You’re one of the very last humans surviving amid the apocalyptic wreckage of earth; your salvation comes in the form of aliens interested in conserving endangered species.
@deadcatwithaflamethrower, @obaewankenope, @maawi, @stonefreeak, @meabhair, @lilyrose225writes, @eclipsemidnight y’all in the mood for some morbid funny?
It was a fucking accident.
That’s probably all at once the best and worst thing you could have to say about our species. We were sitting on a powder keg—global warming, loose ice shelf, a supervolcano in Yellowstone, and fuck knows what political shit-throwing competition. Russia was surfing the hacker waves and North Korea was finally building successful baby-nukes. With borrowed engines. Probably from Russia.
It was a perfect storm all its own without any additions. But it all hung in the balance, and nobody really paid it much mind except in the moment every new bit of nonsense was achieved and announced.
One thing I’ll say for my species, we’re amazingly good at archival. Literally every single blasted event was reported, overreported, reviewed, turned, twisted, viewed from one point or another or yet a third, analysed, reported again, filed away for a week and then dredged back up again for a few more kicks to the corpse. Of course, when you’re trying to keep up with the vagaries of a seventy-year-old disorganised orange mop-haired husk, you have to step up your natural talent a bit, so in the last year or so it’s been something of a necessary obsession.
All this archival is a bit pointless without the internet. The old information systems—radio transmission and all that—lived the longest after our little Big Bang.
So when I say, it was an accident, that’s from back when we still had information at our fingertips. No one had the chance to twist it up yet or anything. Or at least I think so. It’s either a mark of the human condition that we’d go out in a massive flare of irony, or it’s my personal perception—either way I find the futility of it all morbidly appealing and I’m (one of?) the last ones here to tell the story, so my version is what you’re getting.
A ship wandered out into the middle of what was supposedly contested area because they were trying to outrun a storm and some freak accident knocked out their electronics—you know, like it did with those couple of planes a year ago? Shit, was it two years now? Whatever. A hostile power viewed the situation as a threat and fired off a little nuke. What’s a couple rads between friends, anyway?
Probably shouldn’t have hit Yellowstone. Fucked up their vector in a hurry, I guess.
So. For those (whoever’s left? I guess?) who don’t know, Yellowstone National Park was sitting pretty right on top of a damn supervolcano. Which is to say, there’s this absolutely giant lake of heated molten rock under a pretty thin surface. And we’d been talking for years about how the continental shelf on the West Coast of the United States was one day gonna fucking move, and we’d lose—heck, Japan and coastal states at least? And that could spark Yellowstone anyway?
Well, about that.
Tag: original works
You are a guard in a fantasy world. You notice a man in elegant armor kick a chicken in the streets. In your lawful rage, you manage to kill this man in the name of justice. To your dismay, you realize you just killed The Chosen One. You just doomed the world.
In my defense, it was self-defense.
I saw him saunter through town in his expensive, fancy armor, nearly bowling over Granny Fairchild when she didn’t get out of his way fast enough. I didn’t think much of him – no one did, that I knew – but what was I going to do? The man was clearly some sort of lord or higher, and I’m just a guard. Not even a captain or sergeant! Just a normal, everyday run-of-the-mill guard.
In short, there’s nothing special about me. No special training, no special knowledge – unless you count laws, which I memorized – nothing whatsoever.
I didn’t say anything when he demanded prices to be lowered, and forced his “goods” on us. Spoils of adventures, he said. You can’t get them anywhere else. What are we going to do with forty preserved wyvern eyeballs! It’s not something any of us can use. I don’t care how much some wizard in a city we’ve never been would pay for them.
I didn’t say anything when he aggressively flirted with all the women, to the point that little Maria started crying and her brothers looked for sharp objects. Thank the gods that Maria’s wife is so quick-thinking, and got his attention elsewhere! It would have been a very ugly, very deadly brawl, and Maria would have lost her brothers.
I didn’t say anything when he co-opted the blacksmith’s forge to make a few daggers to push on us – because his skill is so legendary, however were we to survive without his priceless daggers? Ahmed was unable to fulfill his orders that day, and will now have to work twice as hard to catch up! And I wanted him to look at my gauntlet, too, because it was starting to look a little warped at the wrist.
But when I saw that man start to kick around Granny Fairchild’s chickens, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. Those chickens are all she has! Every morning, Granny Fairchild comes to market with a basket of fresh eggs, and we all buy some – even if we don’t need eggs – to make sure she doesn’t go hungry. Like most of us, she refuses handouts and charity, preferring to get by on her own.
“You can’t do that,” I told him, using my sternest voice.
“Do what?” he asked, kicking a hen and sending her scuttling.
