Archive for emotional

The Imposter Remembers

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2018 by beautifulimposter

The wind makes the tails of my coat snap, pennants whipping behind me. It moans, softly, but steady, a constant, drawn out exhalation, weary, grieved, the sound after the first sharpness of loss, when it’s become dull, familiar. The only other sound at all in the vast, flat emptiness is the hiss of dust, fine particles rubbing one over the other, small, but when multiplied by a billion billion times it becomes a delicate roaring, the terrible monotone of absolute desolation. The dust is red, fine as sand yet gritty and it stings my cheeks.

In every direction there is nothing, maybe the faintest trace of geography, the hint of a hill worn down, pressed into submission by Time’s heavy thumb, or the suggestion of a valley, but for the most part the land is a table beneath the perfect bowl of the sky. It is a nothingness made so much deeper when added to the knowledge of abscence, the ache of a festering within flesh that appears whole, the rememberence of a wound scabbed over, healed, but still present. There was something here once and it lingers in the hole it has left.

I know, right where I stand was a plaza, the architecture of it a wonder, stone and steel and living plants woven together, hung with lights, glistening with fountains that would lift up columns of air and water that caught the beams of lanterns and threw up jeweled fire into the night air. Beside me, a bench still holds the lover’s that sat, hands entwined in knotwork of love and flesh and bone, content to be each with each, watching the passers by but only with concern for one another. Children swirl around, have me spinning on my heels as they run, a school of bright fish flicking this way and that, laughing, mischievous, full of wonder and dreams and promise. I can look into a shopfront, see the makers at their trades, here haggling, there bent to their craft, one taking their meal with a spouse that brought it, another passing along the secrets held within a lifetime of callouses, failures, and successes. It was all here, and now it is gone. I see it still though, I must, there is not a thing I do not remember, not one since my eyes opened. Every single moment exists perfect and complete within my mind, drawing the was over the is, making a palimpsest, a double exposure that defines the emptiness and drags it across my memory like a razor.

I had no choice. If I had not acted, the one who came from Outside would have riven the entire universe, shaped it into what its vision thought it should be and all would have been undone, every life across billions of planets snuffed out. I tried to reason with it, tried words to steer it from its course but these failed. It was far too sure in its reason, built an impregnable fortress of certainty and righteousness. So I, being the guardian of The Real, sought to fight it. That, that was foolish. The power of it was vast and deep, so deep the well of it could crush you down just by the pressure of it being. Those inside do not change anything, not really. Magic, power, it can be used to make things happen, bound in patterns and spells, but reality itself remains the same as both hammer and nail remain fundamentally the same when applied one to the other. Their nature never changes. Those Outside though, with the power in them make things different, can simply make what is in their mind be and not only be but always have been, reweaving the threads of reality. It was a power I could not withstand.

We fought across the stars, across worlds, plunging through clouded nebulae, where it passed The Real screamed, tortured into new shapes, rent apart in ragged wounds I did my best to suture shut even as I fought back, striking with every charm or spell I could remember or devise, attempting to surround it with The Border as a body might do with a cyst, condoning off its infection, but it changed and shifted and slipped free. I know not how long we fought, time flowed in torrents, a gale of it whipping me, lashing and battering as I contended with The Outsider until at the last I was weary, wounded, a blackened rag flapping at its heels while it was undiminished, a titan that would pale Chronos, towering, invincible. It turned to me and in that moment, in its eyes I could see my undoing, but not just that, my cessation, the complete unwriting of me and everything that had ever been. I could see only one avenue, one small, desperate gleaming thread, so delicate that it might snap even by clinging to it. I knew what it would mean as it and I stood upon the curvature of the planet’s atmosphere, I knew the cost down to the penny, down to the last bright life just as I knew that if I did not act the price would rise too great to account for. In that last moment, as it turned to gloat in its triumph, I broke The Border.

The Unreal poured into The Real. The space around us boiled as nothing became something and then nothing again, endlessly, warping everything it touched, dissolving the rules, eating away at the is with the isn’t as a wave might eat a castle of sand upon the shore. It crashed into The Outsider and where it was became something else, twisting so rapidly even it could not hold onto itself and was undone. Alas, it did not stop there. The planet beneath us was tortured, racked by storms of madness, stone and seas and flesh melted, ran like wax, became something else but all of it, all of it dead. By the time I’d grasped the ragged seams of reality and knotted it back together all that remained was a planet shaped grave.

