Archive for fiction

The Imposter Feeds The Birds

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 14, 2017 by beautifulimposter

One moment there’s an empty bench, the next there I am. It’s easy when you exist between the cracks of things, you’re always just everywhere. The daylight is weak, watery, thin gold hammered to transparency by winter’s hardness. My breath is the smoke of dragons, or at least that’s the fiction I’m maintaining today.
I rummage through the deep pockets of my great, black coat, picking through the contents, the bits of dreams, lost keys, remnants and fragments until my fingers find the bag of seed. Taking it out, I hold it in my left palm while my right hand dips in, feeling the cool slither of the grains slip sliding. A cast handful glitters briefly, suspended in air that shouldn’t be able to hold the weight of a feather, an arch shimmering bright before bounce scattering across pavement washed in slipshod wisps of snow.
They come slowly, in ones and twos, little, beetle black iridescent, wings fingering strands of cold air before alighting, heads curious tilt, ink drop eyes suspicious yet hunger overrides caution. Starlings, sparrows, little ragged pieces of fugitive night hop between the avenues of seed, needle beaks dipping, peck peck peck.
I watch them, hop and flutter, a moving mandala. Within the blue-purple-green-black feathers the faces surface slowly, rising up from deep, deep waters trapped in jeweled wings. Each feather is a screen, a frame showing the motion picture of a whole life. The stories are endless, myriad, woe and joy, smiles, tears, the rending of garments and spilling of ash, homemade pies, kisses and salt, spinning and whirling, almost more than the eye can hold, or at least more than most eyes. After a while you get used to it. I’ve often thought it’s a wonder they can fly at all, with the weight of all the souls glued to them, caught on honey sticky feathers.
The few passers by are chased by the wicked teeth of the cold, no one looks. Even if they did, they wouldn’t see, it takes a knack that most forget beyond the borders of childhood. A shame really, but that’s is the way, always forgetting, always wondering on to the the next. That’s why I make it a point to sit and feed the birds and watch the lives in the dark mirrors. For the remembering. I scatter another handful and sit back to enjoy the show.


Strange Bedfellows

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2015 by beautifulimposter

At last, the long awaited sequel (well, maybe not long awaited, and not exactly a sequel per se) to the short story “The Promise of Dawn”. I am not at all sure about how well this one works, or how well it will stand in comparison to the first offering of what I do still hope will turn into an ongoing series, but I offer it up now just as I banged it out. As always, I do hope it is enjoyed. This is a tale that is meant to be at least somewhat horrifying, perhaps even disturbing. I do urge though that if anyone out there thinks I may have GONE TOO FAR to please let me know. A little unsettling can be entertaining in the right doses, however I sincerely do not want to make anyone unduly upset or uncomfortable in the reading. Any and all feedback is welcomed and as always to all of my readers, cheers all.

A cautious shadow broke warily away from the deeper darkness of the tangled forest eaves, booted feet making hardly a noise upon the hard packed dirt of the road. Beyond the wood lay a good league of fields and pasture yet the former lay fallow while the latter grew rank and wild, un cropped by herd or flock, not the first signs the lone traveller had noted as he neared the village that lay ahead, signs that much was amiss. Overhead the earth’s moon was low on the horizon, a thin, waning crescent casting but a thin, feeble light that was all but washed out by the Corpse Moon, waxing gibbous, fat and high. The landscape was washed in pale, fell wyrdlight, twisting shadows, limning stalks and stems with a cold wavering flame. The distant sloping rooftops seemed turned to marble, what should have been shapes familiar, homely, welcoming took on aspects of the grave, becoming mausoleums and sepulchers huddling together around a swift flowing dark stream. Within the traveler’s breast was a growing sense of foreboding, cold and hard, filling him not with dread but a grim determination and a weary resignation. As the years had turned such sights had become all too familiar to his eyes. Beneath his heavy leathern cloak one hand tightened around the butt of a pistol as his even strides took him down towards the silence haunted streets.

There were no lights in any of the outlying cottages, every window glared black and empty where they were not heavily shuttered. This too spoke to his growing unease for in these dark times even farmers to bed with the sun would keep at least one light burning through the night and none would leave any part of their home unbarred past nightfall. The silence hung palpably, muffling his already stealthy footsteps as the dirt beneath his boots turned to rough cobbles as he neared the village square. In the distance a door flying loose in the grasp of the fitful, chill night breeze cracked like a gunshot, or more like the rattle of old bone upon bone as it rebounded from clapboard wall. No sound of livestock rustling in their sheds, no low, sleepy clucking from coops, not even a lone bark of a dog sounded as the stranger passed doorways and neatly fenced yards, the stillness etched sharply upon his senses.

At last the road opened up upon the village square, the wicked moonlight splashing over a multitude of twisted, writhing forms. Before the stranger’s eyes was painted a portrait of mind shattering horror in stark black and white. Around the low stone well in the center of the square several long tables lay upon trestles with many feasters still appearing at their revels. Food piled high lay roting upon platters or clutched in stiff fingers or even yet more grotesquely spilling from gaping jaws as those who dined had gorged themselves beyond need of food. Some others still had seemed less than satisfied with the pleasures of the table, having ravenously torn into the limbs or bellies of their fellows or themselves. All round about the tables other bodies were piled, some as if they had been dancing, twirling with abandon upon ankles eventually shattered. Others were locked in lascivious embraces, limbs twined and locked together, frozen in attitudes of unspeakable lust, some with fingers dug deep into their lover’s flesh, tearing and rending, features twisted into rictuses where pleasure and pain became one. At least two hundred souls and half again as many beasts lay strewn about in every shape and form of ignominy, with no respect to kind or sex or age. Even with eyes and heart hardened by many scenes of horror and butchery the stranger had to fight the clawing fingers of revulsion as they scrabbled along his spine, bubbling up his throat.