“That,” I said. “Kicking chickens. Or any animal. You can’t do that.”
“Who’s going to stop me?” he asked arrogantly. He looked me up and down, mockingly. “You?”
And just to be an ass, he took out his sword and killed one of the chickens right then and there.
Now, killing someone’s animal isn’t necessarily an arrestable offense. You get a fine, you pay it, and you go on your way. Especially something small, like a chicken. A cow, now, or a horse, that’s a different story. But a chicken – no.
But by this point, I was so tired and so fed up with his attitude. Who was he to walk into our village in his fancy, expensive armor and harrass our people? Making our shy girls cry, assaulting our widows and grandmothers, nearly robbing us blind by forcing his “goods” on us in exchange for ours, and putting good people out of work for his barely average daggers? An entitled ass, I tell you.
So I took out my sword and intended to bash him at the back of his head to bring him to his knees. It’s not a very brave act, to attack someone from behind, but you must understand that even then, he was some mighty adventurer while I am a lowly village guard. In a fair fight, I had no chance.
Apparently, I hit him too hard, or just right, because he went down like a sack of potatoes and didn’t get up. I looked him over, then call for our healer. When she arrived, she pronounced him dead and congratulated me.
Imagine that, being congratulated for being a murderer.
Well, we gathered his things and I sent out a report to my sergeant in the next village over, who must have forwarded it to the captain, because the next thing any of us knew, we had an entire garrison marching on us. The captain demanded to see me, and I reluctantly made my way up.
I murdered a lord’s son, I thought. They’re going to arrest me for murdering a lord’s son! There goes my career!
I hadn’t murdered a lord’s son, of course. I did something much worse.
“You killed Adam Draxon, Hero of a Thousand Lands?” the captain demanded. He looked me up and down, much like the man did, but less mocking and more incredulous.
“I never knew his name,” I managed, nearly biting my tongue in two I was stammering so bad.
“He wore the Crest of King Ellifry!” the captain said. “How could you not know?”
“Is that what it was? I thought it was a fat eagle…”
The captain and all his men stared at me for a long moment, where I was certain that time must have stopped, because it lasted an eternity.
“He was on his way to slay the vicious dragon plaguing Balewood Forest! And you killed him!”
“It was an accident!” I protested. “I was trying to arrest him.”
“Arrest him?!” The captain was apoplectic. “You were trying to arrest the Hero of a Thousand Lands? For what? What could he have possibly done to make you arrest him?!”
“He, ah, well, you see… Hm. It was like this…”
“Go on, I’m listening. I’m very eager to hear your reasoning.”
I took a deep breath. “IwasarrestinghimforkillingGrannyFairchild’schicken.”
“What?”
“He killed Granny Fairchild’s chicken,” I said again, slower. I didn’t dare look up. The captain wears some nice boots. Shiny. Tailored. “So I was arresting him.”
“You murdered Adam Draxon, Hero of a Thousand Lands, Defender of the Free People, for killing a chicken?”
“It was an accident!” I protested again. “I was just trying to… subdue… him…”
“And who, pray tell, is going to slay the dragon plaguing Balewood Forest?” the captain asked me scathingly. “You?”
“I can’t kill a dragon!” I said. I’m pretty sure I squeaked, too.
“You killed the Hero of a Thousand Lands,” he told him, sarcasm practically dripping from his voice. “You must be a mighty warrior, so a dragon can’t be too difficult a task for you.”
I stared at him in disbelief for a long moment. In that moment, I saw something. Okay, a lot of things, but mostly the one. I saw fear. Not of me, gods no. The captain was afraid. I had – accidentally or not – killed our only hope against the forces of darkness in our world. Who was going to slay the dragon? Certainly not me; I’d be lucky if I got close to the beast. And certainly not the captain. Really, there was only one person who was capable of such a feat, and he was moldering in an unmarked grave in our village cemetery.
The next few hours went by in a blur. I was given the Hero’s old things – things we had carefully packed away and inventoried to prevent theft – to protect me. I was told some of it had magic, like protection against evil and the like. It looked pretty, but ultimately worthless. What would a shiny ring do against a dragon, except make it envious and eat me for the ring?
Really, what else did I expect? If I had stayed, I would have been hanged for murder, at best. At worst, I would have been drawn and quartered in some public place while my entire family was arrested and enslaved for my crimes. In a way, the captain was saving me. This was a chance to redeem myself – albeit a very small, very dangerous, and very, very stupid chance. But it would keep me from a very public execution, which was generally better.
