|One hand cuts the other.|
I do pencil drawings and (a recently acquired hobby) hand-paint on clothes.
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we can't stayTriangular trickle,
fickle rage in cold borders
the meeting of my metacarpals
the fleeting of breaths o'er wooden warmth-
if it weren't foreboding they'd ask of you
if it weren't faltering we'd stay a while
and respire in the ambiance
of your citrus death.
The Dead Witch I present to you an old skazka, or Russian folk tale, adapted by myself, a non-Russian. Due to the differences between literature and oral tradition, a few alterations have been made to the story, though the fundamental plot remains exactly the same. I hope this strange tale is enjoyable, and also that it inspires you to investigate a little Slavic culture and folklore.
In a small village, there lived an old wise woman. All of the villagers consulted her in matters of healing and spells of good fortune, for she was the best at what she did. By her remarkable knowledge, by her well of ancient wisdom glimmering deep within her wily grey eyes, she guaranteed the village good crops, healthy animals, and fair weather, and removed curses from the victims of unclean spirits, with a proper payment of chickens, eggs, or vodka, of course. The old woman was no saint; she offered her services like anyone else with a useful skill or talent, a
Seltsame ErlebnisseDiese Geschichte habe ich vor einigen Jahren geschrieben und heute zufällig wieder gefunden:
"Ich erklimme einen Berg. Ich weiß, dass der Baum und der Berg eins sind. Immer senkrechter geht es nach oben,
durch die Wolken, dem Unbekannten, dem Göttlichen entgegen. Trotzdem fällt es mir nicht schwerer zu klettern.
Im Gegenteil, es wird sogar mit jedem Meter einfacher, als hätte der Baum seine eigene Schwerkraft. Nicht mehr
die Erde zieht mich an, sondern allein jener zyklopische Baum. Die Äste erscheinen mir wie gigantische Bäume, und doch sind sie winzig im vergleich zu ihrem Ursprung.
Ich erreiche einen seltsamen Ort. Finstere, dämonische Höhlen durchziehen den Stamm. Aus den Höhlen kommen mir furchterregende und dennoch seltsam vertraute Wesen entgegen. Sie erinnern entfernt an Affen, jedoch besitzen jene blasphemischen Kreaturen weder ein Gesicht noch einen Pelz, und die langen Schwänze, mit denen sie sich an den verworrenen
HorizonsA black swan flew behind the sun, shrouding it with pinions dark and unfurled before vanishing into the blue aether beyond. For but a cosmic moment the world flickered, and it was then that a great centaur, black as the all-encompassing shadow, emerged from the bowels of earth and took flight. On Hesperian fields he galloped, power coursing through his legs and into the ground he trampled, roaring like subterranean thunder many miles about. The whipping winds revealed a star-bright gaze beneath tangled locks, set madly upon the unimpeded horizon to which he flew. In his wake, mortals thought him a storm or tremor, prayed to their gods or crossed their hearts, and only a scant few could perceive the hooves in motion, demonic horns aloft, and monstrous arms upraised in passionate want.
And so he charged forth, past Araby and Cathay; past Atlantis and Mu; past R'lyeh and Yondo, satisfied not with any bounds of recent knowledge. He lept from mountain to towering mountain, from cloud to far
Recollection of Last Night's Dream: Jester's MoonFor some reason I had this really weird dream last night, and it was quite vivid. Like many dreams, I can only recall ,with some level of clarity, just a few of the events that occurred during the dream, but I do know that it was a consistent story instead of the oft common disjointed mess that most people tend to experience.
Anyways, I was dreaming that I was in a two story building staring at a window from the dark corner of the room. There was a crystalline night sky, stars shining and the moon waxed full. I was terrified of the moonlight that shone in through the windows like a beam, casting strands of pale blue illumination across the floor in sporadic patterns of indescribable complexity. The lights moved, swaying back and forth as if the moon was some kind of spotlight, but they couldn't reach me, not in that dark safety of the corner. I clung to it like a child would its mother.
Somehow I was given internal context to why I was scared in this moment. I lived in a world where if
I who silenced your goddessesWho are you the humans ask me in quiet whispers that worry at my ears like gnats.
I do not answer and look down haughtily from my throne of stars.
No, I laugh.
On your terms? I am not from elsewhere, I am not from anywhere, I have moved far
away from the lowly state of ‘belonging’, of having an anchor that ties me down.
No, not your type of goddess.
I know the universe ripples when I bend my fingertips, but the power in me is not
because I know that Hera gives life, Demeter grows, Artemis hunts, and Persephone laughs but
take life with every breath, tear with every tear, hunt to kill, destroy laughter when I smile.
Frigg gives love, Freya inspires it, but I grind love under my heel burn it in my nebulae.
I put Isis and Nekhbet in chains, I silenced Aphrodite and bound Venus to the stake.
My heart is powered by fury and hatred is the liquid fire gushing through my arteries,
resent is the power that holds my spine
Unnamed Story - Teaser #2The fire was consuming her, leaping from her arms to the wood walls that so easily flared up in great shades of gold and red. Embers drifted lazily through the air, while chaos reigned around them in ever brightening flames. Her eyes glinted gold as she angled her head, her movements predatory and her silhouette blurry as she turned ever so slowly.
“Who are you?” Ceri’s voice was hoarse from the smoke and nearly inaudible, yet she somehow knew that the girl could hear her.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The girl’s voice was soft as a feather, her gaze turning towards the darkened floor as she narrowed her eyes.
“Then why are you?” Ceri stepped closer, but the flames crawled along with her, as if they were protecting the girl of fire.
The girl clenched her fingers into a fist, the flames dampening slightly in response before flaring up again. “That is not your concern.” Her voice was hard as she whirled to face Ceri, slashing a
The Cult at Camp ClaiborneThere’s a story that folks in this neighborhood tell,
Of a coven that opened a portal to Hell,
They dwelt in Camp Claiborne, far back in the woods,
And hid all their faces beneath masks and hoods.
Camp Claiborne is evil, its soil now attainted,
Its buildings of concrete with blood once were painted,
And yet, my dear reader, you also should know,
That at its inception the camp wasn’t so.
In the wake of Pearl Harbor the camp was erected,
But what it would come to, none could have suspected.
They used it to ready young soldiers for war,
They trained to perfection and then trained some more.
But once the war ended and peace was declared,
The camp was deserted and in disrepair.
In time most forgot that it even existed,
Until a cult used it for purposes twisted.
It started with pets that began disappearing,
And deep in the woods, people soon began hearing,
What sounded like chanting or screams filled with pain,
And cackles of laughter that sounded insane.
At first these reports w
The Box Maker
Dust is sucked back into the earth around the impact as the creature rises. Blood droplets—sprayed crimson—migrate back into the point of entry, like shattered glass fragments as lungs breathe life again and eyes focus back into white clarity.
A silver bullet, glinting in the moonlight as it spins in slow revolutions, is ejected from reforming muscle and flesh, and hurled back into the air to follow a linear path, back into the muzzle of the pistol amidst an enveloping embrace of powder smoke.
“.sdne ti erehw si sihT” says the Hunter, putting the weapon back into its holster beneath his leather coat. He backs off as the creature also retreats, in a loping show of power, towards the trees. Neither turns, moving resolutely away from one another.
The creature hits the ground a second time as it's pulled backwards, the report of