All of this I can see, as I stand on the planet’s surface, on what once had been stone, in the middle of what once had been a plaza in what once had been a living city, that had once been a part of a civilization that exists only in my memory of it. I come here every year to stand upon the red, red sands and remember them. They kept their history in one long song, each new thing, every discovery, every new event another verse. I learned it long, long ago and it still exists perfectly in my mind. So every year that has passed since then, millions of years before life would even be a contemplation for its nearest neighbor, I come, and I stand in the emptiness and let the wind bite at my coat and let the dried blood sting my cheeks and I sing. I sing the decades, the centuries, the rising and falling mingling with the dull ache of the moaning wind, I sing the life of a people that were beautiful and terrible as all other people save these where stalks mowed too soon leaving their field fallow and barren. Alone, I sing and remember, always, my purpose and my failure.

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The Romantic Imposter

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 26, 2018 by beautifulimposter

It is a fine evening, the sun making its way lazily through the deepening blue sky, gently kissing the line of the horizon. There’s some respite from the heat of the day but still, there is a haze in the air, a faint mist clinging to any bare skin. The air seems perfumed, like someone has just split open a ripe tangerine, a thick, sweet scent of flowers mingling with the usual aromas of cars and pavements and people. Yes, it is a fine evening indeed.

“I love you” the words are a sigh, the exhaling of a breath, quite, meant only for the ears of the loved. I brush past the couple, two women holding hands, one’s head resting lightly on the others shoulder as they stroll. I’m quite sure that neither would have noticed me even if I was apparent, even if I’d bowled clean into them. At best I would have been a momentary impediment to their closeness. I can see the threads, red as red as red winding between fingers, knotted and plaited in their hair, tied to lips and tongues and lashes. Not my work, no, the province of another, but I can appreciate the craftsmanship, the complexities of each tied to each, a web of words and touches.

I still along as I am wont to do, letting my eyes wander, following the strands. It seems a night for lovers, the streets cross crossed with fine weavings. A young lad stumbles, a girl laughs and just then a streak of crimson runs from her mouth to his heart. It may amount to nothing at all or it may give birth to a tapestry, but it is a beginning, a hint, a promising of expectation. Not all such seeds bear fruit, but I find the potential pregnant within them intoxicating. If nothing else after all, I am made of nothing but possible so it is my nature. I like to think I could have been a romantic.

Further on an old man is winding up the awning over his shop. His skin is pricked all over with threads, an explosion of crimson webbing him to his store, to the windows above it, to the stoop, the bustop down the way, if you follow them all they’ll touch upon the whole neighborhood in some fashion. The Legion Hall where they’d first danced, the old bench down by the park where they’d sat and held hands, fingers laced together like piano keys side by each. There’s one that flies over to ‘Nam where her letters had kept him less broken than some. One hanging above a mantle somewhere where she’d fought for them both, getting disowned in the process. All the places he and her had touched together, even the bare room where she became nothing more than a shape barely described beneath the sheets, her hand eggshell in his. Fifty six years of thread followed him as he shut up shop, thrumming beneath his skin, telegraph talking of the good and the bad and the inbetween. I can’t help but read it all, feeling a bit of the voyeur, but it makes me smile as I move through the growing evening.

It’s all beautiful in some way, I can’t help but feel it, even I, perpetually and very necessarily alone. Here and there I sneak a few stands into my pockets, they won’t be missed and are quite useful. My footsteps become a waltz, slowly turn and turn about, moved by such aching, beautiful love, all the strands of it being played by the gentle summer breeze. I sigh as well, soft and low, mingling with all the others.

The Imposter Who Did Not Slay A Dragon

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 15, 2018 by beautifulimposter

