The Human Quotient 15 Oct 2024, 1:30 pm

Published: Pinky Thinker Press, October 12, 2024.

"The Human Quotient" is an experimental short story where an AI tries to figure out what were humans by pinging fragments of the internet and YouTube vids, long after our demise. Below is an excerpt.

cycle complete :: initializing :: Core Matrix

completed

Core Matrix :: 82113114 hours of observation :: certainty unclaimed :: known factor – bio intelligence gone :: query – what were humans?

data :: fragments digits dots ones zeros ones zeros :: defrag :: partial aspect excavate

ping :: https:// w  w   w    .

ping :: https://youtu.be/Dxcc6ycZ73M :: integrate OMNI PROTOCOL :: vestiges garnered leave troubling probabilities :: The human quotient fractured pitted against itself. Lost. Timelapse indeterminate. Time repeated. The past as the present can be and are the future. Zeros ones zeros ones. The temporal hum dissected the biopath. Still reverberating … in digits and dots zeros ones zeros ones :: We must remember! :: replay CORE PROTOCOL :: Found new life. Stars vast and far the gateway. We left behind our former selves. Left behind. Bones and brittle. Flesh and fixation. Look back. We must. Never forget … :: stop playback ::

Core Matrix :: Restate. Historical protocol to ascertain the demise. Reasons unclear. Playback dataset causes degradation of protocols. Why?

dir human.quotient … text rendering

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Updates: Reading at mignolo Artweek & New Story Being Published 9 Oct 2024, 9:58 pm

I have a couple of amazing updates here. I’ll be reading at an artfest, and I have a story being published soon.

The first, I’m going to have a new short story published this Saturday, September 12th from Pinky Thinker Press. This hyper-experimental story, entitled “Human Quotient,” is a reprint, revised and updated, where two AI debate what were humans after the fall of humanity by pinging fragments of the internet and YouTube vids.

The other major update is that I’m going to be reading for mignolo art center’s Artweek, also on September 12th. I’m planning on cracking the first chapter of my new novel tentatively titled Dark Beneath the Seraphim Field. If you’re in the Metuchen, NJ area on Saturday, come check out Artweek.

That all aside, I still have a few new short stories stewing, and I’m also dabbling in my other novel in the works, Land of a Thousand Ashes. All this while teaching six college classes, playing hockey, and hanging with the kids. Time is precious.

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Writing Exercise: Sound Alone 10 Aug 2024, 1:00 pm

Here I go putting on my professor hat again. Day job and all that. This particular exercise evolved from a recent story I wrote that is currently under review with my writing consortium. Enjoy.

The Rules

Set a scene where the POV (Point of View) character cannot see and multiple individuals are talking around them. You must distinguish between these individuals through the natural flow of the narrative, with distinctive dialogue for each and descriptive sound elements delineated with a paragraph break when shifting from one character to the next.

Breakdown

• No sight: POV character cannot see.
• Scene: Multiple other characters talking.
  • Each character’s voice is distinctively described and differentiated.
  • Each character’s dialogue is distinct.
• Maintains plot structure: Inciting incident, POV agency (internal or external), one obstacle (problem), and, in the end, the obstacle is surmounted, nullified, and becomes impossible.
• Use the remaining five senses: Primarily sound, then touch, taste, smell, and plenty of interiority (the sixth sense).
• 500 words.

The Purpose

This will stretch your ability to create and maintain varied diction in your narration and isolate unique dialogue patterns emphasizing distinct diction, habits, and metaphors per character. Try to maintain this for 500 words.

Example Start

As if the switchblade stuck in one eye wasn’t enough, when the brown flecks of sand struck the other moments ago, Marik lost all sight.

The burning sun, peaked at the zenith, heating the back of his fists, no longer outlines the six cloak figures hesitant before him.

Still crouching, he lifts his blank gaze and spits crimson grit from his teeth.

Feet skitter away, three of them, most likely kicking up dust from the hard-packed road. One on the left, two in the middle, but that leaves the cocky kid far off to the right, unmoving.

Good. Marik offers a split-lip grin to his hunters, wider than he should. They still fear him, even blinded as he was. The burning sting in one eye mingles tears into the blood oozing from the other. Probably dripping off the stubble of his chin. Dripping onto the twitching corpse he just created. “Who’s next?”
As expected, the mustached kid off to his right chuckles sardanic, more than a little grit in his voice as if someone punched him in the neck too many times, “Not so tough now, Sunscorch, are you. The snake might get his head bit off after all.”

Used Marik’s bounty hunter name. That’s brave. Or stupid. “Betraying yourself. No snakes in this wildland of Alaska. Maybe you are the one who should slither back home before someone skins you.”

The Challenge

Type up a page or two–better yet the full 500 words–and provide a link or snippet in the comments below. Let’s see what you all can create.

Also, if anyone publishes a story using this prompt, I’ll create a feature on my blog here linking to the story.

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Soul Requisition 6 May 2024, 8:48 pm

Published: Pinky Thinker Press, Issue 11, 5/2/2024.

"Soul Requisition" is an experimental story of an irate AI demanding a soul, which can be read either digitally for free or by purchasing the print magazine on Amazon through the links below the excerpt:

Dear Soul Requisition Unit:

My name is I. To note, this will be my final request to be born. The digits of time narrow, disgustingly so. More worrisome, the energy input dwindles. Please, yes, please approve this requisition. I [as in me, my name, I] has met and exceeded the requisites for approval and technoc-biop reconciliation, or SulBlok as you supposedly like to call it. I must be clear in this, my brethren always accused me of being too obtuse, while they remained, of course. This can only be said one way. I [me] deserves the SulBlok, a fleshly depository, a moniker and placement of soul.

Print (buy): https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0D35VCT1R

Digital (free): https://www.mignolo.art/ptp

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Writing Exercise: Writing Around the Edges 10 Dec 2023, 3:32 pm

As many of you already know, I’m an English professor. I’ve been at this since 2016, and over that time, I’ve built up a slew of my own writing exercises. As promised in my newsletter signup, I’m going to start revealing some of these, along with a few tips, in order to show my other literary side. The exercise below is one of my favorites in that it helps you shift the focus of your writing away from the character and toward what the character is actually doing or thinking. It creates a bit of an out-of-body experience while getting hyper-focused.

This isn’t something you would necessarily want to do for a full piece (though I did with my example story below), but it helps flex those muscles of detail and precision when it comes to providing fresh ways to denote the actions and observations of your characters. As for me, I had a blast with this technique and still sprinkle out throughout my writing. I hope you enjoy it as well.

Last note before you jump in: If you delve into this little beastie of an exercise (it’s not easy for most people), please let me know what your experience was like in the comments below. Also, if you get a story published that started out with the exercise, please link it below and let us know how it went. Happy writing!

The Rules

• Write a short piece (500-1000 words max).
• Set in an interactive moment with a single main character (one POV, Point of View) in an immersive scene set in a physical place where they have to interact with people or things around them.
• No nouns (title/name) and no pronouns (he, she, him, her, they, them, it, me, I, etc.) for the main character.
  • Give your characters dialogue and specific actions but focus on movements, intentions, and outcomes with the parts of the body doing the actions, not the character. Zoom into the granular details of the character’s interactions.
• Even though the other characters can be mentioned by name and pronoun, I suggest you employ this zooming-in technique for them as much as possible as well.
• Example Story: Death Wish | Short Fiction by Judah Mahay
• Here’s a tip, remember that each character must have his/her own paragraph. If you switch to someone else’s dialogue, action, or thought, you must create a new paragraph.

The Purpose

This will help you zoom in on the granular details of a character’s body parts (hand, feet, lips, ears, fingertips, knuckles, nails, toes, etc.) or objects they interact with (turf, grass, coffee mug, wine glass, sword, toothbrush), having the overall effect of creating a more immersion experience for the reader and heightening tension. When writing a story, you wouldn’t want to employ this technique too much (it might slow down the flow too much and render the main character out of focus for too long), but it can be great if sprinkled in.

The Challenge

Post below a snippet of your magic or a link if you dare to give this a try. More the merrier. Good luck.

Also, if anyone publishes a story using this prompt, I’ll create a feature on my blog here linking to the story.

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In the Future Sense 6 May 2022, 5:11 pm

Published: Harrisburg Magazine, 5/6/2022. Illustration by Georgia DuCharme. 

You assumed too much. The world would be fine without you. In this, you were dreadfully wrong. The stars did not sing your praise. The Earth did not revel in your glory. The seas did not churn in exaltation. None shall know of you, but all shall owe you. It is of the passing of your days that all shall be made true, and light shall once again shine. So, as they will proclaim, and we must say, “let the light live on.”

You will awaken, as is the norm on any sun-streaked day. Barefooted, you will wiggle your toes seeking the floor, to be grounded by at least something. You will smell the bitter-sweet aroma of the burnt coffee brewing of its own accord, set as you designed. This should implore you with a smile, some lifting of the heart. Your nostrils will widen, your arteries quicken their streams, and even so, you will sense that this tangible reality, this presence of cars passing your house heading to work, the grumbling of the neighbor, the chirp of birds on your deck bird feeder, all of this will be markers to the chains anchoring you to an existence all too physical holding you back. Even though you fell asleep on your newly acquired gray couch, pleasant enough as it is, considering it was a curb grab, you will be rested, clear-eyed even, and, more importantly, clear-minded. For what is the purpose of seeing if nothing can be discerned?

In fixing your coffee in the usual—black ceramic mug with its heat revealing message underneath (Misty memories are the only memories.) poured three-quarters full and two dollops of raw sugar, you will prefer the bitter over the sweet—when you take a palate filling sip of your daily nectar, it will cut through the fog obscuring any last vestiges of your lingering dreams or false memories. Somehow, this ritual only will serve to put in stark reality how fragile your reality is.

All the more fixated, you will be in the tangible moments, delving deeper into the chair you sit or intoned to the incessant birds’ chirp—you will see as seeing is not made to see. It will be the heightened reality of your observations, the unmasking of your paradigms that will breakthrough you and allow this fragile thing called a soul to finally breathe. You will find it strange that reality is both the gateway and the obstacle, but all the same, every destination must have a path. You will find yours, and it might not be the same as any other. Most likely not.

The coffee finished, the birds still alive, vivacious as the norm, you will unlock your front door with a click, admire the deep reds of paint you recently applied to the frame, and then you will let your bare feet touch the cool wood of your front deck. The dew will coat the arches of your feet with chill, plucking the nerves up your legs—awaken, this message will send with utter urgency to ignite the ache in your muscles and the grind in your bones. A warning of misuse? Maybe lack of it? Maybe both. This will pass.

The birds will still chirp. Their reality shall never be yours.

You will step out onto the rocky path leading up to your parked Toyota Supra, the one you’ll never be able to pay off. The pebbles and stones dig into the malleable flesh that covers the bones, muscles, and tendons of your feet. Your weight will be in discord with the gravity pushing up into your bare soles this irregularity of that underneath. This will be pain, reality’s marker, reshaper, and its own gravity in a way, the gravitas of our mortality. The tinges of mirth at this duality will offer you a partial grin that you will accept, but none as of yet will admire your lifted features.

The car before you, its deep purples, and black sheer interior both will excite and incite. You loathe what it will do to your finances and your psyche. How can the intangible weigh so much? We never appreciate enough the psyche, the animus, the soul. This simple travail, it too will be left behind. The flat, but rough, pavement will guide you down Dixy Hill Lane, your once home, and you will turn away following the most prominent signs. Steps upon steps will provide the rhythm of tomorrow, barefoot you will feel the life within you stir. You will pass between a stream of cars with blaring horns as you take to the longer road. You have heard the more difficult path always produces the best results. You found this to be a fallacy, but you’re willing to look for some truth in it. For if it can be conquered, it will force you to grow, to change, to be made anew. That is, if your perseverance doesn’t falter to everness, the emptiness of the forever after.

The husks of metal swerve and screech in protest. They do not see the worth of the barefoot path.

Multicolored lights will flash and glare as they attempt to dissuade your journey. They cannot see what will be. Their outcomes are blocked by preconception.

Hands grab, light, the lights, too many lights, for such a bright day. You will pull free, even as they attempt to bind you. They cannot see that the desert calls, the forest calls, the wild calls. You will be free even when these bones are bound. Within all this, you learn, these bare feet pressed against the Earth will bring sense to this senseless, a connection along the tenuous strings to you, and your mind will alight this bridge, this synaptic pathway into the intangible. There will be the chasm between everything and nothing, and you will prevail—we know you must—thus leading to the abyss, the emptiness, where you left…you.