The silence of this unholy tableaux was broken softly, drawing the stranger’s eyes towards the shadowed rim of the well. A figure sat upon the lip on the far side, back towards him, crooning a macabre tuneless tune to itself. It was obscured by the darkness yet what could be seen of it was spindly, grayish flesh stretched taut over bone, emaciated trunk displaying ribs and vertebrae. The dark stranger froze, watching intently as the figure seemed to work at something in its grasp, arms seeming to stretch and tug, accompanied by faint, wet tearing sounds.

“Must be careful now, yes I must.” The voice was soft and high, a mockery of something feminine issuing from a throat unfamiliar with the tones of anything mortal. “Oh, such fun I’ve had and more is to come, so many bright ones to play with, oh yes.”

Slowly, moving just a fraction of an inch at a time the stranger tried to close the distance between himself and the slender shadow, hoping to God that it wouldn’t make note of him amidst its grisly work and wicked burbling. Only one chance would he get, no more. Words of Banishing flickered breifly behind his eyes but died before reaching his lips. No shade was this, no protrusion of the infernal upon the realm of life and light, ’twas a manifestation, one of Hell’s legion given form and shape. The stranger felt the unfamiliar clutching of fear’s fingers about his heart at the thought, silent prayers falling from his lips as he eased the pistol from his baldric, ever so slowly bringing it to bear upon the humped dome of the thing’s skull, thumbing the hammer ever so gently back. God above, Lord of Hosts, lend me your strength, hold mine hand in yours oh God, let my shot strike thy foe true. He was within feet of it, separated only by the circumference of the well mouth, cold sweat running down his spine, breath held behind the fence of his bared teeth, inching the flint back, back, praying for all he was worth…it must be the same instant, not even a fraction betwixt cocking and firing, it must be NOW!!!

The shadows fled the bright orange of the muzzle flare, the retort of the shot echoing and rebounding over and again throughout the charnel house square yet the silver ball cleaved only moonlight. The ragged, spindly form was just another shadow, whirling with terrifying speed, spinning the man about as he desperately sought his foe, spent pistol flung aside, hand darting to the hilt of his sword, eyes casting this way and that in near desperation.

“What has I hear then?” The sickly sweet of the voice purred “oh what has we here, a fresh playmate I thinks, yes”

Within the shadows cast by the low eaves of a house at the edge of the square a deeper darkness stirred. Stepping slowly forward, one arm extended in the way one would slip on a coat the demon emerged, pulling a gasp from the stranger’s lips as the Corpse Moon’s light revealed nightmare. New flesh adorned the horrid, thin frame, drooping and sagging, an ill fitting suit that had once been the outer covering of one of the village women hung in grotesque parody of life. The skin of the extended arm hung limp at the ends, fingers dangling and empty, yet a horrid writhing beneath crept up its length, filling it, giving it shape. The stranger staggered backwards, wretching, dragging his sword from its sheath, breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought down revulsion and terror.

“God have mercy on thy sons and daughters” the words rose in strangled whisper even as his fist clenched upon the hilt, the knuckles beneath his leathern gauntlets going white as he prepared to fight, his only hope that he may kill it before it rent his life from him.

“God lives here no longer” the demon chuckled in its high voice, raising its head, deep, dark eyes peering from the empty holes in its borrowed face. “We have come to take…possession…of what is by rights ours oh dear Nameless one”

Nameless tensed yet was not near fast enough, the demon’s limbs given the Devil’s own speed, the backhanded blow spinning him off his feet, sending him skidding onto his hands and knees, sword skittering off as numbed fingers let go their grip. Fighting to catch his breath, Nameless rolled onto his back, drawing his second pistol, knowing in the pit of his stomach how futile a gesture it was. He cocked back the flint, boot heels sliding over the cobbles greased with blood and other fluids none would care to contemplate as he backed away from were the fiend last was, eyes raking the moonlit square.

“Oh, we can’t be having that, oh no we can’t” a sudden shadow loomed over Nameless’ features as with ungodly strength the creature ripped the pistol from his hand, dropping it to the ground with a disdainful clatter. Nameless looked up into eyes that became wells of hunger, pits which no amount of gluttony or license would ever hope to fill. A smile writhed upon lips that should never have been able to still take such shapes as with a second sharp blow consciousness was driven from Nameless who fell back into almost welcomed oblivion.


“We shall not be needing this I thinks”

Nameless rose slowly back to consciousness, feeling a tugging as his breastplate was pulled off of him, the ringing of it sounding as thunder in his aching head. He could feel its presence, could feel it hovering just above him, the foulness of it washing over him like a tide of filth, causing his flesh to writhe as if could flee. His heart hammered within his chest, ribs aching, each breath a stuttering agony, eyes screwed tightly shut, dreading their opening. Yet digging deep within himself Nameless forced his lids to open. Oh God how he wished he had kept them closed.

The demon squatted over him, its suit of mortal flesh now seeming to fit it more snugly; Nameless watching in morbid fascination as the sags became smooth, muscles beneath the skin cleaving to that which lay further beneath. Soon the crouched form above him was no longer hellish but rather that of the woman it had once been, although no less horrible for the illusion of mortality. The figure was fine and full, what once must have caught many a farm lad’s eye, naked and gleaming now in the swollen maggot light of the hellish moon.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” The voice was breathy now, soft, a caress almost even as it tore open his tunic, baring his chest. “I know you think so, despite your efforts, your mind is just as all men’s, simple, hungry, filled with…lust.” Its fingertips ran lightly over Nameless’ skin, tracing over the line upon line of scripture tattooed over every inch, lines from each of the Great Books meant to ward, to protect.