“Sh-sh-she l-l-left me!?!”
I find there is something inherently sympathetic when confronted by something so mighty expressing deep hurt and betrayal. I stood before the dragon, myself a splinter of dark cut out of the summer’s day, it vast, craggy, curled up around the prefabricated playground equipment, nearly, in fact, obscuring it from view. The long, lean muzzle of it lay forlorn upon its front claws and it was snivelling, all in all looking thoroughly wretched. Still, as I stood there before it, I must admit I was impressed. The scales of it glittered, hard, bright, rising into crests of horn, spurs of bone. Altogether, it was magnificent and terrible, a rare specimen indeed.
“Yes, well, they often do tend to do that I’m afraid.” I tried to sound conciliatory, which I truly am, after a fashion. These cases are always rather sad. All of the others born that afternoon, that had been strong enough, had already found their way into the Boarderlands. All the knights, the giant robots, the dinosaurs, the giant robots that were also dinosaurs, the wizards and witches, the herds of varicolored ponies, princesses, unicorns, the tumultuous, madcap horde of Makebelieves the children had imagined up were safely home. Those not so quite well dreamed had simply faded, disolving away the moment their children had been called home, leaving just the dragon.
The girl who’d imagined it up was only nine or ten, which actually made it all the more impressive. The imaginations of young children are indeed powerful, as most know, but they tend to be a bit unfocused. This girl had called up a truly awesome beast, no cartoonish Puff, but a juggernaut of air and fire and thunderous destruction. She’d stood so brilliantly atop the highest slide/castle tower, crowing in delight as her creation circled above her, the stiff, thick pigtails of her dark hair a crown, a valkyrie’s horned helm, triumphant, spurning all foes and would be rescuers in equal measure. So vividly had she dreamed, so fiercely, she would be one needing watching. That, however, would be for later. At this moment I was left with what to do with her titanic Makebelieve. The girl had drawn upon so much of the Unreal that the beast was straining at the edges of Real, at one point in her games the mighty wings so bruised the warm summer air the parents had craned their heads skyward, baffled, seeking telltale signs of thunderclouds that resolutely failed to be there. No, it was imperitive this one come with me, there was nothing else for it. Having a dejected, pouting dragon roaming about, throwing fits, menacing the suburbs, burning up things, or even people, could not be countenanced.
“D-d-do you think she’ll come back?” Such a voice! Generations have tried to recreate it, to vicalize it in the telling of tales, describe it in reams of text, cobble it together from wave forms and sound bytes for the silver screen, but they’ve never come close. How could you convey the roar of a predatory mountain, a hungering deep ocean of fire, the hurricane wings battering the winds into submission? You can’t, thats how, there is no imitating the real thing.
“I am sorry, but it is unlikely. They very rarely Makebelieve the same thing from day to day. Even if she did come back, she’d never dream exactly you again, it would be another.” I look deep into eyes the size of wagon wheels, so deep, so ancient, even just for an afternoon.
“It’s not fair, it’s just not!!!” The great wyrm rises, limbs thrusting upwards, neck a tower of scale and muscle, jaws dripping acid saliva and sharp teeth in equal measure. Great Gyre could that girl child dream! “I was good, I was fierce and mighty and I burned all the boys and princes and knights to cinders just like she wanted!!! I even gulped and devoured the ponies, even if I kind of thought they were pretty a bit!!! IT IS JUST NOT FAIR!!!” The wings extend with a huge, tearing sound, casting deep shade over the playground. Passing joggers peer incredulously at they’re watches as dusk seems to, against all reason, just snuck up on them.
“Very little ever is.” I keep my voice measured, calm. I could easily lose patience, but I always bear in mind that no matter the form, all Makebelieves are but children of hours. “It us the way of things, the children dream, they touch the Boarder with their vast, bright, unspoiled minds and they call you, beasts, faeries, wonders, and nightmares and they play with you until it’s suppertime, or bedtime, or time to do arithmetic. Then they go home, and you can too.”
“What if I don’t want to?” The massive head swoops downwards, thicket of teeth like spears parted, furnace breath sending my coattails dancing. “I am mighty you know” petulance now “I could stay if I liked and what could you do about it? It would not be hard to deal with you, you seem mostly ashes already little man-thing.” The voice is a cat cruel purr but even so could rattle bones into dust. “I could burn you, scatter you upon the winds of me, tear and bite and rend and stomp till there was even less nothing than you are now, I could!!!” The wings tear through the summer skies, rending the sleepy silence. It’s becoming harder to ignore. Actual people are teetering on the edge of believing and that is far too dangerous a precipice.
“No, you can’t” I say it matter of factly, casting it into the teeth of the wing wrought gale. Some believe in threats, some in bluster, others in flash or bombast, displays of naked power that would make professional effects artists weep. I find it best to just speak softly and let the power be felt, let it rise up from bootheels to forelock quietly, making a knot within, a valve holding back immense pressure. This usually drives the point home better than any ranting or ultimatum, just being me and perfectly aware of just what I can do. It has bedn my experience that very little can stand up to such certainty.
The dragon glares, angered, claws carving farmer’s field furrows deep into the rubber chip playground fake ground, roaring now, flames seething out from between clenched jaws, lifting slowly, gravity screaming in protest as several thousand tons of muscle, bone, and sinew rocket upwards. The head rears back, maw gaping, air rushing into lungs the size of small cars. With terrible speed it lashes forward, lunging towards me, eyes glinting in eager anticipation of the release of hellish, firey death…
“Ack….” The look of confusion upon its savage face is nearly amusing as not even a faintly warm breeze issues forth. “Why can’t I flame you?!?! Why is my fire not blasting the flesh from your bones?!?”
“I told you, you can’t, and I asked it not to.”
The beast collapses then with an ungraceful thump, dejected. Motorists passing the park stop, pull over, get out of their cars to check if they hit something or that there might have been, against all reason, a short, sharp earthquake. They’re alarmed, puzzeled, minds uneasy. This has gone on long enough, best to be done quickly.
“It’s not fair, it’s not fair, IT’S NOT FAIR!!”
“Again, no, it’s not, but there’s no point in blubbering about it, it’s unbecoming. Besides, if you keep this up you’ll drown the daisies with your tears.”
“But, but, but, I am mighty, I’m everything she wanted me to be…why doesn’t she love me anymore?” It curls up again, becoming small while staying the same size.
“She does love you, she loved you so well and so much that you were nearly Real, and that is a lot of love. The thing is, no matter how much they love us, the children will always leave us behind, it js their nature.” I run a consoling hand over its snout, the scales beneath my fingertips slick and hard. It sniffs some more, eyes shimmering, brimful. “At best they may remember us from time to time, but still, they will always leave none the less. You needn’t be alone though, if you just come along with me.”
“Where we’d be going…would there be knights?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure if it” at this the dragon perks up.
“And kings?” Slowly it gets to its feet. I begin walking away in my long strides, hands clasped behind my back, coattails fluttering and it follows.
“Certainly, can’t have one without the other.”
“And damsels in distress, maidens chained to rocks, villagers to strike terror into?” Its eagerness grows and I cannot help but smile as the falling evening of the Real is swallowed up by the twilight of the Boarderlands.
“I believe that can be arranged” I mean it too, there’s a patch of the Black Forest from 1125 lingering about that would be perfect. The dragon is nearly frisking along beside me, head level with mine, asking question upon question and so together, along the strange paths of my realm the dragon and I walk home.