It’s not like the thought of chucking all of the Hero’s things the minute I got out of sight and running never occurred to me. It did. Numerous times. I thought about it as I lay awake at night. I thought about it as I heard story after story after story of the Dragon of Balewood Forest. But someone had to try, damnit. Someone had to at least try.
I never did get my gauntlet fixed.
When I had finally made it to the dragon – which, by the by, involved talking wolves and a bargain with a witch that I’m pretty sure she now regrets as you can’t exactly extract a dead person’s first born if they’ve never had children – I was tired, and hungry, and terrified out of my wits.
The mountain wasn’t as big as I pictured. It was a large hill, at most, with a shallow cave. I climbed up – a feat, I assure you, that sounds more daunting that it was. I mostly walked, and like Balewood Forest, it was a pleasant walk. And when I reached the mouth of the cave, I mustered all my meager courage to shout my challenge to the Dragon of Balewood Forest.
“H-hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”
A roar echoed from the cave – a massive sound that had me quaking – and smoke curled out. I felt a blast of heat roll out of the cave.
“Look, I’d just like to talk for a bit,” I said. “If you have time, that is. I can come back tomorrow, if now’s not a good time for you!”
Heroic bravery at it’s finest, I tell you.
I felt an impact that was like being hit by a mountain. I thought at first it must be some sort of cave-in or avalanche, but not. Just dragon. I rolled down the hill a ways, losing the sword and shield almost instantly along with my bearings. I had barely stopped moving when a clawed paw pinned me to the ground, and I was face-to-face with a wall of long, sharp teeth and sulfuric breath.
“Adam Draxon!” the beast roared at me. “You murdered my parents! You have left me an orphan! Do you have anything to say for yourself before I kill you?”
“Um, I’m not Adam Draxon,” I said.
“What?!” the dragon screeched. It pulled back just enough to look at me with one beautiful sapphire eye. Really, if you get the chance to look at a dragon’s eyes, you should.
“I’m not, um, I’m not Adam Draxon,” I repeated. “I’m not anybody.”
The dragon pulled away, glowering at me. “You’re wearing his armor. You’re wearing his Crest!”
“I still think it looks like a fat eagle,” I muttered as I took the Crest off and tossed it aside. “Look, I know you were expecting Adam Draxon, and I’m sorry, but I’m here. So can we talk, please?”
“Where’s Adam Draxon?” the dragon demanded, arching itself up to look bigger. For all the stories I’d ever heard, the dragon was really about the size of a large draft horse. Certainly not the size of a house, like I was told. And it’s scales – while very bright – weren’t exactly what you’d call shiny.
“Um, he’s, uh… well…” How do you explain that the Hero of a Thousand Lands is dead? Especially to someone who wants to cook and eat him? “He, uh, he died.”
The dragon cocked it’s head to look at me with one eye. “Dead? You expect me to believe that the Slayer of a Dozen Dragons and Terror to the Dark is dead?”
“Yeah, I was surprised, too,” I admitted. “It was an accident.”
“Accident?” the dragon roared. “An accident?!”
“Well, how else was he going to die young?”
The dragon lowered itself and stared at me for a long, long, long time. “You don’t smell like you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“But you don’t smell like you’re telling the truth.”
“It’s… complicated.”
“Tell me.”
I took a deep breath. “I was trying to arrest him. His back was turned, and I hit him too hard with the pommel of my sword.”
“… he’s really dead?”
“He’s really dead.”
“But he killed my parents!”
I walked up and patted the dragon on it’s shoulder. “I know, I’m sorry.”
And that’s how I “defeated” the Dragon of Balewood. He told me his story, and I listened for a while, and when night fell, he invited me to stay with him. A dragon lair is surprisingly clean and comfortable, and we talked most of the night. The dragon – Lorcanthan – was in need of a permanent home. The terrorizing was merely to get Adam Draxon to his location, so he could get revenge for the murder of his parents. There was very little terrorizing, I learned, as Lorcanthan mostly showed up and bothered the horses and maybe burned a field by accident.
That morning, I decided to go to the villages around Balewood Forest. For the better part of a season, I went to each village and spoke with the people. In truth, very little actual damage occurred, and even then, it was mostly by panicking animals. The mayors and headsmen were very reluctant to speak with me about the matter, at first, but slowly listened to what I had to say.
Later, I went to Lorcanthan and had him come with me to the outskirts of Balewood, where the mayors and headmen were waiting. I helped negotiate a deal for them, between the dragon and villagers. And so the Dragon of Balewood went from plague to protector.
Really, that’s how it started.
Afterwards, I went to speak to the witch about the bargain, and she was willing to wait. Being as the bargain was struck when I was under extreme duress, I managed to talk her down to shared custody. We’ll figure out the details when I do have a child, I guess. She sent me to talk to her sister, who was across the country, about a matter involving kidnapping.