“Why would you disfigure yourself so, with such doggerel?” Nameless struggled beneath the gloating thing yet found his muscles would not obey, something within the voice lulled his body, holding him just as fast as if it were iron bands. “Did you think they might save you?” Mockery dripped from every word as the cold hands caressed him, yet horror fought with something deeper and darker within Nameless’ breast, something tugged at by the voice and the questing hands.

“Fight if you must, it makes the savor sweeter” downwards now the hands slithered, confident, sure, coaxing. In his mind Nameless ran through verse upon verse, prayers, litanies, anything to steel his mind, to wrest back control, but to no avail. He could feel himself stirring, rising up, his flesh responding to irresistible summons. “Castigate and castrate yourself all you like, you cannot resist…you are all the same, you priests and whores, all chained to the flesh, slaves to your petty, miserable appetites…in the end, you are all just like me, you all want me, crave the bounty I have to offer, will feast and gorge till you are all undone and empty.”

The hands unclasped gun belt and baldric, jerking away his remaining pistols, letting them drop just out of reach, tantalizing, Nameless’ rigid fingers only a hair’s breadth away yet for all intents and purposes as unreachable as the hellish moon glaring down from above. He strained to cry out, to scream a denial yet the words strangled in his throat even as the demon freed him from his britches, its icy hand running lovingly over his rigid manhood.

“How lovely and strong you are, tis a pity such strength should all go to waste. Spilling so much blood yet never any seed, all for masters you know glut themselves at my table.”

Inside his head Nameless screamed, his mind trying to hold fast to The Word yet filled now with riotous thoughts, sweat and limbs, bodies writhing, as it spoke to his flesh. He was helpless in the rebellion of his body, the corridors of his mind echoed now to desperate pleas…no, no, please, My Lord, no, no…NO!!!! Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as the wicked thing above him moved, shifting slightly, moaning now like an animal in heat. Nameless felt a cold, loathsome slickness envelope him, clinging, pulling as the semblance of a woman slowly moved above him, shuddering as much at the struggle within him as any carnal pleasures. He could feel a rhythmic pulsing growing, tried in desperation to fight it off, knowing full well what this thing wanted, more than his soul, more than the fear and hatred and lust it was dragging from him, more than anything it desired to be born into this world with actual shape, an abomination and a plague forever upon the world. Yet fight as hard as he could it had him within its grasp, reaching past all shields of will or faith deep into the darkest reaches of his mind, pulling out the agonies of his body’s betrayal as within the tiny shelter of his mind Nameless screamed pathetic, waning defiance.



It was a soft clearing of the throat, yet it carried behind it the power to still the whole world. For a single moment that stretched itself beyond all reason silence reigned again over the grim cobblestones of the village square. The weight above Nameless shifted, turning its head in predatory fashion, drawing away its attentions. Then, even further beyond reason a flute began to play, a low, warbling melody, something flowing as slow and sure and smooth as the stream passing along the other side of the square. The demon still held Nameless within the foulness of itself, he was still beneath its weight, but he found he could move, life returning to limbs as his fingers began to crawl with what to him seemed agonizing slowness towards the butt of the pistol that had been cast aside with his gunbelt. The body above swayed softly as the flute continued to play, seeming entranced by the slow rising and falling of the tune, completely oblivious to its former prey beneath it. Once more, it was the harsh click of the flintlock cocking back that drew its full attention, head snapping around just as Nameless pulled the trigger, having brought the gun to bear belt and all, the leather scorching as the shot rang out. The silver shot slammed into the thing’s chest, Nameless having not the control of his limbs enough to aim for the head, the flesh splitting like overripe fruit over what lay beneath. The close range sent the foul creature sprawling backwards, hissing and spitting, writhing as it hit the ground. With strength and speed born of pure desperation Nameless rolled to the side, still half blinded by the powder flash, hand scrabbling along the ground headless of the mortal remains strewn about as it searched for his sword. With his other hand, Nameless flung his belt over his shoulder, fearing to feel the counterattack at any moment, knowing full well his foe was far from slain.

As abruptly as it had begun, the tune changed sharply, the flautist moving from the somnolent air to a quick reel, the notes tumbling over each other in wild profusion, almost discordant. Nameless shook the daze from his head, fingers finding at last the hilt of his sword, sweeping it up with a gritty ring off of the cobbles. Whatever lingering effects the siren creature’s spell had upon his mind or limbs seemed to be washed away as Nameless turned to face the thing, now itself crouched on all fours, legs bent beneath it, fingers out and splayed, head swiveling from side to side in what appeared to be confusion. It cast its gaze back and forth between the unseen player and Nameless, now approaching it with grim determination.

With a sudden hiss, the demon leapt with a speed greater than a hunting wolf yet to its surprise and alarm its prey had moved with yet greater swiftness still. Instead of the feel of rending flesh it felt only the bitter burn of cold iron as Nameless’ blade drew a searing line across its belly. So began a grim and terrible dance through the otherwise grave still mortuary of the village square. The soaring notes of the wild flute seemed to fill Nameless with strength and speed whilst at the same time confounding and befuddling his foe as they twisted and turned in deadly strife, each telling a score or more of wounds upon the other, yet Nameless just a bit more than the hellspawn, just enough.

“Curse your bleating feeble monkey!!” voice shrieking vituperation as the thing circled, “when I have finished my game with this tasty morsel I shall flay your living mind open, I shall drink your shrieking agony like mother’s milk!!!” Yet the threats seemed empty, the playing only increasing its rising rhythm. The once shapely figure was rent and torn, the breasts sagging forward like some obscene tunic from where the first shot had torn into it and other thin tatters of flesh hung oozing thick, dead blood from where Nameless’ blade had cut or pierced. It narrowly avoided another lightning quick lunge, shaking its head as the air around it filled with a weird frenzy.