Consequences

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 21, 2018 by beautifulimposter

Fitful light flickers about, defining shapes more from shadow than illumination. It wouldn’t matter much, as I’m well familiar with the landscape of an artist’s room, bare floorboards, paint chipped cupboards, a table with mixmatched legs, two lonely chairs, small, narrow bed with rumpled sheets. They never change much, perhaps the decorations a bit, but in all the centuries, for every one I’ve walked into, they’re all the same. Perhaps they come as a kit of some kind when you buy your brushes or first slab of clay.
What light that is cast shimmers over the artist’s skin, cold, coruscating flames writhing over bare shoulders, limning the line of the spine, seething upwards from the brows in a crown of colors unseen and undreamt of. The floor around his bare feet is littered with brushes, palette knives, crumpled rags, the shed detritus of creation, all of it showered in weird sparks raining from frenzied fingers scratching at canvas, piles and drifts of madness making it seem that he’s standing in a puddle of live coals. It is far too much, not right at all.
I approach slowly, looking over his shoulder. The canvas is a mire of brush strokes, cuts, finger slashes, the paint nearly an inch thick in places, layered, textured, water colors mixed with acrylics mixed with oils mixed now with thick, dark streaks of blood. His breath is labored, what May once have been a skinny but well sculpted chest is now a collapsing caricature of itself, rising and falling in paper bag rattles. Sweat gleams over taught skin, pale, almost waxen yet not, somehow less, like badly rendered tallow, rancid and running. He clearly can’t see any longer, not the canvas or the room at least, his eyes wide, the whites only nail pairing crescents around the edges of iris and pupil. This has been going on for days. I purse my lips, turning my eyes to follow his.
Lounging upon a rug, clothing discarded in a heap upon a third chair, completely nude glimmers a slim, perfect creature, long hair flowing in perfect summer honey cascades down rounded shoulders, narrow cheek bones sharp, alien, yet still beautiful, mouth set in a decadent pout. I shake my head, impatient, vexed, dealing with the fae is always a tedious task.
“Let him go” the words resound in the dim room, a clap of thunder within a space that over days has been accustomed only to scraps and breath.
“Why should I?” Petulance drips with every syllable. “He’s lovely, and so full of passion, so much beauty. He said he wanted to paint me, that he’d never been more inspired. I just gave him what he wanted” it doesn’t even look at me as it speaks, it’s lavender eyes looking adoringly upon the artist in the way only a predator can look upon its prey. My presence is at best a nuisance.
“I’m quite sure he would have balked more if he’d been aware of your price, but that’s entirely beside the point. You should not be here.”
“Why not? I am of the free folk, in high standing within my court, I shall do as I please, not heed the whinging of the doorman because I didn’t pay him mind, go back to your junkyard realm and leave us be, he’s got so much more to give” it purrs, stretching a languid arm out, fingers caressing the air as if running over the hollowed, fevered cheek of its “lover”. I can’t help but shudder.
“You crossed into The Real when it is not your season, The Rules are clear on this. If you don’t leave of your own will, I will have to take steps.”
It turns to me then, contempt etched upon its perfect face, lips turned upwards in a condescending sneer. “And what, pray tell, can you do ragged king? I know full well in your realm you may not be defied, but you are not in your realm now are you? You are here, in the mortal world and I am a Seelie lord in the fullness of my power.” It rises slowly, a new light, wild and green washes outward from it, lapping in waves onwards. It has a strong Glamour, making the Real shimmer and boil. I’m unimpressed, yawning slowly, pressing the back of my hand over my mouth. It reaches more deeply, tendrils of power lashing out, power that could rend a mind apart, have the target of it clawing out their eyes in adoration, or digging beneath their ribs to make a gift of their heart.