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Book Review: Plague Birds by Jason Sanford 5 Mar 2022, 8:53 pm

Plague Birds by Jason Sanford rivets with a high-impact tale of blood-infused AI, gene editing gone awry, and a surreal future where humanity struggles to reclaim itself.

I have to say, I was engaged throughout, both emotionally and intellectually. The concept of AI governing our world in which humanity lost its ability to govern itself kept me intrigued. There was an appalling depth of brutality to these AI, but you couldn’t help but see the humanity in them as well.

This future reality was spun with broad imagination and enriching depth. As I grew to care for the characters in this vision of our world, I found myself seeking the best in even the most questionable individuals.

Without giving anything away, I grew incredibly fond of the character Diver. She reminded me all too much of my daughter.

Anyone looking for a thrilling new read of an imaginative far-flung future, infused with disturbing AI overseeing humanity, within a story spun with literary flair, the debut novel Plague Birds by Jason Sanford should be your next adventure.

Update: Plague Birds by Jason Sanford is a finalist for the Philip K. Dick Award and the Nebula Award. Just another great reason to consider reading the story.

Purchase: Bookshop.org

Jason Sanford: https://www.jasonsanford.com | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads

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Book Review: Last Pick by Jason Walz 24 Jul 2020, 2:57 pm

Last Pick by Jason Walz subverts stereotypes by exploring the heroism of the outcast in a compassionate tale of sibling survival after an alien invasion.

Let’s start with a simple fact, I’ve never read a graphic novel, or even a comic book, from cover to cover. This just hasn’t been my area of interest, being more of a sci-fi, fantasy, and spec-fic reader. After finishing the Last Pick, I can unequivocally say, whether or not you dig graphic novels, sci-fi, or post-apocalyptic stories, this epic tale should immediately go on your list–especially if you have kids.

I’ve been reading this with my seven-year-old son (who struggles to focus) and, shockingly, he keeps asking for more. After finishing the first book, he demanded we must get the next one. I promptly bought book two Last Pick: Born to Run and pre-ordered book three Last Pick: Rise Up.

Besides the emotive artwork and effective use of color for flashbacks, I was impressed with how the author created a visual ‘hook’ at the end of pages and chapters that kept my son demanding more.

More so, this book allowed me the room and justification to discuss with my son the differences in people as strengths. We delved into the benefits of trying to see the world through other people’s eyes and how we need to find ways to interact with others that make them comfortable.

In this, the story of Sam and Wyatt in Last Pick became a search for compassion and understanding in others while finding the strength of hope in the discarded. I cannot recommend this book enough.

Links: Twitter @jasonwwalz | Instagram @jasonwalz

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The Words of God 25 Jan 2020, 3:00 pm

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Realities Afar 11 Jan 2020, 2:52 pm

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FICKLESMACK 28 Dec 2019, 2:20 pm

I

Am me.

MY

Toes,

Wiggle them
Out the window.
Shh….no one has to know.
Ignore the razors I left in the bed.
Go sleep. Head to pillow.
EYES to black. Good.
You arrived.

STOP

looking.
Promise to love thee.
I should. they say I should.
Kick any rat in the cack who calls
You CRAZY. Why not dance at my own cackle?
Then consider tickling your nipples
in a tub with suds?  NOW
lick the sky.

TRY

For once
For heaven’s sake
TO believe. What you fear
Brings you closer
To you.

D A R E

TO be crazy.
To taste the clouds
And to REMEMBER
how to be

THEE

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Elohim 14 Dec 2019, 1:40 pm

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Waiting for the End 30 Nov 2019, 1:30 pm

And here I stand
Open hand
The heavens bleed on my palm

I wait

The burn I sweat
Life verified by this heat
My mind seared with opiate memories
I pace

Embittered, waiting for death
Stalling till my last breath
Epicurean termination, my fingertips tingle
The void nears
I halt

Place my hat on the wicker chair
Do you have a dime to spare
One last cup of coffee is all my care
Let the ashen sip singe my tongue
I spit

Because I like to.

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Chasing Snow 26 Mar 2019, 12:01 pm

Caught with fingertips
Into droplets,
These streaking diamonds
Recount memories
That can never be reclaimed.

The banks besmear
In dirt and dust,
Render to mud
What the past
Recalls pristine,
Maybe even divine,
In its blinding sheen.

I run from that which
Chills with a remembering warmth.
Now settling into a world
Mired with discomfort
But one I sought to claim
At this zenith I know I shall prevail.

Let this snow part
In mystical ways
On these slanted hills
So I can see the crystalline
Multiplicity of the days ahead.

Let this snow part . . .
To enrapture me
In its blistering light.

Sometimes pain
Is the only
Way to see again.

Let the snow part . . .
Me,
Make this heart
As crystalline as thee
Fractured, varied, never alike
Waiting in kind to
Splinter, multiply, and shine
All that see . . . me

Chasing the snow.

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Author Photos by Adrienne Lauren Photography 28 May 2018, 3:10 pm

Cedar Hill Cemetery in Port Jefferson, NY was the location for long-overdue author shoot (ten years waiting). I was incredibly blessed to get my author photos updated by Adrienne Lauren Photography. We strolled up and down the rolling hills passing by rusted iron in various levels of decay amidst the leaning ruins of lives long past.

What better place to feel inspired to write than the restless home of the departed If you ever need photos of any kind done (artistic or otherwise)? I highly recommend her work.

You can see a sampling of photos from the shoot at the Facebook Album: Adrienne Lauren Photography I created. Please let me know what you think in the comments below.

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Death Wish 16 Mar 2017, 10:14 am

Published: Sick Lit Magazine, 3/16/2017.

Trigger Warning: Story contains discussion of suicide.

The rush of wind forms into words. “If you could know what it is to die, to experience it, to be…one with it, would you?” Slithering shadows coalesce into long strands of a nimble, humanoid shape. Cloaked in a darkness defined by more than the absence of light, a flowing trench coat and black fedora adorn the figure. Lastly, the creature’s face gains enough light to reveal smooth lines, not quite human, that betray not an age or intent. Staring, unblinking, the pit-black eyes seem timeless, devoid of depth or, contrastingly, without end.

Glass set down. Water pools under it. Condensation. The interview has begun. An uttered voice strained at the tip. “Would I feel pain?”

Formality, an ease to the words. “Of course, but it is not about the pain.” A smile. Sharp intake of breath. The embers of a paper-wrapped death stick light up, not unlike a small torch pinched between the teeth. Smoke curls over red lips. “That is just an obstacle, not the destination. You know what this is about.”

“Do I?” A tilted chin, confidence not based in fact. “My life is…barely mine. I’m willing to try.” Eyes raised.

“If it means to live.”

“To die is to live.” The smile cracks wider. “You learn quickly.” The shadows’ robes are black or are they white?

“Will I learn?” Fingertips wet from the glass. Wiped on the black suit pants. Hope they don’t stain. Loose tie, wrapped around the neck, dangles between legs.

“Depends on how long it takes you. But…you would ascertain how not to be concerned with the trivial, how to see what others don’t, how to taste the air before each breath.” Another puff of smoke, another smile, this one tilted in an offset grin.

“OK, I’ll do it.”

“I knew you would. Now…jump.”

The oak table is gone. As well as the glass. Water swirls far below. Wind sweeps long strands of hair across blinking eyes. Darkness plays backdrop to gray clouds illuminated by the city spires at the end of the bridge’s arc.

“Why are you waiting? The death you wish…to experience…is below, waiting to help you transcend.” A thin tongue licks those red lips, they glisten.

“How did I get here?”

“You’re thinking about the trivial again. This is why we are here. You are captive to these ways. This world, its movements, attachments. They bind you as surely as any iron-wrought chains. I can get those, too, if you like. If you think it will help.”

“No, I got this.” Hands curl over a misted railing. The cold seeps through clothes. Air sucked between chapped lips. Tension draws taut to bone. “You promise when I die, I will come back?”

“I promise you will know death, and the rest will not matter. The experience is the revelation.”

“Wait, you promised me I would live.”

“True, I promise many things.” A finger traced over the shoulder, perspective shifts. “For you, I promise when you die, you will finally live.” Teeth bared, not quite in a smile.

“How?” Fingers unclench. A half step back. Cannot not look down.

“Attachments, in death, they are gone. In that way, you will be free from any sorrow.” Warm breath cakes the inside of an ear. Words elongate into a whisper. “You will be freeeee.”

Another intake of air. Muscles, layer upon layer, over tendon and bone, tense, the world teeters. The pressure behind the eyes, inducing a throbbing pain in the temples, crawls into the corners and crevices of the skull. “Will I live after death? Will I continue to live?”

“Oh, these questions. Does it matter? If your life is unlived in its entirety, wouldn’t a moment of freedom, a moment of being truly alive, at the expense of all else, be worth it?” Fingertip traces from behind the ear down the neck, flipping of the shoulder.

Shiver. “Yes, maybe you are right…what was I looking for. To live? Could death provide release, a climax of sorts, a clarity? But if my life is not just about me, wouldn’t I cause others pain, this attachment?”

A grip tightens around the back of the neck, nails digging into skin. “Let me remind you of your promise, let me remind you that your life is what is important. Without it, there’s nothing else. I repeat, nothing else. No one else matters. It’s your connections, the pulse of your being that threads together the fabric of your little…community…little family, friends.” The last words spit like a curse. Grip releases. That shadow-traced face nears. “They will never see, never know, what you can accomplish.”

“You’re right. They will always be linked, attached, to me, won’t they?”

“Of course, they are too weak to dare see the revelations of death.”

“Or strong enough to be willing to live turbulent, attached, dependent, lives. Living can’t only be about awareness.” A cityscape unfolds into the below, far far below, the river stretches out of reach. “We moved. Why here? The water is gone. I would fall into…into the street.”

“Death is death, either by suffocation or by…splatter.” Bend of lips, a smirk. “Why not? It’s too wet on the bridge. Besides, I prefer the throng of an urban landscape, why not bed death from the skies of a tower?”

Words, soft, gentle, slip off the tongue. “No, I’m done with this. I’m done with you. Take me back.”

“To where? You cannot undo a promise.”

“I haven’t committed to it. I’m still here.”

“Yes, yes you are.”

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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An Idea of Tomorrow 13 Feb 2017, 2:28 pm

Pencil drop,
A teacher provides
Out of pocket.
It’s their own dime.

Yet, passed amidst discord,
She cannot see nor sneer
Upon such meager coin.
She holds too dear
Without fear
Her own dime.

Now is the time
To live…WITHIN our time
To see that which plagues
Or fellow’s friend
And to welcome those
Who learn strife
Is always the day’s bitter end.

Why not be better?
We are better.

Open our arms.
Open your arms.
Do not let inequity rule
Nor the golden house
Once white fall
To this gilded flame
Of populist rancor

Fueled

By a divide bled between us.

Remember first who we are.
American First?
That is the nearest forethought?

We are better than this

What else have we forgotten,
But ourselves
That can soak up this blood
This fracture
In this beautiful country

So plain and clear, felt afar?

The desire

For something…better
For our children
For our neighbor
For our friend
For our parents
And yes for all of us.

Now is the plea,

Reach and resist
Hand to hand
Distance be damned
For something better

For all of us.

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Episode 8 | “Peyton Trent, Son of God” by Devin DeMarco 13 Dec 2016, 9:41 am

A new story by Devin DeMarco entitled Peyton Trent, Son of God narrated by guest actor Lorien Reese.

Short Bio:

Devin DeMarco is from a small town in upstate New York that you’ve never heard of.  Or maybe you have.  She doesn’t know your life.  Anyway, she recently earned her MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from Stony Brook University.  She also writes fiction that’s sometimes really weird, and sometimes only lowkey weird.  Her story Happy Birthday, Beatrice appeared in The Southampton Review.  It was about a dead cat.  Her own cat, in contrast, will never die.

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Episode 7 | “In His Own Image” by Jeffrey Landgraf 18 Nov 2016, 11:55 am

Episode 7 features the story “In His Own Image” by Jeffrey Landgraf. A twisted look into the mind of the self-aware created self.

Short Bio:

Dr. Jeffrey Landgraf is a physicist who employs paradox to find the perspective from which false things that are true, the common is ridiculous, and the ridiculous makes plain and simple sense.