Despite the aid of the mysterious minstrel, Nameless was flagging, his head still aching from the blow that had rendered him senseless earlier, vitality dripping from him slowly as blood flowed from the wounds the beast had given him during their predatory dance. Breath came fast and ragged through clenched teeth, his face a mask of ferocity and desperation as he knew even with help unlooked for he could not bring down his enemy with blade alone.

Keeping his weaving blade on guard, Nameless fumbled at the belt over his shoulder, allowing himself a small, grim rictus of a smile as a metallic cylinder settled into his palm. Feinting right, his left hand thumbed free the stop holding the small piston in place, slamming it down upon his thigh, feeling the delicate glass bubbles within shattering, counting slowly, one breath, two, three…

The creature snapped out a hand, catching the flung cylinder just as it ruptured. The first flash was blue white, actinic, flaring throughout the square, casting its own counter shadows to those cast by the Corpse Moon still high above. The second flare was a hungry, sooty orange as screaming in agony the demon was engulfed in flame. It lunged towards its former victim turned tormentor, flailing limbs trailing greasy flames. Nameless sprung away from the cursing, spitting thing as it writhed, the morbid flesh covering it falling away in great, crackling gobbets. In mad desperation it turned, fleeing towards the darkness of the well mouth. In the air, seeming to match the greedy crackling of the flames, the notes of the flute lent a different fire to Nameless’ limbs as he dove between the fiend and its only path to escape. Tossing his sword, Nameless caught it by the blade just below the hilts, reversing his grip so that the sword was pommel up, the straight quillions casting a long shadow, the moonlight behind his back throwing a perfect cross upon the still shrieking abomination.

“You think you have won?!?!” it spat, the remains of the village woman’s face still clinging in charred shreds to the hideous mockery of a face beneath. “You miserable worm, dog, scrabbler of refuse and offal at the master’s table, you have won nothing…” as the fiend cursed and railed, as the flames began to devour its shape Nameless began to chant, the exorcism pouring from his lips with conviction, all doubt and fear gone, nothing remained but cold, bitter hatred. “Nameless!!! Our master remembers, remembers your name well, you will burn in hell with all the rest, you will BURN!!!”

The village rang out with the final rage of the demon as with a defiant shout Nameless completed the rite, the echoes of it smothering the thing’s final curse as it crumbled within its pyre. The silence that feel afterward was nearly in and of itself deafening, as if the drama of what had just transpired had swallowed all sound, even that of the devilish flautist.

“Aye, I will” the bleak resignation within Nameless’ voice fell limply into the night as he sagged in place, drenched in sweat and blood, swaying. The world seemed to spin beneath him and he would have fallen if not just then another voice ruptured the silence.

“As fearsome a warrior as thou art, me thinks at least one of thine blades would need sheathing” there was a wry humor in the rough tones, one could almost hear the wink within them. Barking out a mirthless laugh, Nameless fumbled with his gear, the statement’s absurdity stabbing through his weariness. He even felt a slow flush creep up his neck as he re-tied the lacings of his breeches, the ridiculousness of how he must have looked for that last desperate battle playing out now in his mind.

Turning slowly, at last he took in the form of his deliverer. The man was long and lean, dressed in a tailcoat of violent and conflicting colors, with skin tight britches of cream buckskin, thigh high riding boots with the tops turned down at the knee and an obscenely large codpiece. To add to the bizarreness of his garb, the man was crowned by a mad tangle of hair, falling in wiry profusion to his shoulders from a hairline revealing a great deal of gleaming pate. His bright, sharp, blue eyes twinkled above a thick, scraggly beard with piercing clarity and, despite the dire straights just barely passed, gleamed with a merriment hardly holding with the situation. He leaned back upon a bench near one of the ghastly tables, seeming oblivious to the morbid company he was surrounded by, one leg thrust out, the other bent at the knee and crossed over the other, his arms cradling his flute to his chest.

Nameless was dumbstruck and nearly laughed aloud again at this mad apparition until his own sharp gaze rested on the thick, golden torque gleaming about the man’s neck. With a sudden indrawn hiss of breath Nameless raised the point of his sword, stepping back and on guard.

“If you insist upon further belligerence, I shall be more than happy to oblige thee, although twould be a wasteful shame to save your life only to reave it from thee.” Shifting slightly, the minstrel patted the hilts of his own sword. “Methinks I would easily be the master of thee given your recent exertions, and I would weep most fulsomely for at least half a minute’s span after I cut thee to mince.”

“I think I must concede the point” Nameless lowered his own blade slowly, knowing full well he would be a dead man if he pressed the argument. “It seems I am in your debt pagan, though not happily.”

“No debt at all to those who share a common purpose, though methods and means may differ. Not only The Nameless guard what light remains.” Springing lightly up and spinning his flute about in one hand the new stranger executed a low and complicated bow before rising and extending his hand. “Well met my un-monickered friend, allow me to unburden at least one of my many names upon thee, call me Strange Ian.”

With at least some show of reluctance Nameless took the man’s hand, shaking it firmly. Strange Ian grinned broadly, flashing a quick wink. “I have known a few hellcats in my day yet none quite this persistent, even if they did promise a similar fate, much worse than death.”

“and pray, what fate might that be?”

“marriage” the jest jarred another small chuckle from Nameless’ lips, more from its excruciating inappropriateness than any actual humor. Nameless stumbled, swaying still further, nearly swooning. His new acquaintance’s face creased in concern and he shifted his grip from Nameless’ hand to across his shoulders, allowing the weary man to sag against his rangy frame.