“Poor fool, get thee gone swiftly, your better gives you leave, tattered magpie, I fear you not!!!”. My coattails flutter out behind me, the force it exerts rising to a gale, blowing up strange shapes out of the dust. Everything to excess with them, the fair folk, no subtlety whatsoever. Rare that a member of Summer’s Court should be so cruel and rapacious, but no matter. I allow it to feel it’s triumph, for a moment at least, the threads of enchantment tugging at my clothes yet finding no purchase.
“Are you finished?” As I watch the expression change from arrogant gloating to incredulity I continue gathering The Boarderlands closer, seeping inward on soft feet. What most seem to forget whenever I’m called upon to fulfill my duty is that all a boarder is is a line between things. You can always just redraw the line wherever it’s needed, my realm is only ever a shadows thickness away. Whilst my Seelie was so full of his stolen passion and power, I was calling it towards me. It hadn’t even noticed the room changing, the walls falling away, replaced by brambles and Victorian lampposts and other oddities that could be perched upon. Since it seemed bent on resisting to the last, I feel its destruction should serve some useful purpose, and the brethren hadn’t feasted so well in a long time.
As the Real fades, they come, inky feathers whispering, alighting on branches, ruffs standing out stiff, gleaming blue black, silent save for a small croak here and there. Bead eyes all focused on the fae, now seeming small, it’s nakedness now painfully apparent, casting its glance about itself now, a cornered small animal within a tight ring of ravens and crows. It’s power lashes in fits, yet here, as my realm is neither here nor there, not the bright fields of Arcadia or the drab pavements of the mundane, the green tendrils fade into the smoke they always were. Skergaal, my seneschal alights upon my shoulder, bowing.
“You called us my lord?”
“Do what is needful, leave me two, but let the rest feed” I turn then, as Skergaal lifts from his perch, replaced one on either side by two others. I walk away with my hands clasped behind my back, unhurried, as the croaking grows louder, the suserous of feathers impatient.
“No, no, you cannot!!! I am a lord, you do not dare…no, please, please no!!!” One by one, The Murder lives up to its name, beaks and claws tearing as the brethren descend, eclipsing the bright, shining fae inside a clot of night that writhes and screams…the screams will go on for some time, and that part makes me smile a grim smile. I don’t kill often, nor with pleasure, but cruelty sometimes must be answered in kind. The shrieks echo away as I let The Boarder fade, rising back towards the artist’s rooms.
The poor boy is on his knees, weeping, hands dripping paint and blood, his hair limp in front of his eyes. Lost, broken, arms akimbo, fingers flexing in spasms, the discarded toy of a spoiled child. I kneel down, gently lifting his head, looking into his eyes, hoping, but not much. He had been ravaged so hard, if anything other than insanity looked back at me I’d be astonished. Yet, there, far in the back, a slim flicker, some remembrance of who and what he used to be before he was just a vessel to be drunk from. The crows hop from my shoulders to his lightly, dipping thier heads as if to whisper into either ear, yet their sharp beaks slide into his temples without resistance. Normally, when I gather to me my treasures, I never take the thing itself, just the form it impresses upon the never. This time though, it would be monstrous to leave him with these memories.
“You’ve been ill my boy, very ill indeed, a deep fever that’s left you weak, given you such foul dreams, but it is past now, the fever broken. You will mend, rest, be whole again soon.” As Memory and Thought do their work I lift him up, guide him to his bed. He’s frail, but will recover. I should have been more alert, perhaps I should spend less time on my hobbies, maybe I could have prevented any lasting damage. These violations seem to come more and more frequently, despite ancient treaties and Rules. A sign of the times perhaps.
I turn, taking in the canvas at last. Carved through the paint is a slim figure, once pale but now streaked with red, deep tissue purple, flesh hanging in rags, hanging from a thorn bush, formerly regal features twisted into a rictus, screaming agony forever. It has to be said, the boy has talent, it’s an incredible likeness. I take the painting, waste not, want not, and I stride back into The Boarderlands, leaving not a trace.