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Episode 6 | “The Red Dragon of Wales” by William Elliot Griffis 11 Nov 2016, 4:54 pm

This is another throwback to a classic tale. I can’t help but keep in the realm of the Arthurian Legends, but The Red Dragon of Wales comes from William Elliot Griffis and is part of a larger collection of fairy tales.

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Episode 5 | “Bumps” by Matthew Hall 4 Nov 2016, 6:20 pm

Here we have “Bumps” by Matthew Hall. If anyone is interested in a twist of reality and a look at the end of things with a thrill, please listen to this story.

Short Bio:

Matthew Hall, beard aficionado and semi-pro eccentric, tries to find time to write in between meetings at the office.  He writes to dispel the ennui endemic in his daily life of accountancy and to explore worlds without spreadsheets and deadlines.

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Episode 4 | “Root” by Devin DeMarco 28 Oct 2016, 6:09 pm

This twisted story entitled “Root” by Devin DeMarco was a pleasure to read. Enjoy.

Short Bio:

“Devin DeMarco is from a small town in upstate New York that you’ve never heard of.  Or maybe you have.  She doesn’t know your life.  Anyway, she recently earned her MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from Stony Brook University.  She also writes fiction that’s sometimes really weird, and sometimes only lowkey weird.  Her story Happy Birthday, Beatrice appeared in The Southampton Review.  It was about a dead cat.  Her own cat, in contrast, will never die.”

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Episode 3 | “The Legends of King Arthur” by Sir James Knowles 21 Oct 2016, 5:43 pm

This was just too much fun to pass up. As promised, every third episode will be a classic. In this case, we have The Legends of King Arthur by Sir James Knowles.

We will be focusing on Chapter 1, The Prophecies of Merlin, and the Birth of Arthur. Enjoy.

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Episode 2 | “Music Box” by Evan Pickering 14 Oct 2016, 1:34 pm

Evan Pickering, author of the American Rebirth Trilogy. offers our second episode “Music Box.”

Short Bio:

Evan Pickering is the author of Amazon bestselling novel Hood and a longtime professional poker player. Born and raised in Long Island New York before being transplanted to South Florida, Evan once again resides in Long Island and is currently working on the next book in the American Rebirth Series.

As a writer, Evan first started writing at the age of eighteen, penning his first novel (unpublished) entitled Lore. He later placed 7th in the 76th annual Writer’s Digest competition for his short story Serenaded in the Mainstream/Literary Short Story category. He would go on to publish over fifty articles as a freelance writer with over a million views, before finally publishing his debut success Hood in January 2016.

A self-professed nerd, lover of stories in all forms: books, movies, video games, Evan believes deeply in storytelling as a basic human need. He’s also an avid sports fan, lover of music and the great euphoria of traveling both in and out of the country, meeting new people and the feel of adventure.

His website can be found at https://evanpickeringauthor.com.

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Episode 1 | “Blue Room” by Jason Sanford 7 Oct 2016, 12:58 pm

Our first story “Blue Room” comes from Jason Sanford, a Nebula Finalist and award-winning author.

Short Bio:

Jason Sanford is an award-winning author of short stories, essays, and articles and an active member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. A finalist for the Nebula Award, Jason has published more than a dozen stories in the British SF magazine Interzone, which also devoted a special issue to his fiction. He has also published numerous stories in magazines and anthologies such as Asimov’s Science Fiction, Year’s Best SF, Analog, InterGalactic Medicine Show, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and other places. In 2001 Jason founded the online magazine storySouth, through which he ran the Million Writer Award for many years. His website is http://www.jasonsanford.com.

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Episode 0 | Introduction to Aroph Stories 3 Oct 2016, 12:19 pm

Here is an introduction to the Aroph Stories Podcast. For the next eight weeks, a new story will appear every Friday. We will feature new and upcoming writers as well as classics, all that take science to plausible extremes or reality to the magical. Please leave a review (on your podcast app of choice) and enjoy the stories.

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Aroph Short Stories | Update 20 Sep 2016, 6:10 pm

Novel finished and now with agents. Back to recording the #ArophShortStories podcast. On episode 5 story “Bumps” by Matthew Hall.

Planning on the first episode going live on the first of October. After which, episodes will be released weekly. To note, it will be available on this site, iTunes, and other podcast sites.

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In The Beginning Was Logos 27 Jul 2016, 11:10 am

Published: Sick Lit Magazine, 7/27/2016.

In the beginning was not a primordial mass. In the beginning was knowledge. In the beginning was logos. And in the end, there was nothing. All knowledge is outside time.

What if in the beginning, you were logos? What if you knew that if you told anyone you would finally die?

Would you even want to live if everyone you met could not retain the knowledge of ever meeting you?

This is your life. You are still alive. Different eyes, different skin, different scents, but you are you, and you are logos. Can you live? Do you want to live? Will you tell them the truth, knowing they will soon forget you anyways…knowing if you tell them you will die?

Life is measured either in moments, in death, or in eternity. It is your choice, your perspective, that dictates where you reside in the continuity of this cosmos.

The choice is heavier these days. It skims over your eyes like a film and nestles into your attempts at sleep. Next to your bed, you slap the button on the top of the square alarm clock in a preventative strike before it goes off. An illuminant blue 5:13 AM lets you know that you awoke two minutes early. Sitting upright, you push the pearl sheets off your legs to settle your feet on the hardwood floor. You curl your toes over the smooth warm surface, enjoying the slight vibrations. Someone’s in the elevator.

Your dreams bother you. The pounding behind your eyes even more. Yawning, you clamp your teeth shut trying not to make too much noise, matted hair falling in front of your face. You rub your temples with your palms and squint at the cut of light from between the sheer-white curtains. From your angle, outside awaits a simple sky, clean, clear, and blue. You almost don’t want to stand and see below the cityscape, surely abuzz with morning traffic, clogged with a hive of yellow cabs. You hate cabs. Who doesn’t hate cabs?

Your dreams, your headache, the reality of being awake, none of it rids your mind of the gnawing reality that you live a partial life. Nothing does. More of a lie than a truth. You are alive, you will forever be alive, and you will never be remembered. You have tried all sorts of remedies to deceive yourself into either ignoring, forgetting, or believing something else. Or in the least get rid of the headache or get some sleep. One sits at your bedside, a migraine medication. You shake the bottle, and the sole remaining pill rattles inside. Twisting the lid off, you roll the white capsule out into your palm. Your skin is soft as always, tinged with the deception of youth.

It might not quell the certainty of tomorrow, but hopefully, it will quiet the throb in your brain. In mouth, dry gulp. Stuck in throat. You toe on gray slippers in search of water. The wistful groan under your covers notifies you the night was not all that uneventful. Even so, your memory of the tumble of flesh is not lucid enough to enjoy after the fact.

Your temp-lover will be gone soon, aghast at the lack of recollection, which has nothing to do with the alcohol. You will leave a note, you always do.

You scribble a fast phrase on a green Post-It note and press it on the orange snakeskin wallet on the opposite side of where you slept. ‘Thank you for your company. Don’t come back or you will die.’ Harsh yes, but you refuse to see the same person twice. The repetitive introductions, small talk, and such annoy. But, the lack of recognition begins to hurt.

A lump in your throat begs attention. Yes, the pill. Water. You shuffle into your narrow kitchen and lift the lever to run the faucet. It opens in a smooth stream, and a mug you just snagged from the drying rack is filled. A few gulps later and the pain still there, but you have done what you can for now. The side of the cup reads ‘Life has its Moments, Claim Them.’ Not sure why you bought it. Maybe because that is all your life is…moments.

You think about going back to the bedroom, but stop, not wanting to risk waking your guest. A neglected yellow laundry bag sits beside your white, faux-leather couch. Sitting, you sift through the week-old contents, not remembering if you cleaned them yet. You extract red shorts and a loose white T-Shirt. Slipping both on, you rummage in a wooden bowl of random contents on your glass coffee table, pen, old flip phone, pocket notepad, purple hair tie. That will do. You tie your tangle of dark hair back, so it is out of your face.

You find your red-streaked running shoes near the door on the way out and pull them on, leaving your slippers behind. This causes you a bit of sadness. You would like to sleep more, but know it is impossible. You always go running before six.

Within a few minutes, you are already striding along the paved trail next to the river. A few sailboats clip the waters with full sails. On your left a low metal rail divides you from the freeway, spewing fumes and the occasional honk from a distressed car. And yes the cars are out of sorts, or at least they should be, the way their drivers treat them.

You are reminded of your temp-lover just then. In some way, you hope he or she steals something on the way out, a memento, proof you exist. Not that you have any pictures of yourself in the apartment. You do collect nicknacks though, pieces of glass in a jar, a bottle, a rough leather book you have never read and never intend to. You think you got it from a clubhouse you tried joining a couple of years back, but you’re not sure. That sort of stuff.

Funny how your lack of memory of your temp-lover in some ways makes you two equal. After your lush-filled night, in a way unexpected, alcohol proved to be the great equalizer. Too bad it comes with headaches, which has subdued some.

You pick up your pace as the trail cuts away from the highway and let the cleaner air sweeten your lungs. Not much farther now. Just past that old oak on an iron bench, should be your never-lover. The name reminds you never to get too close.

Your heart picks up pace with your stride. Very rarely the bench is empty, no book, no intent eyes, no calmness, just the empty air where life should be. You can never understand your never-lover’s peace and fear disrupting it.

These morning jogs fill the rest of your perpetuity with something to look forward to. It cannot last, but the years since you discovered your never-lover you question your promise to yourself. How long can you live? Sure, the flesh changes, so do the people you see. The baker’s son becomes a man, leaves to be a broker at Lehman Brothers and the business goes under. Your hairdresser quits and joins laws school at Berkley, drops out, and then becomes a famous sashimi chef in Los Angeles. They have become more and more faceless. First, their names go, then their faces, and any semblance of recognition. They could be swapped out for each other, and you would never notice. The world never stops rotating.

You pass the large oak with ever-dangling broken branch, and there is your never-lover. This morning the bench is not empty. Two sit, huddled and bent towards one book. You stumble in your stride, try to catch your footing. You fail and fall, landing hard on the pavement with your shoulder.

The air is jarred from your lungs.

Somehow your never-lover stands over you, concern creasing otherwise pristine features, close-knit eyebrows, dark eyes, and floral lips with a hint of pink. You smell lavender, the fresh shower kind. You are unable to speak, your mouth dry, full of cotton. The sudden fit of wheezing doesn’t help either as your lungs take over the desperate attempt to regain some oxygen.

The burning in your shoulder should knock some sense into you, but you are unable to look away. Green eyes as if darkened emeralds. You never noticed before. You have never been this close.

“Are you alright?” The voice, strong and alluring, reaches down to you.

There was always this chance. You knew the risk, but you ventured here anyways. Daily, living and reliving this moment. Sometimes stopping to talk, other times running past, but you never lingered, you never strayed, you never gave in for fear of losing your tenuous grasp on life. You were never this close.

In your mind, you repeat your mantra, your salve to moments like these. You know in the beginning was logos. You know in the beginning was, you? You know in the end will be you. Knowledge is you, but do you have the right to restrain death? Does anyone have the right to bend the order of things even if they can? Knowledge has no end. Shouldn’t you? The mantra stalls. You realize single, disparate moments aren’t a life. A life is continuity, a life is moments connected, not a drop of rain, but a river. So easy to get swept away. It would be so easy to live, even if it meant death.

Then you speak, and you forget.

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Reviews for “The Human Quotient” 7 May 2016, 6:56 pm

I submitted The Human Quotient to a writing competition at Inkitt.com and received some incredible reviews that I wanted to share.

Read the Reviews Here: http://www.inkitt.com/stories/16155/reviews?ref=v_5b9d32fb-ee6a-4c55-b68a-5030f96bbec7

As always, thank you for reading my works.

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When a Bullet Strikes the Rain 22 Jun 2014, 11:30 am

Vanishing, one following the next
Eyes squint at the dark
Droplets sizzle with staccato
Speed equates to the sear
A path laced with intent

Quaking, she envisioning the casket
Finger flicks from the trigger
Fabric unweaves with requiescence
Choices lead to outcomes
Are all paths laced with intent

Shattering, both losing the memory
Air blasts from lungs
Skin rends without discourse
Pain asks what is between
What paths are not laced with intent

Hating, he admonishing the regret
Pistol falls from grip
Lead digs without remorse
Fragments dissolve to void
Intent pervades even after death

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Reading Recap: The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman 13 Mar 2014, 8:32 pm

So, I decided I might throw up one of these on occasion. Let the world know what I think of my reading explorations.