“Steady on lad, let us get you seen to” up close Strange Ian could see more clearly the relative youth of the grim warrior, his features softening just a bit in something like pity, for he knew something of this man’s burden. “Come” Ian’s tone changed yet again to one of joviality “I know a fine place just a little ways down the road where weary travelers may rest behind high walls, the mead flows steady, and the amusements not nearly as dire”. With slow steps the two set forth, pausing only to gather Nameless’ scattered gear. “Let us mend thy wounds, drink to our victory until we are stinking and we can attempt to convert one another.”

“I am forbidden drink” Nameless mumbled, staggering along, barely registering Strange Ian’s continuing prattle.

“Well, I am enjoined by my  faith to celebrate any triumph with a great deal of mead, so I make to you the following proposal. I shall drink your share and you shall thus be sober, all the better to beat the heathen out of me”

“Fair enough, lay on you mad bastard.” The curse slipped from Nameless’ lips without thought, the chaos of the night had his mind reeling. He had bested a demon in its flesh with the aid of this madman from the Isle of Bloody Queen Bess, how much more strange could things possibly become? “If I live through to this den of iniquity of yours, I swear to God I’ll have you safely in the fold by dawn.”

Together the two limped down the cold road as the Corpse Moon set, the horrors of the night vanquished for now and behind them, the remaining shadows chased along by Strange Ian’s hearty laughter.

Story Time

Posted in Spoken Word with tags , , , , , , , on June 19, 2015 by beautifulimposter


The One Who Was Seen

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 19, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Here is the next little bit of the story that I began this morning and that I hope will grow into something much longer and stranger and wonderful. It is a tale that I think has been brewing in me for years, ever since I first started writing, with characters I have long known. You have already been introduced to Abby, and now it is time for Nevermore. I have tried to write in two distinctly different styles as a device which I hope works, a more realistic, prosaic one for Abby and what she sees and thinks and feels and a more arcane, poetic, fantastical style for Nevermore. I think these pair well, but as always, I would love to here what any of you think. Happy reading, and cheers all.

Her eyes chased him from the cafe, dogging his boot heels as he spun out into the twilight streets, long, black coat tails billowing scraps of deeper night behind him. He was pinned by them, two spikes of deep blue twisting in his mind, he was crushed by the weight of them as if the whole sky of all the late summer afternoons was bearing down upon his shoulders. She had seen! She had seen him! Impossible, ludacris, inconceivable, there was no way, there just wasn’t. He stalked down the sidewalk, the early evening crowds absentmindedly swirling out of his way, closing behind him without a thought, he was a salmon cleaving the waters and leaving no mark or sign of passage.

Still his mind reeled back from that one single thought. She had seen! No one had ever touched him with their eyes, not from the first to the last, not once in four billion years had any eyes caught his reflection within them. He turned up his high collar, hunching his shoulders against them, still they fluttered about him, malicious blue jays swooping and diving as he quickened his pace, not a run, but a swift clicking stride, long legs unable to outrun the eyes, the memory of them. He jammed his fists into his deep, deep coat pockets, brushing against his new treasure. This calmed him a bit, breath leaving his lips in a long sigh. At least he had managed to snatch up what he had come for before those eyes had so savagely stabbed at him. His fingers uncurled and brushed lightly over the delicate, trembling souvenir, stroking, caressing…he knew it would make such a lovely addition to the tapestry and that thought brought a smile to his thin, austere lips.

As he walked the quaint, trendy downtown streets twisted beneath his feet, for a moment he was walking over grime crusted cobbles, then wood planks, then grass, then smooth brushed chrome, his boots changing their tune rapidly as he wound his way deeper and deeper into The Border. The buildings too became a strange mix, modern sleek white cubes beside Georgian brownstones, mingled with Tudor thatched roofs, Grecian arches rubbed elbows with antique pagodas, halogen street lamps shared their duties with gaslights or rushlights or strange floating globes of eerie luminescence yet he spared these not one thought. Fragments of every place and time all seemed stitched together haphazard, leaning over drunkenly beneath strange, wheeling stars in a sky of perpetual gloaming. All passed by without so much as a glance, in fact for him, the familiarity of the strangeness wrapped him in comfort like a thick blanket as he wound his way through this jumble of broken worlds, mind bent on nothing but the thought of getting safely home, where maybe he would stop seeing her eyes.

Ahead, towering over all rose a twisting spire of pitted and blackened iron and smoked glass, twined about with arches, buttresses, parapets and walkways that crawled like ivy, a soaring impossibility that stabbed up into the sky, the needle from which the disc of night spun widdershins. He paused at its great feet, spread out like the paws of an old, faithful hound, slim fingers reaching out to trail over the massive iron doors that were there, then weren’t then were again as he crossed the threshold. Inside the first great hall appeared like a flea market, heaps and piles of junk as far as the eye could see. Through this he passed, lean scarecrow shadow flicking behind him until he reached the stair, steps nautilus shell spiralling upwards, mother of pearl thin, crisp echoing to his boot heel tattoo as he ascended, still feeling.

Landing after landing flittered by until at least he alighted from the stairs, passing along the landing through an arch that could have easily been at home in Notre Dame into a room that had in fact clearly once been a cathedral. Behind the pulpit, hanging from old blackened beams, drifting dusty in the light of ten thousand fat candles was one of his artworks. Another smile stole across his lips as it fluttered softly, thousands upon thousands of powdery wings creating a sucerous like that of a single drawn out sigh, a tender lament that washed over him, calming, soothing.