The Imposter Steps Out

Posted in Fun stuff, Poetry, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 18, 2018 by beautifulimposter

There are few times that The Rules permit my touching the mortal world in any appreciable fashion. So, when such moments do arise, I must admit, I do approach with a certain gusto. Only my best, inky blackest, long tail flowingest coat will do (I’ve only the one coat really, I just will it to be fancier and slightly more sinister) as I walk out of The Tower With No Door, my boots scrape out an almost jaunty tattoo on the cobbles. The weight in my pockets tugs at the corners of my lips, my hands dipping into my pockets, fingering their contents, rummaging through until I grasp the box. It’s going to be a lovely day.
The Real folds around me, the Borderlands fading, trailing in whispers of strangeness. It’s a bright day, golden, early spring I believe, vague haloes of green hovering around the shapely, nude limbs of the trees, a rich jade mist rising from rich black soil. I seem to be in a park, some kind of open area with footpaths and trees and little benches. People flood and flock, whirling, almost grounded starlings in coats and scarves. Some sit, enjoying the bright but weak sunlight, wrapped in a fragrant fug of steam from cups held just below their faces so that their breath gets tangled in it. It is all too perfect.
I stride with purpose, pulling out the small casket, a shimmering four footed little beast that gleams like beetle wing case, purple-blue-green. I reach the rough center of the square or commons or whatever, watching, anticipation jumping nervous cat like from my shoulder blades. I set the box down reverently on a little table marked out for chess, fingers twitching as I manipulate the mechanism to open it. It’s very complex, I fumble with it a moment in my excitement. I would curse it’s tricksyness, but I know it needs be thus, don’t want it opening randomly, which it most certainly would do if left to its own devices.
The lid springs open, yawning out a rainbow. Within, flashing very strange glimmers are embers, coals, white hot, seemingly made of every single color and shade, some you’d know, others you’ve never heard of nor contemplated except in your stranger dreams or if you’ve hit your head particularly hard when they might flash momentarily at the edges of your vision. So lovely, crackling there, alive, wild, expectant. My breath catches, oh how I love this bit, I truly do…trembling, fingers itch crawl forward, digging in to my trove, writhing beneath, feeling the utter oddness. Imagine dipping your hand into fire made of water, it’s like that only not at all. I gather two fistfuls, great big bunches, holding my hands at my sides, tilting my head back, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, shivering in delight.
I let out a self indulgent whoop, tossing my hands to the sky, fingers uncaging, the bright gledes scattering, little crumbles of madness showering about like sparks. The set things afire, crackling blazes of bizzarre flames. I watch as it spreads, licking hands, turning hair into crowns of twisting strands, blown up by weird winds. Randomly, a passerby pirouettes, their feet alight, eyes flashing surprised delight as this touch of madness moves them. Songs break out, laughter, tiny bits of personal strangeness flow outward. All of this is wonderful, but I wait, I watch, for the best part. I see a spark nestle into an eye, the iris contracting, shimmering a very, very different color. This is it, the subtle change, oh yes, the shift. They look about, everything new, every single thing just a bit different. There is fear and wonder and exultation etched on thier features. Now, forever, this one will see the whole world how no one else sees it and will paint it, write it, sing it how they see it and it will change others too.
I cannot help but laugh, spinning in place, grabbing more, moving off and trailing madness like glitter. Never too much, never in one place lest the fires consume, that would be a horror not countenanced. No, with care, with prudence I spread the breadcrumbs of insanity on a spring day, setting the whole world ablaze with dreams. Tee hee…