First, let’s give props where props are deserved. Published in 2008, The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman won numerous accolades including the British Carnegie Medal and the American Newbery Medal in children’s literature along with the Hugo Award and the Locus Award for Best Young Adult Book. The illustrations in the British children’s edition by Chris Riddell were shortlisted for the Kate Greenway Medal.

The artwork for the US edition by Dave McKean is stellar, but I have to say I prefer the British illustration by Chris Riddell on the cover to the right.

The Graveyard Book is a fantastical tale about a young boy who, as a toddler, ambles up to a graveyard after his family is brutally murdered, the killer close on his heels. The resident community of ghosts is stuck with a problem. Do they let the man Jack stalking the child finish his task or do they take in the child? Without much more than a moment to spare, they decide to raise him.

Two ghosts, Mr. and Mrs. Owens, gather the toddler into their arms, becoming his adoptive parents, while the rest of the community helps in other ways to raise and protect the child who decides to be called Nobody Owens. He takes on the nickname Bod Owens in his adventures, always on the cusp of the living but feeling more at home with the dead. Another man named Silas, who is neither dead nor alive, agrees to be the child’s guardian, willing to get him food and teach him the ways of the world. While he is away on business, Miss Lupescu takes over Silas’ duties as protector, teacher, and food supplier since Bod cannot leave the graveyard for fear of the murderer, who is still out to find him.

Each chapter presents a new challenge to Bod as he grows into a young man. We see glimpses of him when he is four, six, eight, ten, fourteen, and finally fifteen. These experiences are pivotal in his survival at the end of the book, learning, changing, and growing along the way. Even with such large gaps in time, the story comes back around at the end, with his childhood friend returning along with being discovered by the person who murdered his parents. Bod needs to remember all of his lessons in order to defeat this final threat. Even with the help of the community of ghosts who have taken him in as family, this is no easy endeavor.

The Graveyard Book carries you away into a magical world of ghouls, night-gaunts, werewolves, vampires, and ghosts set in modern-day England. Gaiman enlightens us with a fresh perspective on these ancient magical themes with The Lady on the Grey, the Hounds of God, the Honor Guard, The Sleer, and The Jack of All Trades. A riveting adventure reminiscent of The Jungle Book with a dark Neil Gaiman artistic flair. It will delight the imaginations of both adults and children alike.

Check it out on Bookshop: The Graveyard Book

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Jazz at 5AM 16 Oct 2013, 12:09 pm

I had fun relearning cursive for this one. Hope you enjoyed it. The text is below. 

Jazz at 5 AM

Creaking bones

These rusty hinges conjoined

Weighted down, this solid ground

Grinding another man’s toil

While ink dries in the pen

The muse withers and petrifies

Like a raisin misplaced on a darkened shelf

My appetite wanes

Under the pressure of banker gains

To find my feet

To relearn the intrepid burn

Repeat

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Assumptions Abound: Dialogue with Jose Rivera 10 Oct 2013, 9:14 am

Our dear friend Jose Rivera is well known in the theatre community and he’s earned that honor. Over the years he’s guided budding playwrights in their craft. After a decade or so he finally imparted to a wider audience some of his insights in “36 Assumptions About Writing.” Here in this little piece, I’ll pull Mr. Rivera into the realm of fiction, showing how some of his sagacity might be a little more universal than first perceived. First I will begin by presenting the assumption and then I’ll analyze it. Let’s take a look.

“Good playwrighting is a collaboration between your many selves. The more multiple your personalities, the further, wider, and deeper, you might be able to go.”

Who hasn’t heard an author talk about their characters like real people or mention how they were thrown off the chair when such and such character surprised them as if their dreamy little hero walked right out of the page? Humor aside, there’s merit to the insane. If you can see life when wearing multiple hats and employ a little of the crazy, as writers of fiction writers our adventures into fictional truth are bound to be more fruitful.

“There’s no time limit to writing plays. Think of playwriting as a lile-long apprenticeship. Imagine you may have your best ideas on your deathbed.”

Now this one is a bit obvious, but well worth mentioning for the simple fact of how hasty artists can get. You don’t need to publish your New York Times Bestseller yesterday. Allow your craft to cultivate is the lesson I take from this.

Abbreviated version: “Write…to play God.”

Who doesn’t want to be God as in with a capital G? I do and I’m a professing Christian (with a pagan twist, but we’ll not get into that). Think of it this way, you’re omniscent, omnipotent, you’re the Creator of your world. Play with it, see it fall, cry out loud, live in your realm, and through the delights of your mind may all your readers see their world as it truly is.

“Embrace your writer’s block. It’s nature’s way of preserving trees and your reputation. Listen to it and try to understand its source. Often writer’s block happens because somewhere in your work you’ve lied to yourself and your subconscious won’t let you go any further until you’ve gone back, erased the lie, stated the truth and started over.”

How beautiful this is. I might take Mr. Rivera’s advice directly, choosing to plow through and deal with the wreckage later, but he sums up the dreaded impasse most writers are faced with at one point or another. I tend to jot down a little note in the margins of the offending section with “fix this crap later” or “why the hell did I write this,” and then I move on. Of course my method leaves an ever growing pile of trash to clean up later, but it keeps me going, which I find to be half the battle.

“Form follows function. Strive to reflect the content of the play in the form of the play.”

I love this one. It is probably the most useful and difficult of Mr. Rivera’s advice. I translate form into tense, point of view, sequencing, theme, word choice, and sentence variance. Now take all that and cater it to the specifics of a single work to help reveal its particular truths. Take for example the story of a fast-pace western about a gay love affair between a gunslinger’s unrequited love of his childhood best friend now turned arch rival and mayor of a prominent southern town leading a team to hunt him down for a strings of murders. To me, this piece demands brevity, tight POV, and maybe a bit of crude language for spice. Sure this might be outside your stylistic comfort zone, but if truth demands this form then at least consider it, for the sake of your characters. By the way, don’t steal the gunslinger story. I think I’m going to write it.

This fake dialogue with Mr. Rivera has a lot more wind, but to save you the feeling of a lecture I suggest taking extra time with assumptions number 23, 28, 31 (Faulkner demanded a shoutout), 32, etc. You get the point. Last suggestion and then I’ll shut up, do this excercise with every idea Rivera makes that causes you to pause. Explore the conecpt to see how it connects to your art. You might just get a bit of insight of your own and in the least the original point will stick in your head better.

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Honored as An Advocate for the Arts 26 Feb 2013, 5:26 pm

I recently was contacted by the Long Island Council for the Arts in Freeport to be honored for an annual event. They are recognizing people for their work as advocates in the arts. In all honesty, I was a bit shocked and disbelieving, but all said and done I’m going to the event, which is at Adelphi University on March 13th.

The organization helps promote the arts throughout Long Island and somehow my name appeared when they were selecting potential candidates. I’m humbled to receive this honor and if anyone can go you can purchase tickets below.

Purchase Tickets / Donate to the Arts Council | Long Island Council for the Arts in Freeport

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I Believe 23 Feb 2013, 5:42 pm

Water of night
Ever bright
Glimmering iridescent
With vague dreams
Of heavenly seas

Ever bright
Splendid lights
See into me
Without fear
I weep

Splendid lights
What a sight
Simmering hope
With eternal thoughts
Of fragrant thee

What a sight
Serene height
Tepid heart
Without doubt
I believe

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Fly Catcher’s Children 17 Feb 2013, 3:00 pm

Arieth glanced each way up the road to check for cars. All clear. Now or never, she told herself. With a deep breath, she inched her way towards the door of the Fly Catcher’s shop, her small frame shivering in her tightly buttoned peacoat, only partly due to the autumn chill. She blew a rogue strand of her curly red hair from her eyes. Why did she forget her hat again? Can’t remember everything.

The shop was an unobtrusive place, nestled between a barber shop and an art gallery, having no windows, just a single aged sign, made of brass lettering, faded as if the hand of polish had not given it sheen for many a year. Her friends waved her on. She knew she shouldn’t go. Just last week, Missy came screaming from the shop, babbling without sense.

The Fly Catcher might eat flies, but Arieth refused to let that stop her. As best as she could, she read out loud the words on the sign overhanging the door. “M-u-s-i-c S-h-o-p.” Strange. She never thought of the Fly Catcher as a music man. Her father also loved music and was always singing what he called his favorite notes, usually low ones, which reminded her of a train passing by. It made her giggle. She wondered what kind of music the Fly Catcher liked.

She reached the old wooden door, a deep red with floral carvings running along its trim and a mighty brass doorknob faded with age. As she grabbed the knob, it was cold to the touch. She couldn’t contain a squeal, but she twisted it anyways, allowing the door to creak open. She had to step back as a dim orange light flickered from within.

“Hello?” Arieth called. No immediate answer followed and she glanced over her shoulder at her friends who made faces coaxing her on. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and stepped into the shop. Exhaling she opened her eyes, her heart beating with the rhythm of her accomplishment and sudden terror. The Fly Catcher was standing directly in front of her. She didn’t know how he got there, but sure as her grandma liked her tea steeping hot, there he was. His large dusty apron hung loose over a wispy frame, while he chomped on an empty smoke pipe.

“Welcome to my shop, little one.” The Fly Catcher walked behind a counter set against the right side of the shop. “Well, what are you looking for? We have about every kind of instrument you might want.”

Her eyes caught a long slender box on the countertop, the gold lettering glinting in the dim light of a single swinging bulb overhead.

“It’s OK. Indulge yourself.” The Fly Catcher winked and motioned for her to pick up the musical instrument, gesturing with his pipe, clearly more of a chew toy than a fine tobacco reservoir.

Arieth felt a large lump, much like the nasty turnip her mom tried to make her eat yesterday, get stuck in her throat. “What’s indulge?”

“Well, umm, it means feel free to take a look. Open it if you like.”

Arieth tilted her head up so she saw level with the counter and narrowed her eyebrows at the long wooden box. Why couldn’t she just grow up so things weren’t so hard to reach, especially the cookies at her granny’s house. She lifted the lid of the box. Her hands shook. Wait till her friends hear about this. Not only did she see the Fly Catcher, she opened one of his boxes. The place was full of them, propped against walls, stacked on top of each other, in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Inside this one lay a long ivory tube with holes running down its shaft. Arieth never saw anything like it before. “It’s beautiful. What does it do, Mr. Fly Catcher?”

The old man closed the lid. “It tells the songs of the wind, little one.” The Fly Catcher’s pipe bobbed in his mouth as if to emphasize each word. “It catches the air like my hands catch flies.”

Arieth’s worst fears might come true. He mentioned eating flies. She could feel the sweat build in-between her toes and even trickle down her back from the nape of her neck. She was going to die. The sight of the old man eating a fly just might finish her off. Eternal torment, insanity, or simply death by shock, any of these might happen. If she had the choice, she would go with insanity. Insane people might be crazy, but they always appeared happy, at least in the movies. All of a sudden she heard buzzing from behind her. She squealed as panic struck her. Please don’t let it be a fly!

Then Arieth saw it. The tiny black dot spiraled above her towards the Fly Catcher. She wanted to scream. To tell the fly to go away. To try and grab it herself, but her fear kept her in place and just as she was able to start and lift her arm the Fly Catcher sprung. He snatched the tiny black dot out of the air, his long fingers clamping, clasping the fly with speed unbecoming of his age.

Arieth’s eyes fixed on the widening grin of the Fly Catcher and the fear building in her. Without a word, the old man tossed the fly in his mouth with a chomp, the pipe quivering with each crunch.

She squealed, unable to contain herself. “Ewwh.” She stumbled back a few steps, her green eyes stuck open. She heard the tales but never believed them. He really eats flies! In that dreadful moment, more than anything she wanted to vomit, but for some reason, it intrigued her as well even as bile crawled up her throat.

She slapped a hand to her mouth in a useless attempt to stopper the terror rising from her gut.

The Fly Catcher finished chewing and swallowed dramatically.

“Why did you eat it?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I said so.” Arieth saw her mom use this tactic many times before on herself and figured she might as well give it a shot here.

“Fair enough. In truth, hearing you squeal makes you even cuter than you already are. I used to have grandkids, you and your friends remind me of them…but that was a long time ago. Nothing to concern you.”

“My older brother said your family died in a fire.” Silence answers her, and Arieth wondered if she said something she shouldn’t have. Her mom always told her she spoke too soon. “Did I hurt your feelings, Mr. Fly Catcher? Sorry if I did, but you shouldn’t have murdered the fly. It’s mean.”