From his right pocket he carefully drew his latest prize, fingers dripping the dust of a fresh, bright pair of moth’s wings, panels of iridescent green and blue and purple shimmering between thing leaded canes. In their depths, shifting constantly in the same way scenery is broken up as you walk past a mullioned window, was a face, a body, flashes of copper flame hair, fair skin, freckles, bowed full lips…and blue eyes. Even here they stared back up at him as he held the shy latte drinking poet’s longing in his cupped palm. His fist nearly spasmed, almost crushed them out as they laughed at him from within the fluttering, but he checked himself. No, he had watched for far too long and this ache was far too sweet not to be a part of his tapestry.

“Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos, come my ladies, please spin for me” His voice was low and soft, the sound made by ancient wooden boxes richly carved as they sit in spiced perfume silence holding the bones of dead saints. In answer, from the ceiling descended three graceful spiders, legs long and shapely. The first, new shoot sap green, alighted on his shoulder and scampered primly down his arm, taking up the still fluttering wings as her sisters swung on their own shimmering chords to a bare spot amongst the other pinned and woven longings. The second, a fat, nut brown, began to weave a lattice of fine thread upon which to stick the new addition, forelegs knitting and spinning as her sister finally ascended with the prize, helping to fix it in place. The third and last, ancient, bone white circled around, cutting, tying off, finishing the weaving with swift, sure knots. He loved to watch the sisters work and he stood back, able still even with all of the confusion around it able to pick out each individual ache, each subtle and wonderful desire unfulfilled. It was his monument to melancholie and among his various works was one which brought him the most comfort and quiet joy. It reminded him of the deapths of the heart, and that was always good.

Save now, where he could still see sapphires winking at him, needling him, SEEING him. With nearly a sob he spun away, his great black coat swirling around him. He fled his cathedral of snatched desires and bounded up the staircase once more, actually running now until he reached the top, panting even though he needed no breath, icy beads of sweat trailing lines of cold fire down his weathered copper skin. His chambers were open to the sky, the walls simply a series of great arches looking out into the plum purple ever twilight of his realm, holding up the vast dome of the ceiling that he had stolen from Constantinople before it could be finished, bright Byzantine tiles creating a maze that would have given Escher nightmares. From all around there was a welcoming flurry, soft, redolent of feathers as inky eyes trained upon him from all corners. They could see him, but that was fine, that was how it always had been. Slowly, then in growing chorus, from all corners they welcomed him home as they always had done, magpies, crows, ravens croaking slowly “Nevermore, Nevermore”. When he had first awoke so many and many dawns before they had been there and this was all that they had said then, so he took it to be his name.

Nevermore walked from the landing towards his favorite arch, pausing here and there to stroke purple black feathers, feeling the comforting weight of Skergaal settle upon his right shoulder, wings rustling in stately fashion, a courtier preening and proper. Nevermore however did not ask for his news and knowing his master’s moods well, Skergaal remained silent. The lonely, tall figure stood at last on the precipice, toes of his boots brushing the circumference of the tower top, a sharp border between something and nothing, almost a metaphor yet his mind could not appreciate it, could not as it usually did find solace in the view of The Borderlands sweeping below in dizzying crazy quilt tumbled confusion. No, he was disturbed, deep within something was wrong, something undefined was out of joint and the breeze that whispered past his lofty erie had upon it the distinct, cloying funerary scent of myrrh. His face was turned outward, yet before him he could only see her eyes. She had seen him, and that was wrong, she had held him within the prisms of her irises, caged him, defined him in the world of The Real. It had taken all of his might to shake off her clinging gaze, pulling the voices of nothing to whisper her mind back asleep. Yet still, for all his might in nothingness, she had seen, the girl who saw.


The Girl Who Saw

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 19, 2015 by beautifulimposter

This is the beginning of something. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I am going to keep chipping away at it to see where it wants to go, where it takes me. I know it’s not likely that many here will read this, the longer pieces often get overlooked, but I would really like some feedback on this. It’s the first piece I have ever really written from a woman’s point of view and I would really appreciate any feedback on it, how it sounds. I always feel so un-authentic when I write women and it would help to know if this works. Any and all thoughts will be welcomed.