The Birds Will Still Sing

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2018 by beautifulimposter

Birds sing because they want to
While I am sure there are other
More scientific reasons,
Purposes of biology and evolution
I see no better reason,
After all, wouldn’t you sing so
If you could?

Therein lies the beauty I think
Song for the singing
Joy and revelry for simple being
Hymns of sun and wind beneath wing,
A chorus for bright bead eye
Turned skyward and flying dizzy.

Too many envy birds thier freedom
Hence cages, it sooths bitter heart
To see such wildness cloistered
As if we too locked up song and blue heaven,
Unaware or perhaps just denying
That they will sing and dream regardless.

I for one take comfort
For as rock crumbles, pride falls
Ash and smoke rise in choaking cloud
They will be there, mad charlatans,
Ragged finery ruffled, still pinwheel turning
Still singing, above it all
In the forever blue.

The Imposter Seeks a Nightlight

Posted in Fun stuff, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2018 by beautifulimposter

Patience is a virtue, one it could be said I possess in abundance. Then again, when you have all of the time that will ever be, there’s no rush and one can afford to stay very still for a very long time. Fortunately I don’t think that will be necessary.
I rest lightly upon the street light, coattails fluttering in the soft spring evening breeze. Anyone looking up would think it’s impossible for a man to be standing up here, unswaying, unmoving, and it is, so they don’t look and even if looking they wouldn’t believe their eyes. More people really should believe their eyes, they tend to work well as designed which is to see things, but for my purposes it’s just as well that they don’t.
Below, it’s late, the streets are sleepy, a week night as far as that kind if thing matters, just another night really. Few walk the streets, every once in a while a car will pass, grumbling softly to itself, muttering old beasts. The silence is almost complete, or as complete as can be expected…it’s going to be a good hunt, the conditions are just right. I allow myself to rub my hands together gleefully and my lips to curl up into my best Cheshire grin, the one I save for occasions like this. I practice it a lot, again, I have time on my side and it needs filling, it’s hungry.
A door opens and amber light spills upon the sidewalk like good whiskey, the flow of it carrying burbles of conversation, threads of music tangling with the strands of night air in complex and odd and wonderful tapestries. A handful of people exit, letting the door close, cutting the light off as with scissors, letting the more sober silence fill the bubble left by light and sound’s departure. They amble with the exuberance if youth, the pavements glittering beneath their feet, because they are fresh minted and their coin is accepted and there seems to be endless abundance in promise. I like young people quite well, they tinge everything about them with orange and rose and it’s a nice change.
Upon my perch, I crouch, hands upon the cold metal, leaning, eager, hungry. Soon, it will be soon and I must be ready. Their conversation drifts, rising, falling, the streams of it gathering and carrying them along. One of them tells a joke, or a tall tale, or some other token of amusement. This is it…
Laughter bursts forth, first one, then another and another, lips and throats issuing gleaming motes of light, shooting up, new stars climbing for the night sky. They fly swift, but I am swifter, long time hunter. I leap, coat whipping in the wind of my speed, bootheels clicking on roof tops, hands flickering deft and sure. Laughter tickles when you catch it, most people don’t know that. It wriggles too, like eager bright scaled fish. One by one, I snatch the gleams and shimmers, one handed, stuffing them into a mason jar. As a side note, mason jars are best for holding laughter, the lids are the only thing I’ve found tight enough, they were after all designed to hold preserves.
Over and under and around, flying fast and far, they swim through blue black night and I follow, dark salmon cleaving cleanly. Oh my but this is fun, each one plopping into the glass with a soft splash. Laughter, in its natural state is liquid, breath just warms it, allows it to fly. It would be easier by far to let it condense, gather into dew, but this is by far more fun. It’s brighter when it’s fresh, more concentrated. I swirl and jib along, almost, but not quite giggling in glee along with them, but I haven’t mastered giggling yet, that takes great skill, so I don’t. Still, I pursue joy fleeing gladly, oh, yes, what a merry chase…