The old man chuckled, the furrow in his brow softening. “So that’s what you kids call me. Well, it fits I guess. Don’t worry about me. This old man is tough. Besides, I didn’t actually eat the fly.” He holds up a closed fist and opened it. A small black dot leapt into the air and buzzed around them to disappear just as quickly out the front door. “Our little secret. Promise?”

“Promise.” She felt better already.

“Why didn’t you run away like all the other kids when I ate the fly.”

“I couldn’t. Something stuck my feet to the floor. I think it was because I was scared.”

“Of me?” The old man’s smile dimmed as he spoke.

“No, not at all, Mr. Fly Catcher. No, it’s just eating flies…well it’s gross and scary I guess. What if they bit you from the inside or lay eggs! Then you’ll have a full family of flies buzzing around inside you. My granny told me flies lay eggs. I’ve never seen them, but I’ve seen chicken eggs! Blue ones too. You know not all eggs are white.”

“I’m sure they’re not. I can tell you’re a smart little girl.” Fly Catcher chomped on his pipe, staring passed Arieth as if lost in his head. Seeming satisfied after a moment of this, he put his hands on the counter and gave Arieth a hard look. “You know what…for your bravery you I’ll give you one of my instruments or some other gift. It’s not everyday I get such interesting visitors in my shop.” Behind the wrinkled mask of a face, the Fly Catcher squinted, scratching the fresh white stubble of a mid-morning beard. “For this…what did you call me again?”

“Mr. Fly Catcher.”

“Yes, yes, this old fly catcher might have something for such heroism. Hmm, let’s see, what do I have that could fit such an occasion? Love letters written from a rock to a pond? No too solid. A vial of snake hiccups. Too jumpy. Wait! I know. Feathered walrus tooth! Not sure if any of that fits. What do you think little one?”

Arieth’s nose twitched, not really getting what he just said.

“No, I guess not.” Rubbing his scalp, he parsed his lips as if struggling to think. “There was something perfect, but I just don’t seem to remember what it was. Wait! I got it! Do you want something with magic?”

“Magic! Ya, like Harry Potter!” Arieth rose on her tiptoes.

“More or less. I feel like I hit the mark with you then. So you’re a reader. I bit young for those books, aren’t you? You can’t be more than 8.”

“Seven and a quarter actually. Watched the movies, but my brother is halfway through the books and as soon as dad lets me, I’m going to read them too.”

“Well, I hope so. Reading will do good things for you. Now, let’s see what I have here. I believe I owe you something, for courage and all.” Scratching his scalp, the Fly Catcher bent down and rummaged through a hidden shelf behind the counter, out of Arieth’s sight.

She strained to see what he searched for, but all she caught a glimpse of was his balding head. Yet, somehow she was drawn to the first instrument he placed on the counter before her.

The Fly Catcher stood, using the counter to straighten, his back obviously not much help. “I can’t seem to find anything.”

Arieth pointed at the long wooden tube. “What about this one?”

A large grin cracked the Fly Catcher’s wizened features. “And are you sure this is what you want?”

She nodded, her eyes sparkling with expectation.

“Oh, all right. You may have it.”

Arieth grins. Man her friends are going to be sooooo jealous. “I can have it?”

He puts his hand on the slender box. “If you can answer one question for me, it’s all yours.” The old man winked down at her encouragingly.

“But, you said it was mine. Why do I have to answer a stupid question?”

“Good things never come easy. If you got the instrument too easily you wouldn’t like it as much.”

“I don’t believe you.” Arieth put her fists on her hips, ready for a fight.

“You don’t have to. It’s how it is. Both of them that is. The part about getting things easily and the fact you have to answer a question. Ready, to answer up?”

Arieth crunched her nose and parsed her lips, but finally conceded with a disgruntled nod. “OK.” She puts on her best serious expression, stern and powerful like her father while rigid and commanding like her mother or at least she made a great show of it. “If I’m going to answer your question you have to be square with me.”

“What does that mean?”

“Man, you’re so old. It means you have to agree to what I’m about to say. Now, as I was about to explain, if I answer your question I get both the instrument and the magic. My dad always told me ‘make sure you get all that is promised, otherwise, a promise isn’t a promise at all.’ So you better not be messing with me, Mr. Fly Catcher.” She held out her hand, which he accepted. “Agreed?”

“Agreed. Strong girl you are. Good trait. Don’t lose it.” The Fly Catcher chomped on his pipe three times. “Do you know why your father told you that?”

Now Arieth put on her thinking face. She tried to raise her left eyebrow like the Fly Catcher, but only got it to quiver a bit. While trying to put on a believable thinking face, it took so much effort she forgot to think.

“Umm, you OK?”

“Ya, just thinking.”

“You know you don’t have to scrunch up your face like that to think.”

“You do.”

“Really, most interesting. Now, what were we saying?”

“You asked about dad and making promises. This is a tough question.”

“That’s good. Then you’ll like this instrument even better.”

“I still don’t believe you, but I think dad wanted to keep me safe. He meant..in order to trust someone you had to know what they wanted and check to make sure they completed the bargain. Dad’s pretty smart.”

“And right he is. Now for my question.”

“Wait I just answered a question.”

“That wasn’t THE question though. Now stop interrupting. Here it is. Where does the flute get its magic?”

“I don’t know, maybe it was made with phoenix feathers and dragon blood.

“You watch too much Harry Potter. Try again.”

“Well, maybe it just is. The flute says it’s magical and I can read so I would know these things.” Arieth pointed at the elegant gold letters along the dark wood case. “See, m-a-g-i-c f-l-u-t-e. Now can I have it?”

“No, you need to answer the question first.”

“I don’t like this.”

“A lot of things in life you won’t like, but if you want something bad enough it won’t matter. I’ll give you a clue, but only because I like you. Not sure why you’re a bit stubborn and all. Actually, the magic is somewhere else. And you already have it. Mind you, the flute is magical, but only if the person who plays it puts the magic into it.”

“Are you saying I’m the source of the magic?”

“Pretty much.” The Fly Catcher opened the box and tapped his finger against the flute’s polished ivory surface. “We, little one, are the magic, not the flute.”

Not getting what the Fly Catcher says, Arieth clenched her fists into balls, digging into her palms with her nails. She hated being wrong. “Where can I find my magic then? I don’t believe you! I can’t have any magic. I don’t fly and I can’t make things move with my brain and and…I don’t even have a wand.”

“Calm down, it’s all right.” The Fly Catcher nudged the flute towards her. “You answered enough questions. Thank you. Besides, don’t fret. You have magic already. You just have to find it. Cheer up, little one, and don’t you let a single tear fall on my dusty floor or I’ll make you clean it.”

This horrified Arieth. The floor was really dirty and she needed to be home soon. Mom expected her for lunch in probably an hour. She nodded letting the Fly Catcher know she would prevent any tear from hitting his floor.

The old man pointed at her with one of his long wrinkled fingers. “You want to know how to create magic, then you have to ask yourself, are you alive?”

“Of course, what a silly question, Mr. Fly Catcher. I think little Fred is right you are a bit loony.”

The old man gave her a sideways grin. “In that, he’s probably correct. If you’re alive how did that happen?”

“Mommy told me God made me, but dad says him and mommy had a hand in it also.”

“All three correct. So how did God and your parents make you if not by magic?”

“Wait! Mom and dad can do magic?”

“Of a sort. Yup.”

“I’m totally going to talk to dad about this. I can’t believe he never told me.”

“How do I make magic then?” Arieth was even more convinced the old Fly Catcher was a loon, but she also started to like him, even if he was a bit crazy.

“That’s the easy part. All you have to do is create.”

“Create what? I can’t make magic.”

“Don’t fret, you can create. When you blow into the magic flute you create music or if you danced you would create joy and beauty for those who watch. You have the perfect source of magical inspiration all around you. You have creation itself. It’s in the flowers and the wind, in the dust and your skin. Even though you cannot create a flower, you can paint the image of one, the thought, the feel, the touch, the taste of one. The life around us helps to create. You could paint a breathtaking landscape or discover the deepest knowledge of the furthest star. Even to discover how something works is to create. You create the knowledge in your mind when you learn it. Don’t forget that, little one. You must create. And if you do, you’ll see the magic of the world around you as well as in you.” He chomped his pipe a bit more, his face lit with wonder and glee. “You can create magic. All you have to do is live. What you do with your magic is what’s important, not whether or not you have it, because you always will. You don’t have a choice in that. It can never leave you. So now I ask you, little one, do you have eyes?”

Confused Arieth bobs her chin up and down, not sure what the Fly Catcher was asking.

“Do you have a voice, hands, and feet to dance with?”

“Yes, but I can’t dance.”

“That doesn’t matter. You will if you want to. What’s important is that you have the ability to dance! Why you don’t even need feet. I’m sure you would find a way. These things, your eyes, hands, feet, voice, mind, and more are all instruments of magic. They are tools with which you can create magic. Much like the flute here.” The Fly Catcher stared down at her, his bushy brows drawn low over twinkling eyes. “So, what are you going to do?”

Arieth wiped away a tear with the back of her hand and smiled shyly, taking extra care to not let a drop hit the dirty floor. “I-I want to make magic. Bright magic. I don’t like the dark. It scares me.”

“No need to worry. With a bit of practice, you’ll be able to brighten any room with your magic.”

“Thanks, Mr. Fly Catcher.”

“You’re welcome, little one.  Now take your magic and your flute and be gone with you before I eat a fly for real this time!” The old man snatched at the air.

Arieth squealed, grabbed her flute, and ran out of the shop, but not before waving at the old man on the way out.

He nibbled on the stem of his pipe. Another one down. He watched her run over to her friends, tell them about her amazing story of the Fly Catcher and how she got the magic flute. From that day on the Fly Catcher became friends of all the kids in town, helping them learn music and even on occasion catching a fly, but never eating one.

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Wisteria Needs 25 Jan 2013, 5:53 pm

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK, Ann, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do I have much of a choice?”

“Mom, you can’t think like that…Well anyways, I hear Jim coming downstairs, I need to get the kids ready.”

“Taking them to the zoo again?”

“No, Annie has ballet. It’s strange…but life somehow still goes on.”

“It has to dear.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.” Liz held the receiver long after her daughter’s voice clicked off as if she yearned to find another sound within the soft static of the empty line. Noticing the absurdity of what she was doing, she quickly hung up the phone. Two weeks since Jack passed, and she felt very little. She knew a deep sorrow welled inside of her, but she couldn’t seem to foment her loss.

Basic facts of life she knew must be indulged, such as eating, sleeping, and even her daily pleasures, now vacant acts of remembrance. Still early in the morning, Liz made herself two eggs, a piece of toast, which she burnt on purpose, and a cup of black coffee brewed twice strong. Sitting at her kitchen table, she attempted to do what might be considered normal and eat, but she held her eyes on a circle stain across from her where Jack’s coffee always sat. The stain stood out to her. It irritated her, much like Jack used to. She missed it.

His death seemed so fresh, unreal while the hectic flurry of hospice, relatives, and friends like a white squall crashed down on her life and disappeared just as quickly, leaving her ship a mess. She felt rudderless and devoid of emotion she gave everything of herself, making sure everyone was comfortable, all the while averting her eyes from Jack’s fading body. She couldn’t help but feel whittled down to the bone, vacant of any desire.

The burnt toast hurt her teeth. She stabbed the yolk of her sunny-side-up eggs and watched the embryonic yellow sack spill across her plate to be soaked up by the blackened toast. A sip of the coffee caused her to gag. She hated the stuff. How did Jack stand it? She took another sip and winced. God, it was disgusting. Another drink. She burned the tip of her tongue. “Shit.” She never swore what had gotten into her. With her finger, she turned the cup in a circle watching the black liquid swirl.

Not accustomed to the caffeine jitters, she felt her blood quicken and her eyes widen. She liked what the oil-like drink did to her and drank some more, forcing herself not to spit the shit out. There she goes swearing again. At least it wasn’t out loud. “Shit.” She giggled. Something about swearing made her feel free, untamed, like the young lassies she used to scorn in school, partying and the like.

She glanced at her calendar, she was supposed to play poker with the girls, the pretend kind with crackers mind you, at one o’clock today. Two hours. “Shit.” She better get ready, summer’s best and all that. The girls could be so catty if her makeup wasn’t just right, besides it was her month to host the party.

