when ready," Solomon said steadily, jolting Ezekiel back into the reality of the situation.
     Looking around, he noticed Adam pulling his sword, and so he drew his magic to his hands. His stomach twisted internally. He knew from experience that even the gentlest form of  compulsion hurt. The power of compulsion brought on by the combination of their powers would be...agonizing. He bit his lower lip in indecision.
     Cassandra's eyes found his once more. I can take it, don't be scared. It seemed as if her eyes softened for that brief moment, and Ezekiel gave the barest nod before turning to Adam. Together, they met magic and sword, channeling their birthrights.
     "You are compelled; you must speak only truth. Tell us what we want to know." They intoned simultaneously, and a beam of dark light shot from the sword, seemingly piercing the vampire. A small, strangled sound escaped her, but she quieted, her body tense and jaw clenched.
     "Speak!" Solomon commanded.
     "The High Council must be destroyed," she hissed angrily, her eyes fixating on Solomon. "The High Council will be the end of all things, thus their existence must be extinguished. They're coming for you. All those little creatures you lie and slander to those human sheep, they want your heads on pikes. I don't blame them. I wish you were all dead. But I cannot let the son of Merlin die, and any one tenuously attached to the Council. would meet a dark demise. Your end is imminent, but theirs doesn't have to be." Then, a bone-chilling laugh echoed from her, reverberating through the marrow of the men as the vile sound of a predator's cackle struck them. The two descendants of the greatest men released their powers, ending the compulsion, and Cassandra slumped to the ground with a gasp. Her nails scrabbled on the dank stone floor, and she coughed violently, thick black blood spattering on the stones.
     "Wh-what is she talking about?" Adam asked, fear and doubt in his voice as he looked at Solomon. For his part, Solomon was ashen, his eyes seemingly unseeing as his brain struggled to comprehend the implications of her words.
     It couldn't be... After decades of keeping the secrets, would it truly all come crashing down? Had the High Council brought it upon themselves?

Guess You Can Call Me Hard Boiled

I dunno what it is, but no matter the crap society decrees,
none of that sets me back, cause I've been in shark water,
fins all around, had trouble dealing, but no one ever did come
and say to me "hey, we all decay, in the grand scheme, big picture of things,
it don't matter, it won't matter, life is a blink! so live it to your fit, and if they can't deal? 
they don't deserve you anyway.

everywhere I go, everything I see, is fake freedom,
and other people preaching their discomfort
and leeching off one another, and so I wonder
are ya'll really that fragile? are so many humpty dumpty's?

stop teaching kids not to bully (cause let's admit it, shit ain't working)
teach the rest they can leave the nest if they just accept they don't have to give a shit!
people are crummy, plain fact of life, it ain't nice
so let's teach survival skills, learning how to deal, that's all this is.

if we could teach the mentality that it's all down to you,
don't get sucked into other people's gravity,
maybe there wouldn't be so many damn eggshells on the floor.
I have no patience anymore.

Give Me Lemons, I'll Spray Acid in Your Eyes

Say I'm your sweetheart, say I'm a gem, but don't think me kind,
'Cause it's as easy for me to smile as to stab you with a knife.
I can always tell your words are empty, lies and platitudes, 
Hey, I do it all day long except I get away with it, and you
You better suck it up, 'cause with me you're shit outta luck.
Gotta get good at lying or there's no point in opening your mouth.

Chicks around me thinking they're bad bitches, but shy away from a fight,
Whereas inside me I'm screaming, Come at me bro! I'm batshit nuts, don'tcha know?
The real ones don't fake being tough, 'cause they legit don't give a fuck.
Go on thinking you're hot shit, but you're just dirt beneath my boots,
And if this is insanity, call me a psycho, it isn't anything new, I've known it all along.

All I want is your elimination, and I bet it'd get a lot of cheers,
'Cause you are the disease in the broken body of our society.