Despite the feeble attempts of the air conditioner sweat was rolling down Abby’s brow, plastering her hair to her forehead as she moved between the tables. The place was crowded even for a Thursday evening, they were short staffed and the heat from outside kept stealing in through the nearly constant open door all of which just seemed to be piling on to an already shit day.
“five!!” Abby growled under her breath, slamming down her tray onto the counter and swiping at the sweat dripping into her eyes, the flush on her cheeks more from anger than the heat. “if he doesn’t learn to keep his fucking hands to himself…” her words trailed off in impotent frustration as she glared at Maggie behind the counter, surrounded in her usual cloud of steam as she worked the espresso machine. Maggie glanced over, giving Abby a commiserating look in between furiously filling cups and passing them down the line.
“You know, instead of just keeping a running count you should just tell Charlie, you know he’d back you up and fire the perv’s ass.” Abby just rolled her eyes. Yeah, as far as bosses went, Charlie was pretty good, but he was the owner and wasn’t around much. Not like it had made a whole bunch of difference the last time she had brought up Jacob’s habit of grabbing her ass. He had said he would talk to him and he probably had, but bottom line Jacob was a good manager and kept the customer’s and the cash flowing. If she made too much of a thing about it she knew it would always be easier to replace her than him.
“Never mind, I just need three large coffees, two espresso, a cap, three mocha lattes and one Earl Grey tea.” Maggie just nodded. You could see the little mental list just scrolling behind her eyes, ticking over almost like a computer as she whirled behind the counter, filling, tamping, steaming. Abby was always just a little impressed watching this little engine of a woman and couldn’t help but smile just a bit. There was no room in there for anything but the work and Abby kind of envied that. She somehow knew that Maggie never kept any of this place with her, none of the abusive customers, the bullshit, it was all just one order then the next until she hung up her apron at close. Abby always wished she could put things away that easy.
While she waited for her order, she turned back to the main room of the cafe, leaning back against the counter, her hands rising to her face, rubbing over her forehead and temples, smoothing back her hair, taking a deep breath and stretching. Her gaze wandered around the crowd, couples, groups huddled around their tables, the room filled with the chaos of mingled conversation, the complex interplays of social interaction. She always felt outside of it, moving among it all but never really a part of it, a near invisible cog that helped it all work. Sometimes she felt a little bitter about that, but most of the time she cherished the anonymity, the obscurity of being one more apron and smile with a pen. Her eyes marked her tables, making little mental ticks, coffees at three, espresso and cap at five, two lattes on one, the last latte to the guy sitting on the sofa in the corner and the tea…where was the tea guy?
“Fuck, another one!” Abby growled again, thinking she’d had another walkout. Not quite as bad as being stiffed on the bill, but if one more impatient asshole left because she didn’t instantly pull his drink out of her ass and then decided to leave a comment it could be her ass.
“Another what babe?” Maggie didn’t even look up as she was stacking the drinks onto Abby’s tray, somehow knowing automatically the order Abby would need to serve them and placing them just the right way.
“Nothing Mags” Abby carefully picked up her try and headed back out into the fray. Coffees, espressos, both without a hitch. Lattes, a lot of snark about how long it took, usual bullshit “did you have to like, grow the beans yourself” that had Abby’s hands itching to bash the posh cunt’s sneering face in, just a little shy smile from Mr. Single Latte and she was on, fixing the smile to her face as she tucked the tray under her arm, whipped out her pad and took the next round of orders. Polite chit chat, hi, how are ya hun, best sunny disposition, ignore the useless blather, get the details then back to the counter, taking the long way so she didn’t have to pass by Jacob and his lear and his fucking hands.
“Two more javas, one unleaded, two caps, one strawberry smoothy, three iced mochas Mags” the words just rattled out of her brain, it wasn’t even like thinking any more, her brain just dropped the words onto her tongue. She turned again, once more in that little island of calm, braced against the counter, feet aching, her top clinging clammy against her back. “fuck this place” she muttered under her breath as her eyes again did their little scan. Coffee couple, looking happy and disgustingly cute together, suits for the caps, workout bro with the smoothy, the kids at four with the ices, high school girls all giggles, bright and fresh. Her eyes lingered on them for a bit, thinking it hadn’t really been that long ago that that was her, right? When homework and boys had been the biggest worries. Only that wasn’t true either, not really. Abbey couldn’t remember a time when the fear and doubt hadn’t gnawed her insides, a hungry animal clawing it’s way through her. Her eyes slunk away from the girls, now almost ashamed she had even thought she had ever been one of them.
Then there was latte guy, nursing his coffee, notebook on his knee, wanting to write but just doodling. She knew his writing face and this wasn’t it. She also knew he fancied her more than a bit and that’s why he would spend her shift tucked away, trying to make his coffee last the night, stealing glances at her over his thick wire rim glasses. She kind of liked it, the quiet attention. She knew he would probably never say anything and that was fine, he wasn’t her type and besides, relationships were foreign, horrible things. No, this was safe and Abby liked safe and distance. At least his eyes didn’t cling to her the way so many others did, like they already had their clammy, sticky fingers all over her. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the shudder roll through her, her breath stuttering, catching for a moment before going back to its regular rhythm. Her eyes opened again, and there he was.
It was like her eyes just drew him there as her lids flickered upward, a lean, dark figure leaning forward in a chair just beside latte guy, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled, all sharp angles. His black hair fell in loose waves around a narrow face and…and…and it was like something was willing her not to see more. Details kept coming into focus then sliding away, she could feel an ache building just behind her eyes as she tried to hold on to him, but the more she did, the less she saw. She could almost hear a voice whispering in her ear “look away, you aren’t looking at anything, see, it’s just an empty chair, maybe someone left their coat on it, it’s nothing, look away”. Then it hit her, enough to take her breath away and she staggered a little. Waves of aloneness crashed into her, this sense of tremendous distance and of being utterly and totally alone…not lonely, just alone, something close to complete and total desolation. She trembled, was almost in tears when his eyes found hers. His expression seemed surprised, almost alarmed and then…and then…
“On a break or something?” the voice poured like dirty oil over her and Abby kick started back to reality. Jacob was in front of her, hungry, coyote smile pinning his lips to his cheeks, breath reeking of smoke and cherry lifesavers. “We aren’t paying you just to look pretty here” The smile never met his eyes, they were always dead fish grey.
“I-I-I know Jacob, I just…I just needed a moment” Abby grabbed her now full tray and shouldered past him before he could make a grab, or say something that would make her want to rip his balls off…given half a chance she would too, had to bite near through her lip as he cat called “keep it shaking out there” his chuckle yapping at her heels.
“Fuck this place, and fuck you too” she pressed the words out through gritted teeth and spent the rest of the night seething, trying to push it all away, Jacob, the customers, everything. The strangeness of a moment before was already fading fast, just a melting shadow, nothing of it lingering, except for a pair of eyes and even these hid themselves carefully in the back of her mind.