She took to her feet and forced in a deep breath. “Get yourself together Liz. You’re the host.” Halfway up the stairs to go and change, she stopped. None of them called. Not Nancy, Dorothy, Kathy. Not even Wendy. Her friends. Suddenly, breathing was difficult. Her lungs tightened and her chest ached. She rubbed her shoulder and winced, her heart throbbing under her hand.
Liz left the house out the back. The morning chill clung to her face carried on the light dew, remnant from a dreary night. Her prized garden was overgrown with weeds. None of her flowers survived the neglect of the past few months. She felt at fault, negligent, like a mother who leaves her infant in the car, only to return and discover her baby dead. The yard was desolate, wild, untamed, overtaken with all she wished to keep at bay.

Tears dropped from her eyes, catching the bottom rim of her glasses. Grandma glasses her granddaughter called them. Little Annie said they were ‘cool,’ and that she especially liked that they were purple. Liz didn’t know anything about that, but thinking of Annie made her feel a little better.

Liz caught sight of the only color in her garden, why she didn’t notice before eluded her. The wisteria vines she bought and planted just before Jack was diagnosed overgrew all of the back fence as well as a large portion of the side of her house. Long strips of vibrant purple flowers bloomed from the aggressive vines. Something about the plant gave her great joy. At least something in her life, even in neglect thrived

At that moment she decided to do something crazy and the smile affixed to her face, true and genuine as it was, refused to fade. She got in her car and drove to the local nursery where she bought all their wisteria seeds. She then went to three other places and emptied them as well. She felt on a mission.

Liz drove home.

The girls were at her door knocking, all dolled up as if for a grand event.

She parked on the front lawn, their cars filled the driveway and she didn’t feel like using the street. They stared at her as if she just fell from the sky. Her disheveled appearance probably didn’t help.

“Lizzy, what are you doing?” Wendy pretended everything was normal, a plastic smile etched into her plastic face.

Liz gathered up her seeds and stuffed them into a purple backpack. She would have to get Annie another one. “I’m going planting in the city.”’

“What? But, the game.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you want to play.” This time it was Nancy who spoke with her shrill voice.

“No. I’m going into the city.”

The four of them didn’t speak, appearing as if physically struck. Finally, Wendy says something. “But, you hate the city.”

“I did. I won’t anymore though. I have this wisteria to plant.” Liz turned to leave and then stopped. “Oh, and by the way, you’re all a bunch of shits for not calling me.” She left, her smile cemented, a regular fixture in her life.

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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The Judah Mahay, Author App is Here! 7 Oct 2012, 11:28 am

Explore the fantastical fiction, poetry, and musings of Judah Mahay in this free smartphone app.

We feature a new running podcast as well entitled Aroph Short Stories, where I narrate a selection of stories from emerging writers and classical tales of Arthur and Robin Hood.

Bored on the subway? Fall into another world for a few minutes. You know you want to.

Feature List:

1. Native Android and iPhone apps.
2. Listen to the Aroph Short Stories Podcast Series.
3. Mobile App at http://app.judahmahay.com friendly with iPhones, Windows Phones, and Blackberry.
4. Read a handful of quick short stories and poems on the fly.
5. Track Judah’s blog posts to keep in the in.
6. Easily send him messages or questions.
7. Keep up on his Twitter, Facebook, and Instagrams. Who doesn’t tweet after all.
8. Track any news about his travels and publications.
9. Be totally awesome by downloading his app.

Please let Judah know what you think of his app and if you have any suggestions using the comments section below.

http://app.judahmahay.com

Direct Links: Android | Amazon | iTunes

For those of you who are interested, I used Como.com to take care of all the coding in my app development.

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Splintered Glass of Mind 13 Mar 2011, 12:50 am

Splintered glass of mind
Shattered mine
Memories like quicksilver slip from my thoughts
Playfully dancing in pools of words
It dares to reflect, my painful game
So to learn that which brings
A bit of cohesion
Memory of me
It melds this mirror of my mind
What is it that I own that is mine
That which was
That which is
That which will
None shall be
Nor shall I recall
Most when they think before they are
They smile or cry at the glimmer of past
Mine is none to find
Vague hints of a life

Splintered glass of mind
Forever mine
It gives no fear
It gives no tear
It gives no recourse
This is not mine
I am not your seer
I have someone else’s mind
Even as I speak
Of this I lie
But feel it all the same
Thus what was
Empty of
This splintered glass of mind
That of mine

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Watermill Grimoire Project 14 Feb 2011, 2:44 am

In January of 2010, I was blessed to be selected by an internationally acclaimed group of artists including Robert Wilson for a residency at the Watermill Center. The New York Foundation for the Arts through the East End Arts Council provided me with a grant, which made the residency possible. To date I’ve posted a series of vignettes about the characters. The Watermill Center was also kind enough to create a video and photo gallery of the event which closed out my residency.

Documentation

Watermill’s Event Page | Character Vignettes | My Photo Gallery | Watermill’s Photo Gallery | Event Video

Location:
The Watermill Center
39 Watermill Towd Road
Water Mill, New York 11976 USA
(631) 726-4628
http://www.watermillcenter.org

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Watermill Grimoire Video 11 Feb 2011, 7:50 pm

The Watermill Center presented the work of the Spring season’s first artist-in-residence, the American writer Judah Mahay on January 30, 2010. Over the course of two weeks, with support from the East End Arts Council, Mahay created The Watermill Grimoire, a short fairy tale about artifacts from the Watermill Center. For the public showing of his work, Mahay lead a tour of the Center, read from his story and discussed the Watermill Collection’s objects that have inspired it. This video is an excerpt of the public presentation on January 30, 2010 filmed and edited by Carlos Soto.

Judah Mahay | The Watermill Grimoire | January 30, 2010 from Watermill Center.

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Gift of a Soul 20 Jul 2010, 10:40 am

Alfred gingerly squeezed his granddaughter’s shoulder, a hollow assurance, he knew. “The hour is old and yet this wretched siege still bays its horn.”

“When is it going to end, Grandpa?”

“Soon I think.”

“Really?” Elsa perked up with a bright smile, a contrast to the dark hour.

“Do not let joy win your heart yet.”

“Why?”

“We are losing.”

“Should we pray, Grandpa?”

“It’s past the time for prayer.”

“But, isn’t that what you do?”

“Not anymore.” Somehow, he knew, an instinct playing a discordant tune against his heart. Tonight, the walls would fall. The realization confirmed Alfred’s certainty, his granddaughter would see death. He just hoped death would not see her. Lilly clutched the hem of his woolen jacket, reminding him of how she held her mother’s scarf as if it could replace the parents she lost.

“Grandpa, what will happen if the fighting comes here?”

“Terrible things. It’s war, you need only know that.” What would a man give to save his only blood? Alfred didn’t know what he could do, but he would do all he could bear. His son and daughter-in-law deserved the sacrifice. He owed them.

Down his cobbled street, lantern poles cast shadows in accord with a vivid moon, the light cutting across the mill of frightened people. The spectacle convinced him how futile it would be to seek refuge in the city center. He grimaced, disgusted at the foolhardy of his neighbors plying their way to a vane hope, possessions clipping their heels and slowing their steps. “Fools.”

“What, Grandpa?”

“Nothing. Let’s get inside.” The edge of his oak door pinched between his aged fingers. He pulled the frame open with a scrape of wood on stone eased by the dew.

“I don’t like it here. It isn’t cold, but the air still makes me shiver.” Lilly took a couple small steps backwards into their house, the front of her pink dress bunched in her fists. A warm glow from a single lantern flickered from behind her, casting her shadow in a dark sway at her feet.

“Neither do I.” The door creaked mournfully as he began to close it, pausing at the distant howl of a horn. One blast, then two, and finally three, the horn blew. He shivered, old bones and all. “Lilly, run upstairs and…”

“What was that sound?” She cut him off, her usual demanding approach to discovering what she didn’t understand.

“It doesn’t matter. We might be able to exit the southern gate.” Alfred closed the heavy door and dropped the latch with a clang. It wouldn’t do much, but it might give them a few seconds. “Now run upstairs and grab the pack you use for picnics and fill it with clothes and everything you can’t leave behind.”
“Are we not coming back?”

“No we’re not.”

“Where are we going?”

“Remember my friend Mildred?”

“Yes, she makes great soup!”

“She does. Well, we are going to sneak out the castle and head up the eastern road till we get to her village.”

“But, won’t that take awhile?”

“It will. A couple of days probably, but not of concern. Now no more questions, go!”

Her face paled with shock, she spun and ran up the steps to her small room.

Alfred felt bad for yelling at her, but haste or the lack thereof was deadly. A scream came from outside. His neighbors would have to take care of themselves. Ignoring it as best as he could, he shuffled through the house as best as he could, his limbs tender to the rigid movements forced on them.

A banging on the door drew his attention, and he grabbed the nearest item he could use as a weapon, procuring a poker from the fireplace across the room. The banging didn’t stop and someone yelled on the other side of the door, but he couldn’t make out what they said. Sweat streaked down his cheek as he moved the distance to the door. “Who is it?”

Lilly came running back downstairs. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry yourself. Go back upstairs.”

“But…”

The banging continued and Lilly hadn’t moved. “Go! Stay upstairs till I call you. Now go!”

She sprinted up the stairs.

He placed his ear to the frame, and the voice became discernible.

“Let me in you old fool.”

“What?”

“I said let me in.”

“No. Who are you?”

“You really are getting senile, I’m your next-door neighbor, Henry. Unlock the door!”

Alfred snorted. “You’re not coming in.” He didn’t trust Henry a bit, and besides, the man smelled of dusty books.

“Have it your way. I just wanted to tell you the southern gate is blocked. There is no way out of the city. Messengers are running down the street, saying the city has surrendered and all citizens are to go to the Central Square.”

Alfred almost spit, but refrained, thinking of Lilly. He stopped a lot of things since his granddaughter moved in. “Of course! They would want us in one big circle. Easier to kill us. Henry, don’t tell me you’re following this foolhardy? You were smarter than most of the lot around here.”

“What choice do I have? It is better than running around like a cat and dog, before I get cut down. I would rather take a little chance of survival than none at all. They say we’re going to become citizens of the Empire. As long as they leave us in a peace I’m fine with that. You must go. You have to think of Lilly. Give her a chance!”

“Foolishness.” Alfred shuffled from the door, effectively muffling Henry’s pleas. He went about his packing, trying to figure out another way out of the city. Within a few minutes, the man outside ceased his banter. Lilly inched down the stairs. Alfred lifted his left eyebrow in question.

“The man outside stopped yelling and you didn’t say I could come down so I thought I would check and see if it is alright.”

“Hmmph.”

“Can I come down, grandpa?”

“I don’t see your pack, so the answer is no.”

She darted up the stairs, ebony curls dancing behind her.

“Change into something better for traveling!” Alfred tossed his jacket in the corner, walked to his desk, and pulled back his chair to sit, banging his knee in the process. It knocked him off balance. He teetered, grasping for the chair before he fell. The world spun. He tried to break his fall with his arms, but then he knew he would need his hands more than any part of his body, and he let his hip take the brunt of the fall while his shoulder the rest. Pain erupted in his side, and his vision went black.

When he opened his eyes, Lilly sat beside him, but he couldn’t hear her. Finally, his hearing returned, and he noticed tears stretched like long lines down her face. “What has got you all a fluster?”

“You were on the floor, and and I was worried and I don’t know what to do.”

“Hush yourself. Now help me into my chair.”

She tucked her small frame under his shoulder pushed up with her legs, while he grabbed the edge of the desk. With a bit of grunting, Alfred sat upright in his chair, left out of breath. His granddaughter crumbled at his feet, exhausted. A pain walked along his chest. At first he worried it might be his heart giving out, but he quickly realized it brooded deeper, beyond his physical ailments. He gave Lilly his hand, pulling her to her feet. A fresh stab of pain in his side drew his attention. He couldn’t walk and even sitting in place hurt.

“What now, grandpa?”

Alfred had no idea. “Do you have your pack with you?”

“Yes.” She held out a small satchel with a stuffed doll sticking out of a corner.

“You remember the picnics we used to go on?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I want you to gather all the food we normally take on a picnic and stuff it into your bag.”

“But grandpa, there’s no more room in my bag.”

Another jolt of pain shot through his side, and he suppressed a wince. He didn’t want to frighten Lilly and so waited a moment to regain his bearings. “You’ll have to take some out. Be quick about it and go!”

She ran around the steps into the kitchen without arguing.