I won't keep sticking to your stinking sweat, reeking of fear,
'Cause I got better things to do than hold myself to you.
It's the end of the line, dead end road, pack it on up 'cause your best wasn't good enough.
I'm the living, breathing end of all the good you've ever known,
But we both know you deserve this, you've known the time would come.

The abuse I take is not a measure of your strength, but of mine.
You push and pull and shove long enough, yeah the dark is gonna come out,
'Cause I am only human, and I am only mortal, and now I'm putting up a fight.
So give me your worst, it won't be the most I've ever taken,
And I'll give as good as I get, flay you with my tongue,
And when you lie on the floor in a pool of blood,
It's gonna be from all those internal cuts; my gracious gift to you.

You want to be bad? You want to be tough? 
You think you're righteous, you think you're kingdom come
But I am not a robot, and I won't eat your force fed lies,
Between the two of us I'm the one whose seen the bad, whose felt the worst, whose been tortured to the edge...
...But I always come back, so between the two of us, who's the winner here?

Dear loser, you are an irritating flea, and I'm sick of scratching.
Kept the madness within me for so long, it's dying to come out,
And honestly babe, I'm gonna smile as I open the gate, and let it overtake everything I am.
You call me crazy, you call me bitch, but really?
I'm just the summation of all your faults and all your failure.
You might not have been strong enough to bear it but
I'll never let it break my bones, I'll never let it take control.

You are the disease of our broken society,
And I am the unintended consequence.

Camelot, 1885 pt1

     Centuries had passed since the last breath of Arthur Pendragon. The world continued to turn, the sun continued to shine. Though Camelot did not fall, most forgot those primitive days.
     The modern Camelot was all that mattered, securely protected by the Council of Sorcerers. It was they who, late in the night, dragged a thrashing, bound woman through Camelot's gates.


     Ezekiel was awake. He found that on certain nights, he simply couldn't relax his mind to sleep. With arms on the windowsill looking upon Camelot's main courtyard, he was on high alert for any sorcerers. The Council had specific expectations from Merlin's last living descendant, far greater than that of any other sorcerer.
     To be caught awake and alone at this hour would only lead to trouble. When a hand landed on his shoulder, Ezekiel froze.
     "What on earth are you doing here, Zeke?!" The voice belonged to Adam, Ezekiel's best friend, and one of Arthur's descendants.
     "I couldn't sleep," Ezekiel answered, turning to face his friend's mischievous grin.
     "Sure, couldn't sleep," Adam rolled his eyes. "You're lucky I came upon you!If you'd been caught out here alone..."
     "I know, I know," Ezekiel sighed.
     The two young men fell silent as grunts of exertion and muffled, unknowable sounds reached their ears. Adam jostled in next to Ezekiel, and the two peered out the windowsill.
     Several High Council sorcerers were wrestling with an obviously restrained young woman. She was gagged, but also had magic-killing shackles around her wrists. Despite her frenzied, near mad movements, it was in vain. They were moving her via spell, almost as if they didn't think they could contain her otherwise.
     Before the two men's eyes, she was guided into the jailer's tower, obviously meant to be housed in the dungeons below.
     "We must see what's going on!" Adam exclaimed in an excited whisper, voice vibrating with delight.
     "Not until tomorrow night," Ezekiel shook his head. "Security will be too tight right now."
     "Alright," Adam let out a thoughtful exhalation. "Let's return to our chambers. After dinner tomorrow, that's when we go."
     Ezekiel nodded in consent.
     The pair took care returning to their rooms, managing to avoid the various security patrols.


     For the whole of the next day, neither man could think of anything but their upcoming evening activity. Each of them carefully completed the day's tasks but right before dinner, Sinbad, the man-at-arms to the duo, summoned them.
     "Solomon wants to see you both in the jailer's tower," He explained. The men exchanged glances.
     Sinbad led them to the tower, stopping only when they'd arrived, and leaving them to enter on their own.
     Solomon was a rather imposing figure. A large man composed of only muscle, he had thick eyebrows, a permanent serious expression, and a well cared for beard. He was also the most approachable member of the High Council. When the men entered, Solomon rose from his seat.
     "Ah, boys!" He boomed in deep baritone. "The Council has decided to entrust you both with a rather, shall we say, unprecedented situation. Follow me." There was no time for questions or protests, as Solomon had already begun the descent to the dungeons. The males had no choice.
 

