Relentless the tide that brings men ashore. Continue reading “Relentless Tide”
There’s a certain stench that accompanies stagnant water. Waters that have risen and fallen with the same stretch of green floating across the top. With the same moss hanging off the trees. With the same plants rooted in the muck. There’s a certain stench to swamp water—waters that don’t churn very often.
And the stench is horrendous.
I claws up, into your nose, whether you like it or not, and it tends to linger long after you’ve left the swamp. In the smell, you can sense the old age of the water, the different types of mold that creeps along tree roots, the green muck that adorns the backs of the gators you pass by—their beady eyes lit up in the light of my lamp, glowing like dying coals.
Swamps, to put it nicely, are disgusting. Places to go and stay stagnant. Places to be when one wants to smell what dying is like. Places that have nothing new to offer.
Places that hold old, old waters.
And the old beasts that come with them.
I remember heaven.
I remember the glory that reigned there. The peace of it all. I remember being so fulfilled that I thought about nothing. Wanted nothing. Needed nothing. I remember sitting in the mouth of heaven, laughing for no reason at all, other than to let some of the light out of my soul.
I remember hearing it.
I remember heaven.
And I remember heaven cracking.
Remember hearing you calling me.
I remember the moment I remembered that I used to be alive. That I used to have a life. That there were people I loved and respected.
I remembered, then, that I used to have you.
That I left you.
And I remember a voice gently calling me. Asking me if I wanted to try something.
Just for a little while. Just for you.
I remember the day heaven let me go—just for a day, mind you—just so I could visit.
So I could comfort you. Continue reading “Time’s Loss”
They say he means death.
That seeing him ends your life. Or means that you’re going to die very, very soon. If you can hear his gallop, or can see his silhouette, it’s best if you get your affairs in order.
That’s what I’ve heard.
The tales they’ve always told about the black horse. The one that vanishes before dawn. He has no rider, and they say its because he’s only an omen. Only a warning.
He comes back later, they say.
Rider on his back.
And, guess who they say his rider is.
Guess who they say he belongs to.
I can feel you blinding me.
Brilliant, bright light. White against my eyes. Draining the color from the world, eating away the perspective. It seeps, that fluorescence, dragging my vision out from behind my eyelids. Merciless, as you try to disarm me. As you try to cripple me. As you try to force me to yield.
As you force me to face the light.
You suck the color out of everything.
You know that, right?
It’s harrowing, what you do. Pointless.
I’d much rather have washed out colors than this. Rather have nothing—have total darkness, because at least darkness can have variation. At least you can adjust to darkness.
This complete white-out though…
A dull, pale void.
Don’t you think?
I know why you do it.
To desensitize me.
At least, you try.
I think that, in the end, it does the exact opposite of what you intend it to do. Rather than let it wash over me—bleed me out, make me blinding as the sun, blinding as you are—I cling tighter to my shadows. Grip tightening around the dark.
When you combat me with that vivid, piercing light, I don’t give in. Not an inch.
I fight back. Continue reading “Wash Out”
For a while, I believed I was forgotten. That my skill and my hammer and my forge were all lost, somewhere beyond myths and legends. Dark in the minds of man. For a while, I believed that they’d stopped telling the tale. Stopped speaking of my works. For a while, I thought I’d never have another visitor.
And then, he showed up.
And when he walked into my forge, he knew where he was going. What he was doing. I realized then that it wasn’t a matter of being forgotten, but, rather, a matter of being feared.
Why else would you memorize a land not of your own?
For the sake of keeping your head, yes?
As he approached my forge, his eyes shifted around the room. Cataloguing everything in sight. Ready for something to pounce, to jump at him. To make an attempt on his life.
He walked into my forge—my home—fearful.
Determined, and yet:
Very much afraid.
At least they’ve got that much right.
My works are nothing to scoff at. My hands building only the finest of beasts. My forge brutal, a fire that shows no mercy.
Mercy makes for weak metal, anyway.
For making creatures that are not-quite-so-mythical beasts.
There is no room for a cool fire.
Not in my forge.
He walked in, afraid, and yet…
He knew exactly what he wanted.
Though I don’t think he realized what kind of hell I’d have to make first, in order for him to get it.
Foolish mortals. Continue reading “Rise Again”
“And? What did you end up telling him?”
“Hmm? The merchant?”
“Yes! What did you end up telling him?”
I was desperate to know.
Lorent smiled at me, taking a sip from his goblet—gold glinting wickedly off his irises as he took his time.
He sipped, and he grinned. Wicked, like a sidhe cat, before he spoke. Continue reading “No Fool”
There is a tale I’ve heard told about an ancient king. Glendower, the Raven King. He sleeps in the forest somewhere, or so I’ve heard. Waiting for the waker—waiting to join us, the living, once again. Somewhere, Glendower sleeps, dreaming of the day he will be woken. Eager to walk through his lands once again.
Eager to grant the waker a wish.
That’s the tale I’ve heard told.
The tale of The Raven King.
A magical king. A wish-granter. A sleeper whose quiet breaths are full of life.
I’ve heard the tale of that king. Heard it several times, actually.
There’s more to the story than what there appears.
You see, I believe that something isn’t adding up.
There are… things… that can’t be explained by that tale.
Things that we, the listeners, have screwed up.
Things that we got wrong. Continue reading “King of Crows”
Fog coated the ground, oozing from some unseen place. Skirting along our feet as it snaked its way over the dead, dry ground. Souring the earth further with its muggy breath, leaving a chill to nip at my spine as leisurely as it pleased.
I hated it.
Honestly, I did.
You could hear something in the air. Whispering to you. Or maybe it was something yelling. Screaming. I couldn’t be sure. It was just a whimper of a sound, nothing more. Skating by my ear so quickly, so quietly, that I couldn’t be sure what it was.
It sounded pained.
The trees here were decrepit. Creepy. All gnarled, knobby branches. Naked and lifeless. Dragging their twigs across the air like tiny, desperate, old hands. Clawing their way out of the bark—
It was eerie.
Very eerie, indeed.
At my remark, The Master scoffed. His glowing purple eyes were hard to decipher usually, but, in that moment, I saw something clearly within them.
“If you find this eerie, you’re going to want to stop now. There isn’t a single thing about what I do that isn’t eerie, creepy, or grotesque. You might as well quit while you’re ahead.”
Instead, I straightened my shoulders. Ignored the voices. Got a firmer grip on the bag I carried.
And followed The Master into The Grave. Continue reading “Faint of Heart”
For eons, we’ve been like this.
Striving for ways to go faster. To do things better. What used to take us centuries now only take a few minutes. With the help of our machines, we can speed things up. Skip through time. We can cheat the system. Grow crops in days. Cook food in seconds.
Reach the stars.
That’s what we were always clambering for. To be able to walk other planets. Rove through asteroid belts. Brush against the stars. Going fast—moving at the speed of light—that was the only way to achieve that.
And we did.
Centuries ago, we did.
And it wasn’t enough.
It’ll never be enough.
We always have to go faster.
Sometimes, I think it’d just be nice to…
Turn the power off.
Slow down a little.
Drift. Continue reading “Drift”