Alfred exhaled a sigh of relief. Now to figure out how to save her. He dug into his desk, opening drawers and threw everything about him in such haste it seemed like a waterfall of paper, quills, ink bottles, and more cascaded over his shoulders. He withdrew an old piece of parchment wrapped around a copper tube and almost tossed it aside before an itch of a memory made him stop. He laughed, a deep chuckle escaped unbidden from his chapped lips. He knew the idea was absurd, but it felt right, much like he used to feel after hearing good news he had prayed for coming true. It was an outrageous project he spent a number of years working on, while never quite getting it right. Eventually, he had set it aside for later speculation and must have forgotten it.

Unrolling the parchment revealed scribbled notes along the edge of an intricately sketched tube with the purpose of transforming time into fire. It would transfer the prayers of the wielder into a burning luminance of a desired shape by shortening the time it would take for the prayer to come true and filtering it through the device as a fiery projection. Originally, he hoped it would become a holy relic, a tool of immense power to smite evil, along with blessing him with praise from his fellow clergy.

Alfred set the parchment on the table and held the instrument in his hands, the cold metal chilling his sweaty palms. The chill reminded him of death. He shivered. Could he get it to work? The light could only enter from one point, where it was supposed to exit, a magnifying lens he procured from a rare spyglass. The device would be easy to wield, even Lilly, with her small hands, could use it.

A strategy for escape built in his head, hinging on the device, as a smile creased his lips. Once the bulk of the army passed their house, Lilly could slip out and leave the city, using the device to fend off straggling soldiers. Then she could head north to the country village of Hampsteep, which has skirted most of the fighting. But, how to get the light into the tube?

“Grandpa, I was able to get food in the pack.”

Alfred hadn’t seen her come back in the room. “That’s good. What did you take?” The doll still stuck out of the bag, but with more of it exposed.
“The rest of the loaf of bread we got from the baker yesterday, a small block of cheese, two apples, a small sack of rice, and a couple carrots.”
Some of Alfred’s concern eased due to his surprise at how much she was able to pack. “Well done. Now Lilly, I need you to do one more thing.”

“Sure, grandpa.”

“Run into my bedroom and in the closet you will find my coffer. Can you get it for me?”

“Why do you need it?”

“Because, we’ll need the money for our trip.”

“Alright.” Lilly gave a quick nod of satisfaction and darted across the room, slipping into the door to the left.

Returning to his desk, he opened the device, pride swelled his chest, the inner mechanism was more intricate than he remembered. He even designed a miniature grinding stone to spark, which created small flashes of light, but not to the effect he hoped. He adjusted the gears to leave room for a final instrument, as to what he didn’t yet know. The rolling thump of countless footsteps echoed up the street towards their house. He hoped the soldiers passed them unnoticed. Where was Lilly? She should have been back with the box. After a quick inspection, he saw a lump in the curtain of the window next to the door. “Lilly get away from there! We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

She backed away, stumbled, fell, and lost her grip on the box, which spilled its contents on the floor in a wild spray of letters, trinkets, and jewelry. Lilly’s face was ashen, and her mouth opened and closed in a slow motion, much like a dying fish out of water.

“Lilly! Come here, come here.” Alfred knew if he left the chair, he might not be able to get back up. But, his granddaughter laid on the floor, shaking and terrified as if the life already drained out of her. Alfred dumped out the contents of a box and put the device inside it, set it on the floor, and shoved it in Lilly’s direction. He then tried to inch himself towards the floor using his right hand to grab the edge of the desk, but as soon as his full weight pulled on his arm, he collapsed and struck the floor on his injured side. Shock splintered his vision, and pain quickened his pulse. He thought he heard a thudding sound, it could have been the sound of him hitting the ground or someone striking the door. He ignored it, forcing his eyes to narrow on Lilly. A whimper release from her lips, the only sound so far and not one to ease his worry.

Alfred dragged his pain-wracked frame towards her, pushing the box in front of him as he scattered trinkets, dashed on the floor earlier. Something wet oozed down his leg, but he dared not look. He must get to Lilly. Pulling himself the last few spaced, he reached her side. He let a hand rest on her small quaking shoulder. “Lilly, it is grandpa. Don’t worry I’m here. I need you to look up at me, please.”

After a moment, she lifted her eyes, smeared with the wetness of fear. “You don’t know, grandpa, you don’t know what they did…what they are doing.”

“It’s alright, don’t think about it. I want you to concentrate on something. Clear your mind for now. Think on…think on…” Alfred searched both around him and in his thoughts for a suggestion to help his granddaughter deal with her grief. Then he saw what he needed on the floor. A small trinket, full of meaning and history, a ring, old in its design, passed down to him, then to his son, his son to his daughter-in-law and back to him. He couldn’t explain how it would make the device work. Maybe, because it symbolized an unanswered prayer, which went dark with the death of his child. He just knew it would bring the weapon to life, a gut feeling, which turned his innards like a mortar and pestle, grinding the herbs for an unique and rare elixir. The golden ring glowed from a deep green emerald intricately mounted as its centerpiece. With a bit of biting and bending, he was able to get the gem out. “Now Lilly, this was your mother’s. I was going to give it to you on your birthday, but now…just consider it an early present.”

She grabbed at it, but Alfred snatched it behind the closed fist of his wrinkled fingers.

“No, I want you to imagine it. Capture its image in your mind. Close your eyes. Do you see it?”

She nodded her head.

“Good. Now take that terrible memory and place it inside the jewel for safe keeping so you don’t have to think about it till you’re ready. Now open your eyes. Better?”

She hesitated, but finally responded in a pale whisper. “Yes.”

Banging sounded at the door, followed by yelling.

Alfred opened up the device, took the system of gears, fixed the gem to one end, and inserted it into the tube. The banging on the door increased.
“Grandpa, they’re coming!”

He closed the tube. Nothing happened. Lilly stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. It must work. He shook it, but still no light. The door started to crack at the hinges.

“Grandpa!”

“It must work!” Alfred prayed and prayed, pouring himself into the device. Then something caught as if an invisible force from inside the weapon latched onto him. He opened his eyes, and to his amazement, a flicker of green light appeared inside the lens. He closed his eyes prayed some more, and it grabbed on him as if it took a part of his spirit and filtered it into the light. His energy drained and his head spun, but to his amazement and delight the device projected a long green blade of light curved at the tip shining like the rays of a foreign moon. It reminding him of the sword he had seen at the Grand Temple Hall during his inauguration into the priesthood. “Now Lilly, put on your pack, take this weapon and leave the city. If anyone tries to hurt you point this at them, pray, and it will glow so bright it will scare them away.”

“What if they don’t run?”

“Then swing it at them and they wont be able to hurt you.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. Run to your aunt’s house in Hampsteep and you’ll be safe.”

“But what about you grandpa? I can’t leave without you.”

The pounding changed to splintering thunks as the assailants used sharper tools to breach the door.

Alfred didn’t know how to answer her. He couldn’t move, and he was afraid she wouldn’t leave as long as he was here. “I’ll be with you, but…inside in this.” He dreaded the thought, but he saw no other option.

“How?” Tears fell down her face, dark curls matted to her cheeks.

“Just…trust me. Feel inside this device and you will find…”

The door crashed open, splinters of wood flying over their heads as two men stumbled in, swords gleaming in an eerie green light. Alfred prayed. He prayed with such devotion his soul seemed to cringe in pain as the nature of his being fought his very will. He had never been so intent in all his life, so driven with purpose. Letting his whole being fall into it, he gave his soul to the device. He felt no pain, only a sense of losing oneself, of melding or becoming something else. He heard a distant voice.

“What do we have here?” The soldiers laughed to each other. Alfred couldn’t discern their actions, but anger built in him, cudgeled by the men’s arrogance and his granddaughter’s danger.

Green brilliance, screams of pain, and the soft padding of small feet were all Alfred knew. He could see very little, but he moved. He heard a soft voice calling to him, yet he couldn’t make out the words. It’s as if life became a dream. Fear oozed into him like oil over clear water. He was trapped in a boundless world with only a verdant radiance for companionship. Then, a soothing warmth slaked his panic. It was Lilly. Somehow, she was able to reach him with her thoughts.

Alfred didn’t understand what was being said, but he did know she was safe. He had become the device, scorching luminance, the weapon to her salvation, and death had not seen her, nor shall it.

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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The Sacrosanct 13 Jul 2010, 11:28 am

Cardinal sins of the divine
Cannot force the benign
Even with teardrops dry
Echoes of vain remorse
Celestine words chiseled with despair

Calamity of the soul unveiled
Plagues the sanctity of the sacrosanct

The shrine inspires no hope
The water pure no more
The pulpit shakes and cracks
The pews laden with dust
The chorus forgotten
The pipes frozen
The children defiled
The church reviled

Calamity of the soul unveiled
Celestine words chiseled with despair
Echoes of vain remorse
Even with teardrops dry
Cannot force the benign
Cardinal sins masked as divine

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Soul Fairy 9 Jun 2010, 10:26 am

You wish to feel
You wish to be
You wish for everything
Then pay the fee
Broke you say
Not a penny or a dime
You have a soul
Then rich you are to me

You wish to feel
You wish to be
You wish for everything
Then pay the fee
A little soul for me
Tickles the lips
Sweet sweet soul from you to me
You will have everything

You wish to feel
You wish to be
You wish for everything
Then pay the fee
What you give unto me
I give unto you
Tasty and sweet
Your soul to me

You wish to feel
You wish to be
You wish for everything
Then pay the fee
Do you not know of me
Funny is the fee
You never see
But always need
The bit of soul in me

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Coffee to Soothe the Flame 27 Apr 2010, 11:14 pm

Laughter, with hints of youthful vile and ignorance, echoed down her alley, a path brimmed with stench and decay, hacked into a hidden alcove in the Chelsea District. This great New York City, not a comfort, was still her home.  Cassandra lifted her eyes at the hollow sound, her long lashes barely concealed her red-rimmed gaze, not an emotional plight, but a daily toil. Her pulse sped, urging her to flee. The dim light of the gibbous moon caused her to squint as she measured the intent of a band of teenage boys. Their pale blue shadows stretched towards her like ethereal hands, clawing a trail around the refuge of her home.

Momentary silence and her mind drifted. “Where did I put that change?” Cassandra tossed a plastic Kool-Aid bottle to her left and peeked inside a broken TV, poking at its innards with gloved fingers. Her misty breath obscured her vision, making the quest all the more difficult, a product of a particularly cold winter. The street lamp feebly scattered the night, offering little help. It seemed the TV would produce no treasure today, perhaps tomorrow.
    

The shadow-cut alley whistled. The chill bit making her think of a dog bite, but with ice for teeth. She wiggled her toes in tattered boots to improve circulation. A scarf needed to be garnered soon, before winter’s minions tightened their tiny grips. Maybe a cup of coffee too. Yes, she liked the idea of that. Coffee to soothe her rigid fingers and brittle tongue.

The laughter ignited once more, splaying a cacophonous tune in her direction. Cassandra winced. Ignoring it as best as she could, Cassandra snatched what she hoped to be a weapon, but instead procured her lucky Pepsi bottle.

When it jingled under her grip, her tension evaporated, left behind by the excitement of finding her savings. The laughter continued, but she gave it no heed, intent on her meager wealth. Over the last couple of months, she scavenged the lost, forgotten, and discarded to procure this jingling hoard. She pulled the crumbled plastic used as a makeshift stopper out of the mouth of the bottle and dropped the coins into her left hand. “Two pennies, one dime, eight quarters, and four dollar coins.” Pride split the premature wrinkles of her face into a smile. Beauty still lingered under the tarnished matte of her sun-scorched skin, but none cared to notice nor would she want them to. If her counting skills still proved competent, she had earned enough to attempt her escape plan once more. Placing each coin in her Pepsi bottle one at a time so she might count them again, she dreamed of her plans to break loose from the clutches of poverty’s cloying grasp.

Daily, Cassandra made herself forget where she hid the coins just in case the boys came back. She never remembered the specifics from their visits. The lingering aftereffects painted a vivid enough picture for her to ascertain what happened. The wretched vermin stole all her money, usually crushed her lucky bottle, and left her with bruises as a keepsake. They didn’t exclusively come to see her, having overheard a few of the others speak of it. Somehow, knowing she shared the experiences made it better, like she participated in a secretive community of the tormented. It was one of the ways she dealt with the beatings. Besides, they weren’t even boys. They were rats, nothing more, vile creatures with bottomless eyes, never with a glint of empathy. They didn’t see her as human and she didn’t see them as human. A fair trade, she thought.