Being the Short History of Oddr Last-Laugh

Posted in Fun stuff, Journal, Prose, Writing Process with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 4, 2014 by beautifulimposter

I haven’t written/posted anything creative in a long while, which has kind of been bringing me down. So I was fiddling with this program that generates characters for P&P RPG (it’s HeroLab for those who might be interested) and I wrote up this little background/character sketch. It’s not half bad and I like the character himself quite a bit. While this wasn’t necessarily intended for actual fiction I thought I’d post this up as just some new content as well as showing a little of how I develop the characters I end up using in my stories. I almost always do one of these little write ups either on paper or just in my head to get a grasp on who the character really is. Even if the background is never mentioned in whatever I’m writing I have it in mind to give me a handle on how they might react to a situation or feel about something. Just an insight about my process, for those interested.

Oddr earned the name “Last-laugh” for two reasons. The first was simply the fact that despite what cruelty and hardship life has presented him with he always maintained a good humor, taking the view that any day he was not dead was a good day, that there was always something worse and dwelling on the hand fate had dealt was as pointless as trying to charge the waves of the incoming tide. This outlook served him in good stead as the ships boy on a longship raiding up and down the northern coasts. His father was a drunk and a gambler and had fallen so deeply into debt he sold his only son into indentured servitude as wergild to a Viking captain.
Oddr spent his boyhood among hard men, performing back breaking labor, subjected to beatings and a world of violence and bloodshed. Despite this environment he managed to keep a sense of honor and what was right. It was this that lead to the second event that led to his epithet. On one particular raid the captain of Oddr’s ship was in an especially cruel and bloodthirsty mood and had decided that having slaughtered all of the coast town’s menfolk, taken most if the women as slaves and burning the town to the ground was not enough he also decided to butcher the town’s children just to add to his already fearsome reputation along the Varisian coast. Despite having participated in the raid, this act of senseless violence was too much for Oddr who stood between his captain and the children huddle on the beach between the longship and the roaring flames of their village behind them. He would not move and the captain took this as a challenge to his authority. A ring was formed around the two men and a brutal combat was fought. It really was one sided as the captain was a seasoned veteran, having survived more raids and duels than he could count and Oddr was repeatedly driven to his knees or laid out on his back, only to return to his feet with a grim, almost suicidal determination. Even the crew and captain began to look on with a certain respect as this boy stood swaying, bloody, barely able to raise his weapons but still willing to fight. Still, the captain could not brook this upstart’s challenge, so again and again they clashed until at last Oddr was on his knees, disarmed, barely conscious. Believing the battle won, the captain chose not to slay Oddr, feeling such as he would one day make a valuable warrior, but he also thought one more lesson was in order. Taking his dagger, the captain held Oddr by his hair and sliced his cheeks from the corner of the lip in a horrific grin. “Now you will always know that I have the last laugh little boy” the captain gloated, turning his back on Oddr to complete the slaughter he had set himself upon before he was interrupted by this pup who thought himself a man.
Oddr swayed on his knees, his vision blurred by blood, sweat, and pain watching the tall shadow of his captain walking with sword draw towards the helpless victims, the captain’s harsh laughter ringing in his ears. All of the pain, all of his helplessness, shame, anger, and hate drew into the pit of Oddr’s stomach, flaring into an intense, bright point of cold fire. New strength lifted Oddr to his feat with a bloody snarl and he charged. Hearing this, the captain turned, sword raised only to be faced not with his battered ships boy but a blood soaked hell wight bearing down on him. The one moment of shock was all Oddr needed, batting aside the advancing blade he crashed into the captain, his fists crashing again and again into ribs, face, the bones snapping like kindling. He drove the captain to the ground, continuing to drive his hands into the hated face until it was no more, just a gory, gaping ruin.
Long after the captain was a cold corpse, Oddr kept pummeling him until the rage passed and overcome with fatigue and loss of blood, he swooned, blacking out onto the cold sand. He awoke several days later in a crude shelter, bringing tended by one if the village women. He was told that after he had so savagely killed the captain, the remaining reavers had taken the spoils of the raid but had left the children and released the women to honor what they believed had been a heroic death. Even though he had been one of the men who had helped slay their husband’s and sons the women folk had taken pity on Oddr, still little more than a boy himself, who had struggled so hard to save their children. They stitched up his wounds and tended to his fever as he slowly recovered. The scars on his face did knit together, however his face will forever bear a horrible permanent grin. Once he was well enough, Oddr thanked his saviors, taking his leave to make his way in the world. From the stories of the villagers and his former shipmates that spread he had garnered some small note particularly in his homeland of the Linnorm Kings. Soon he was appended the name “Last-Laugh” as he travelled the lands, earning his way with sword and axe as a mercenary and enforcer, doing his best to live by his own code of right and honor in a hard, cruel world often bereft of both.


Roy Batty

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 16, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Neon fractal light

Defines skyline knife point

Gouging bruise purple night

What is an ocean of concrete tombs

Becomes wire work frame

Electric sodium flare

Landscapes of LED cool flame

A moment of beauty

Perfect, transient, fragile.

Tears lost in rain

Voices drowned by white noise static

Constant flux wave

Signal to noise failing ratio

Faceless talking heads

Drone mumble meme fake plastic

Consuming the real and here and now

With reasonable facsimile

Bridging the uncanny valley

Blurring the edges

No more hard lines

With the machines dreaming for us

Silicone subsidized neuron synapse misfire

Phil dreamt of electric sheep

Who became flesh that dreams

Of what it’s told.

I can feel it slipping away

Feeble rapid beating

Warm between my hands

Vital struggling wings pinned

Beneath fingers loosing grasp

Unlaced and unclothed

Naked in the rain

Remembering all the moments

Before their gone

Adding up the sums

Creating monuments no one will see

Moving picture audience of one

Film reel slap ticking becomes

The beat if pale wings

Curtains fall down swish

End title card fading to black

Water gurgle whispers

“time to die”