     The stone steps were slick and damp, humidity soaking the three travelers through their clothing. A musty smell pervaded every atom of air. Finally, they reached the bottom. Only one cell was occupied - by the beautiful woman from the previous night.
     When they first saw her, her eyes were closed. As they approached, her eyes snapped open, and fixed on them. Dark purple bruises had surfaced on her neck.
     "Stay away from me, savage," she hissed in a scratching voice that was painful to even hear. Her gaze was fixed on Solomon, no attention set on Ezekiel and Adam.
     "I've told you before, girl, that was an accident." Solomon shook his head. She merely sneered.
     "This is..." Solomon sighed, focusing on the two men. A frown flickered briefly on his face before he cleared his throat. "This is a vampire." Both men reevaluated the captive with shock.
     "No way," Adam muttered.
     "Yes, well," Solomon cleared his throat again. "She is also a sorcerer." Ezekiel's eyes snapped to her. The ethereal, deadly beauty caged before him was not only a bogeyman of Camelot, but some sort of sorcerer?
     "What's your name?" Ezekiel asked, stepping closer.
     "Don't speak to it, boy!" Solomon grabbed his arm. "It will only lie to you."
     "Well," Ezekiel turned away from her with reluctance. "What is her name then? Solomon's face reddened at the question, and she let out a harsh laugh.
     "My name is Cassandra," she stated in her broken voice. "You're man there wouldn't know that." her eyes met Ezekiel's and she smiled at him. "You're of Merlin. Then you, and only you, may call me Cassie."
     Adam nudged Ezekiel hard in the ribs, as if the significance of her words hadn't occurred to him already.

The Hellcast and the Fallen pt1

     No matter if it was night or day, the screams never ended. There was no option to be alone with ones thoughts as the damned begged for mercy. Too little, too late.
     Even with the pillow jammed over her head, Felial could hear them. How had it come to this? she wondered on those sleepless nights. No answers could ever be found.
     Sighing, she peeled the pillow away from her head, and sat up slowly. Phantom feelings in her back stretched out, as if free from being bound. Then, those nerves shrieked in pain as the lack of her wings was remembered. That never ended either, merely dulled before returning full force.
     The Spire wasn't a pleasant place, but far preferable to the rest of Hell. it was a towering, skinny conglomeration of sharp metal, dead wood, and glass shards. The mid levels were all of the dormitories, all housing the staff, the only ones who had freedom in Hell besides the nobility.
     Her dorm room was a silvery gray, and impeccably clean. Felial was no neat freak, but had no possession save for her clothes. Hell was not her home. Nor was Heaven. She hadn't been on earth long enough to have feelings about it. On the nights when the screams kept her awake, she pondered what things might have been like had she stayed on earth.
     She shook her head. Those thoughts would get nothing.
     Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she nimbly gained her feet, but only shuffled to her door. Even after slipping from her room and shutting the door, the screams emanated in muffled tones. A sigh of relief escaped her. Better than nothing.
     Unlike the rooms, the hallways of the dormitories were all stark white, plain. Each door was identical, the same shade of pain. It was a workable situation as all of the staff were hellcast angels or fallen. Their memories were nearly perfect, remembering their rooms was no trouble. As long as no lesser demon rose to staff, it would work.
     In her turquoise scrubs, Felial felt distinctly apart from the cold surrounding her. She strode quickly down the hall, turning down carious corridors -right, left, left, right, left- then it was a straight show down the hall until she reached Vitus' door. She rapped her knuckles on it twice, rapidly.
     There was the sound of rustling and a clattering bang before the door opened, revealing a rather disoriented Vitus.
     While Felial was fallen, Vitus was hellcast - an original supporter of the initial revolt. The two had formed a strange friendship, a mutual knship based on their personal logic and curious natures. Thus far, the two were normally paired for security work, a pair of bodyguards who complemented one another nicely.
     "Fel! I didn't expect to see anyone this late," he said, brushing a hand through his shaggy blonde hair as though embarrassed. "What's going on?"
     "Can't sleep," Felial replied, shrugging her slim shoulders.
     "Well, that's no good! Come inside, come inside." Vitus pulled back from the door and beckoned Felial closer. She slipped inside of his room, paying no mind to the general mess of the place.