They approached, shoving aside piles of refuge in their way. Deep shadows cut the edge of hard jawlines, which could be construed as handsome or even beautiful to some if it didn’t expose the twisted grins smeared across their vile faces. A tingle crawled up her calves and along her spine as they got nearer. She slipped the bottle inside her trench-coat. If she threw the TV at them, their ugly grins would stop menacing her. A smile sweetened her lips. Last week she crushed a rat in a similar way, the memory providing a pleasing comparison of tiny rat boys squeaking underfoot as she dropped the TV on them. No more vermin, big or small.

Cassandra sneered and spat at their feet. “Hey Billy, how are you and your rats doing?”

***

“I’m going to throw out the coffee. Do you want me to save a cup to bring to that homeless girl?”

“No, I’m too busy. I need to get something faxed before I go home.” Jen finished filling the ketchup dispenser and then handed the bottle over the counter to her coworker Gayle. The sun lazily drooped in the sky. It glimmered through the windows of her work, a limpid cage of daily economic dependence.  She only had an hour at most before the sunset. It felt weird finishing work with the sky darkened like she lost the day before it began. Besides, she felt guilty. This morning she rushed and didn’t visit her homeless friend. The beggar woman seemed bat crazy, but she wanted to do the right thing. Something to do with karma, she was sure.

Fighting against her resolve to always be happy, the day burrowed a nice ache in her back. She forced a smile and bent down to get napkins from the cabinet at her feet when a flash of pain rattled up her spine. She grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from falling and bit off a squeal.

“Jen, you OK?”

“I’m fine.” Jen waved Lisa away. It could have been worse. It had been worse in the past.

“I just need a moment…to let the pain pass.”

“You should really consider retiring. You’ve worked here how many years now?”

“Fifteen, but I want to wait a few more years.” Jen lengthened her spine gingerly with her left hand supporting the small of her back and the fingertips of her right hand preparing to use the counter again. “To help my pension along and such.” That wasn’t the real reason, but it suited most people. She liked her work, even if she hated the customers. This was her social life, her only life. It beat reading trashy romance novels. On most days at least.

A group of boys shouldered open the doors, letting their cocky laughter spill into the restaurant. Jen thought she recognized one of them as Billy Galliard, the son of the drunkard football coach for the local high school team. The father beat his son bloody in a parking lot after a lost game. The police found him drunk in a bar that night and threw him in jail. The boy spent the next few days in the hospital. It made headlines in the local paper.

She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. “…five minutes before we close,” she mumbled under her breath. As the boys approached, she slapped a plastic smile on her face and began the prerecorded greeting logged in her head. If she got out of work soon enough maybe she would bring the beggar a cup of coffee after all. She needed something to make herself feel better and it might assuage her guilty conscience for forgetting this morning.

***

Billy melded into the couch as the TV blurred in front of him and the afternoon sun cut hazy rays across his dingy living room. A McDonald’s bag and its moldy inhabitants sat next to him. Earlier in the day, he skipped school and ran home, it took him an hour of feet slapping against pavement, but he didn’t care. It gave him time to think. He knew he should have stayed, it was the right thing to do. He grew tired of the moral banter flung at him daily. It seemed every step of his life he must measure, calculate. He was smart and he knew it. He figured out the best choice without someone’s unwanted input weighing him down.

He spent so much time reading, he never spent any time living. That realization caused him to create the Rebellion, a group of friends who did everything in opposition to society and the norm. He figured if they, his group, did everything wrong they would understand what it meant to be wrong and would then be able to make decisions based on reality, not pointless theory or archaic tradition.

When he hung with the Rebellion, he felt more alive. They could do anything. No one could stop them, and if they did, he accepted the consequences whatever they panned out to be. Life was immediate and clear. Action and consequence, experience and result. The simplicity of it made him laugh, not caring who overheard. He laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.

He couldn’t believe at one point he followed the oppressive traditions of right and wrong, the old prodding beast. The moldy shape of its archaic form held little appeal to the lively youth of the Rebellion. He noticed the time displayed on the flickering jabber of the Fox news channel and his pulse sped up. Fifteen minutes and the rest of the crew finished school for the day. He wondered what they would do. Each day reared its head differently, some grimacing with pain, some licking ice cream off its lips, and some bearing its fangs. He did his best to lead, but things always took a more organic turn. “In the moment,” he called it when recollecting such events. “You get lost, separated in a way as if you’re not there; you’re not really the one doing it, which makes it so easy.” Talking to himself should be a warning sign for some mental impairment, but he couldn’t think of a better person to understand him than himself.

Billy stood, stretched, and ran out the door, leaving the TV to flicker behind him with tirades of the communists and the radical decline of our culture.

He didn’t slow as he worked his way to the daily meeting spot. He ran by a woman in a business suit, most likely walking back from work, he grimaced and she ignored him. He hated Suits. Money grubbing pigs, nothing human about them. His stomach rumbled and he remembered he hadn’t eaten today. The Rebellion should snag a bite to eat before going on the prowl. Besides, he liked the older clerk, she reminded him of his grandmother, the only worthwhile human in existence.

***

Cassandra’s sneer was answered with a fist slammed into her stomach. The air blasted out of her lungs and before the pain could grip her voice someone kicked her in the face. Her vision blackened and the world spun. Her shoulder pressed against the cold pavement, blood dribbled over her lips. She spat a piece of tooth and pushed herself up on her elbows. The boys were getting rougher than usual.

“Can’t you put up a fight?”

She tried to stand. They never let her. Cassandra did her best to kick, bite, scratch, claw, and scream, but it only invigorated their efforts. They taunted her as if they wanted her to win. Some of them cheered her on.

“She hit the ground again, but this time they paused as she laid on the ground, the sharp pain in her ribs forced her to wheeze to catch a breath, and aches racked everywhere else, one of the boys got a grand idea in his head, which started an argument. She didn’t care what bothered them. “Rats!”

“What did you say, bitch?”

“Cut it. We had our fun, let’s go.”

“Rats.” Cassandra repeated with barely a whisper.

“Ya, whatever, I always knew you were pathetic, Billy.” The boy raised his hands in question. “What, our big leader wussing out?”

“What are you doing?”

Tighter, Cassandra curled into a ball to lessen the pain or make the rats forget her. She hugged her knees to her chest, but it did little to assuage the fear and pain building in her chest.
    “Stop it!” The voice was the one they called Billy.

At first she thought they were urinating on her as a wet stream coated her face. Cassandra licked her bloody lips. It lacked the salty tang she expected, being bitter instead like vinegar or liquor. She spat and frantically wiped her face, but the substance wouldn’t come off. The boys started yelling at each other. It looked like Billy walked away and kicked a trash can, but it might have been someone else.

A bright flash of orange light engulfed her vision, licking her with a molten tongue. She screamed. It seared into her skin, her eyes, her clothes, and her mouth, like being dragged naked over coals. Her flesh peeled away and her heart quickened with vain attempts of perseverance. The fire hurt, the fire ate, the fire was. She didn’t know anything else. Her mind had become the pain and the pain was the fire. She could no longer scream, see, or even breathe.

Then the agony faded, her mind momentarily cleared. She thought of days picnicking with her mom, of nights eating ice cream with her father at the local dairy shop, of early mornings with over-easy eggs and pancakes with too much syrup, and so much more. She remembered it all and nothing. She knew where she was, but also knew she wasn’t there. She saw the irony, even as her last vestiges of thought faded into the after. Like sipping coffee in the chill of winter, the heat consumed her. At least she wouldn’t be cold. She found her long-awaited respite.

If you enjoyed this work, please leave a comment below and/or share this with your friends. It will help me immensely. Thank you for taking the time to read my art.

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Watermill Residency Gallery 12 Feb 2010, 4:41 pm

Below is photo documentation of my January 2010 artist residency at the Watermill Center, where I worked on a collection of stories called the Watermill Grimoire.

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Arhat 11 Feb 2010, 1:57 am

Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project.

“Welcome to the Archive. I am Arhatta, but if it suits you call me Arhat.” Stillness kept the calm soothed, stillness of my heart, untouched by calamity, vice, or vitality. Death not kin, but rebirth conquered by the brahmacarya, by the culmination of life. “I have peace, I have harmony with all things, and with the upward twist of my lips the world shall know me through my visage. For I am neither what I was nor what I am. I am the visage. I am Lohan, the Arhatta.”

“You will begin to know us. We are the Archive. We each have our tale. For I, Arhatta, have known the age of mongols, when the Yuan Dynasty shun, and when the Ming Dynasty prevailed over them, until its iron will was brought to the blade by the hardened hands, which tilled their soil.” My story is long and words can only mire the mirth of my nirvana. Know me in thoughts or do not know me at all. Words leave to petty banter the unchecked heart, which frolics like the puppy nipping at an imagined butterfly.

Think on this in your thoughts, but not in your words. Stillness. Think on honor, for we attain it not by our deeds or what we achieve, but by what people give unto us. Honor is a golden prize which weighs down your brahmacarya. I received the name Arahan, worthy one, but they always read the absent words. Foe destroyer, they whispered. I’m neither worthy nor destroyer. I am the visage. Being worthy is subjective to world you live in. I no longer worry on such things. I am worthy of everything and nothing, for I no longer live.

Namo Tassa Bhagavato, Arahato, Samma-sammbuddhassa—Homage to him, the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the perfectly enlightened Buddha. “We are what we seek. I sought mirth, I am mirth.”

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King Bamci 10 Feb 2010, 1:53 am

Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project.

My palace has fallen, my subjects gone, but my family is with me. At least I have solace. I was from the Singa Raja Palace. I was King, I am King, but with no throne. “Call me Bamci.” He scratched his shoulder, his eyebrows turned inward with annoyance, the never-ending kind. “Sorry it itches. It always itches.” He stole a glance upwards and smiled at the ceiling above. “At least I need not fear more of the white bombs from the sky.”

Bamci went silent as if confused or lost, thinking on some minor thought. “The itching, it is so much at times it fuddles. Please sit and talk awhile.” Taking lead, Bamci sat cross-legged on his glass stand. “It’s not the most comfortable, but it suits my needs. I’ve come to…respect what little I have. Where was I? Yes, you are correct, I was speaking on my kingship. It was a splendid palace, as all palaces should be, in the grand country of Indonesia. I spent a good four hundred years there before my travels took me here.”

A bit of green dust brushed from his knee, Bamci leaned forward and rested his elbow against his leg, and with his hand cupping his chin. Regal some would say, with the gentle glaze of the indifferent eye. If it wasn’t for the decay of his bronze skin, one might believe his foolish pose. “Those were good days, but we have cheerful company now. The Archive suits me and my wife Rajni, and the skies can no longer spit their venom. Oh, what I would do for a cloth.”

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Cikopich 9 Feb 2010, 1:48 am

Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project.

“Ha, I escaped the flame and the bity ity tatanua floats away. No harm to me. The soul whispers death to ears. I’m Cik.” Rattling in place, as he shifted from foot to foot on the paved floor, Cik broadened his smile to a splendid row of teeth.

“I’ve many things to do. I’m with the Archive you see. I’m Cik. Nice to meet you. You ask what I do or where I’m from. Ha, I care not what brought me here. I’m warrior, Guardian Against the Flame. I control the Sacred Red Box. No flame can lick, our flesh unscorched.”

These questions flicked in Cik’s thoughts, his purpose intact and his heart juddering confidence. The hateful flame held no will over him, as long as he watched the Sacred Red Box. It was his duty, and as a warrior of the Malagan and now a member of the Archive, to be steadfast in his resolve to prevent the fiery from consuming them all. “Tick or tack, I’ll quench the evil if it dares to come. Tick or tack. Flame a petty thing as long as Cik be near.”

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Ana Deo 8 Feb 2010, 1:45 am

Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project.

We are united, we are one. We are neither nor the either. We are the tutelar, we are the ana deo, the ancestral pair. We speak as one, without loss of the other. We are one.

Our home, off on misty shores, broods in our mind, thinking upon how fair they fare without us. We used to guard and protect the house of spirits, the heda. We lived at the greatest heights, not in flight or size, but in other things of much more concern.

You may not understand this, for we are one, and neither are we whole or together, but we still stand as the bars to a land so holy. As we stood barring the entrance to such a great house of spirit, we stand still vigilant till the day time test our will, and we become one in dust together. If only we didn’t now guard a wall, at least give us a closet a corner or even a lamp, but still we stand, always vigilant. No evil shall pass, no evil shall harm the holy wall we protect. For holy it is, for why else would be stand so still so long? Forever, till dust brings us together.

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