|One hand cuts the other.|
I do pencil drawings and (a recently acquired hobby) hand-paint on clothes.
Comment or note me if you have a question or just feel like having some meaningful conversation.
Feel free to recommend me literature or music.
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. Nothing could hinder him, for within his vision there was only desire to conquer the horizon.
And so he charged forth, past Araby and Cathay; past Atlantis and Mu; past R'lyeh and Yondo, satisfied not with
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
The TransformationFor all the sense of safety in a marked path, a trail in the woods is an artificial boundary and the wilderness sees no need to respect it. Humans are full of these little tricks: little candles held against a darkness too vast to truly be conquered; little fictions that render the world less cruel and arbitrary.
To the smaller, simpler minds swarming in the undergrowth just off the marked trees there are no such fictions. The day is a series of leaps from narrowly-avoided death to narrowly-avoided death, and not every jump is made. At every step the hiker takes, marveling up at the peace of the canopy, a thousand tiny stories are slammed to a close in the teeth of the falcon, in the claws of starvation.
That's the cycle of life, the hiker says. He says safe and sage words about the perpetual chain, but the truth is that the world is cruel and capricious and that the only mercy in it is that our minds are, maybe, the only ones sophisticated enough to understand as much, and the only on
The GargoyleI had no face yet I could see. From the black pit which was my home, I saw it – a flaring white angel in the black heavens above. Never before did I realize there could be an above or a below, but when I saw the beams of the angel tunneling toward me through the darkness, it suddenly made sense. The angel spoke no words, yet I could feel its ethereal call, beckoning my soul to it. It only occurred to me then that I had a soul, and that it was deep inside me and a wholly separate thing from me, and that it wanted out.
Then I realized I had a body, and that this body was not me just as my soul was not me, and yet strangely both were woven into my existence at that moment, for my body, too, wanted out, and as a result my mind was made manifest with thoughts, and sought ways to escape the pit.
The beams of the angel illuminated strange shapes all around me. I could just barely perceive that these shapes were faces, each one different but all of them leering and grinning upon me.
The Flower-Maiden Young and supple Yelnak made his way through the prismatic jungle of Oorzal. His face was grim, for the colors of this jungle were not earthly colors, and at any moment he might face death from above, behind, below, or before his very eyes in the form of monstrous fungi or less describable things. Many stories were told of Oorzal and its unwholesome brood, of how even satyrs shunned its wilderness, and of how evils beyond imagination were masked by its magnificent colors. But he did not allow fear to deter him from his hunt, for his people were starving and he would brave the entire jungle to feed them. He was, however, lost amidst the unworldly vegetation.
Earlier Yelnak had given chase to one of Oorzal's less lethal inhabitants, a hoofed toad-thing covered in waves of writhing tentacles in lieu of fur, but after miles of pursuit, it vanished with an insane cackle, leaving the hunter stranded in the jungle's depths. His resolve was as of stee