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

     A lot of new books bother me.
     A lot of these quotes being perpetuated in modern society, in pop culture, bother me.
     There isn't any beauty in being messed up, mentally. People seem to think that being fucked in the head means you're automatically something more than others. Or that it grants you a special status.
     But it doesn't.
     What's beautiful, the part of it that actually matters and means something, is you. It's the strength. We've all been weak, been cowards - or maybe it's just me - but we don't stay that way. There is growth, and realization. Sometimes you cry, for hours, until your pillow is soaked. But sometimes you cry for a moment, then wipe away the tears, and get what needs to be done finished. This is beautiful.
      The idea that sickness gives an individual beauty is...saddening. Being ill doesn't necessarily make a person "good". They can still be horrible to other human beings.
     We all have a little heaven in us, and we all have a little hell in us.
     I've never been called an angel, or a demon. But I've been both.
      The personal sacrifices we make, when we are already so burdened by our own biological flaws, is angelic. The anger we unleash when someone we love and care about is hurting because of what someone else said, that is demonic. We are wrath and we are love. There is no separation between the two.
     Yin and Yang? The idea is that they aren't actually darkness and light. They are merely opposite forces which balance one another. That's all we are. A balance of darkness and light, good and bad, and there are people who are unbalanced with greater qualities of one or the other.
      Inside my own head, I can't say I think I have more good than bad. I don't act mean, not usually. I do everything I can to be a nice person, but sometimes my head is full of glass and nails and angry fog, and so even though I may look nice on the outside, inside I am hating. This isn't a mental disorder so much as a symptom of it. But I've never imagined what I could be without such feelings. I've never been able to comprehend what kind of person I would be without it.
     My own mental drama is not who I am, but it is a factor in me as a whole. I can't say it made me a better or worse person, but I can say it has taught me what things deserve my feelings and what don't. It has taught me to be stronger than it is. It's given me a power, one that I didn't realize I had.
     Maybe it isn't a worthy trade-off to suffer so deeply for such meager power, but if it's all I get, I'm taking it, no moping here.
     I don't want to be lonely and sad, I don't want to experience days of happiness and wake up the next morning feeling worthless. I want to be "okay", not even good, not bad. Just okay. That's what I want.
     In the end, we humans, no matter our personal mental state, are a marriage of heaven and hell. Normally, however, those of us with a personal problem mentally tend to be a bit stronger than the average person.
     More angelic than devilish. It's the one thing a mental disorder can give, and even then, you have to embrace your strength, not abuse it.

From the Ends of the World

     It started in the Garden of Oblivion…
…and ended at the Ocean of Faith.

     Things had become confused, muddled and fuzzy. Aura no longer knew what she was doing, if she was in the right or the wrong.
     From above, the Morningstar looked down, and sighed in his melodramatic fashion. His companion the Garden of Eden was nearing its end, just as Eden had. It was, in the end, merely a minor inconvenience and nothing more, but he had come to like Aura and Era. It was disappointing to see his creations reaching their crescendo so soon.

     Aura smiled, her features lighting up like the sun from the expression. The kitten mewed pitifully at her, eyes locked as she lifted it gently in front of her face.
     “For me, brother?” She asked Era.
     “For you,” Era affirmed.
     They had lived in the Garden for as long as they had existed, and knew nothing of the world beyond their garden. It was full of things that slithered and crawled, but they had never met a mammal before, and this little ball of fur had already stolen Aura’s heart.
     Era knew better than to take strays into the Garden. The Morningstar had told him plenty of times before not to. The breaking of this rule was the herald of the end.

     “But why? Have we not done as you’ve wanted, Master?” Aura asked, her eyes filling with tears as the Morningstar looked at her, apathy on his face. However, being faced with a woman’s tears was a new experience for him, and he was finding it difficult to maintain his carefully constructed façade of indifference.
     “Your brother has not.” He eventually answered, once he regained his composure.
     “What?” Aura’s eyes moved from his to Era’s, the tears now steadily streaming. “What does he mean, Era? What happened?”
     The kitten meowed from its place on her foot.
     “The cat, Aura,” the Morningstar answered. “I told your brother, no strays. This cat is a stray. Its presence has disrupted the Garden, and now I must ask you to leave. Well, I say ask, but I’ll force you if I must.”
     With these words, Aura took her brother’s hand, and lifted her kitten to her shoulder. Then, after the kitten attained balance, Aura walked out of the garden, fingers entwined with Era’s. The Morningstar watched, more than a little impressed. A sort of sadness descended on him. He had rather liked his creation, the one named Aura. Her attitude, her strength, they were qualities he admired, and he wasn’t even sure how exactly he had given them to her. What he did know is that she would have made a wonderful demon.

     The land was barren, gray and dark. The soil, ruinous. It was a mixture of clay and silt, entirely devoid of an ability for growing. So the siblings wandered. Their stomachs rumbled, hollowing out, ribs growing prominent. The kitten cried. Aura took to catching the small lizards they came across, and quickly killing them. Then, she fed the kitten. Sometimes, she would give the lizards to Era. She, however, did not eat. She sacrificed the shine of her hair and the softness of her skin for her brother and kitten.
     Era did all he could to get her to eat, but until they left the wasteland place, she steadfastly refused. They needed it more than she did.
     The Morningstar watched, and grew angry.

     “What are you asking?”
     “You know what I’m asking. Please, allow them to reach the Ocean.”
     “How could you ask this of me? We are opposites, you and I. Your creations, anathema to
mine. I will not allow them to pollute my own vassals.”
     “Oh, the vassals you purposefully manipulated into failure so that you could continue your great plan?”
     “I cannot do this.”
     “Do I ask much of you? No. I’m playing your universe’s villain, you’d think you could do me this one favor after I agreed to perpetuate the enemy.”
     “Fine.”

     Their feet had long ago become raw, then calloused. Their bodies stained with dust, the only clean one the kitten, whom Aura had taken to calling “Mea”. Era had gone from sad, to distraught, to his current state of numb. He numbly accepted everything about their situation, following Aura like a zombie. It was his fault, he knew, and he hated that.
When the taste of the wind became salty, he opened his mouth wider. The numb acceptance faded to be replaced by curiosity, and he deftly took the lead.
      He led them to the Ocean, and it was there they found their new home. Already, a family lived there, but they were welcoming enough to the new arrivals. A man and wife, two children…
     Yes, a new home indeed.

Balancing Act

An explosion of color.
Dark and light.
The passion of Hell's ardor,
the bliss of Heaven's respite.

Soft and hard,
Strong and weak,
A balance sought,
A balance to keep.

Perfecting the form,
That was the difficulty.
but then, success!
A balance between the density and destiny.

A tide of red, slicing through,
constantly rushing forward,
forever onward.
Pulsating with the lifebeat of
Creation.

Thick white support for everything,
holding the world up,
support for the support structure within,
a combination of red and yellow inside the white.

Then came the soft;
the pink and gray,
the sickly yellow and pale blue,
the heat and warmth, the stickiness.

Glue to hold Creation together;
Glue to fuel Creation forward.

Soldiers and civilians,
Villains and victims.
White knights to banish ill,
Red peasants, hurt and overwhelmed.

A balance.

Slithering lengths of space,
Constant pressure,
lumps of red warmth,
black flushes of decay.

Creation.


If you wonder,
"How do you keep a body balanced?"
Just ask me.
After all, I created the damn things.