That was a horrible, horrible case, where I discovered the the Wicked Sorceress of the North was being blamed for the actions of a vile man. The less said, the better, but when I had settled that matter, word go around.
And when a Horde of Orc Barbarians led by Thorid the Bloodthirsty threatened, I was sent to deal with them. I don’t know how, exactly, it happened, because I had a few drinks with Thorid, but I ended up accidentally challenging his eldest to a duel and – purely by chance, I promise! – killed her. Which made me, by Orc law, Thorid’s heir. Somehow. And second-in-command.
When Thorid died from gangrene from an untreated injury by boar, I became the leader of the Horde of Orc Barbarians.
From there, things got complicated fast. And now I’m the Leader of the Dark Forces, and it’s the eve of war. I sent King Ellifry a letter asking that he meet with me to negotiate this matter, but I haven’t heard back yet. I’d really rather avoid the whole war thing, but honestly, when you actually sit down and listen to the Dark Forces, you learn that there’s a lot of inequality and oppression that really needs to be addressed.
And as a guard sworn to uphold the law, it’s up to me to see that it is addressed.
Never did get my gauntlet fixed.
I had a very David Lynch-inspired dream… I was offered a cup of coffee by A Mysterious Entity that I remember nothing about, and was pleasantly surprised by the flavor.
“Funny,” I said. “I don’t usually drink my coffee black, but this isn’t bad.”
The Entity began to laugh. “That’s not coffee you’re drinking,” it said, darkly.
I paused with the mug to my lips as horror slowly dawned on me. Then something inside my head shrugged, said ‘fuck it’, and tipped the mug back. I did not blink or break eye contact with The Entity as I slowly chugged whatever nightmarish substance it had given me.
There was an awkward silence, and The Entity cleared its throat uncomfortably.
#when the eldritch fucks with you you fuck with it right back
There’s really one one thing to do when the Abyss shows up across from you at the diner. You hand it the sports section, make sure that there’s coffee on the table, and go about your morning. The Abyss doesn’t really mind that you don’t make eye contact anymore, because after a while staring at it it gets super shy about it. (It’s adorable really.) The Abyss lets you pay for coffee only half the time, which is a victory over not drinking it at all.
The Darkness tends to fall into step just as you’re turning the corner from the diner, headed for work, and The Darkness hisses like an angry cat if there’s rain, and basks in little alleys if there’s sun. There’s usually some sort of rattling window chatter, because The Darkness is a gossip if nothing else. It would be more informative if the Darkness actually spoke English and not Eldrich. The Darkness is your oldest companion, and does not care that you don’t speak Eldrich. It likes your puns.
On the REALLY rough days, the Void will show up and offer you lunch. It’s nothing ever fancy, but the sandwiches are thick and the tea is sweet and cold. The Void understands the screaming after all, and likes to make it better sometimes. It’ll show up when you need someone to talk to, and doesn’t judge. You have to be careful though because the Void will fill your pockets with stale saltines if you let it.
When you’re least expecting it, The Silence will descend. The Silence is often seen as oppressive, but sometimes it’s nice. Warm lazy days, the clinking of ice as the tea brews on the windowsill. The Silence buys ten dollars worth of mystery novels and cheap romances, without saying a word. The register does not ding. The bell above the door does not ring. The Silence will sometimes leave ancient tomes on the counter, because it knows you like the classics.
Chaos likes to play little pranks. Signs rearranged, the spiders on the counter instead of on top of their bookshelves. There’s something exasperating about closing up to find that all your books are no longer sorted by genre, but by the second letter of the authors middle name. Chaos giggles as it skips around the corner, but you’re going to get it froyo anyway, because Chaos needs relationship advice always. Karma is unforgiving and Chaos likes getting its lifemate nice things, but what it thinks are nice and what Karma thinks are nice aren’t the same thing. It likes it when you offer it a Macys catalog and a hard stare.
Now, it’s easy to live with these Eldrich Horrors. They’re regular people after all, and you have a ROUTINE. Tuesday to Sunday. Breakfast at the diner, the walk to the bookstore, the little things during the day that make it comfortable. These are the normal things you’ve dealt with since you were small.
The Abomination? The Abomination is an ASSHOLE. The Abomination shows up like a stalker, does things to your food, watches your face as you come home to your tulips dug out, the paint on your house scratched, the tree turned to ash. The Abomination leaves you dead squirrels and birds on the front stoop, and cackles as you try to scrub blood out of the mat. (You get a new mat on the way home from work every Thursday.)
The Horrors respect you, for once upon a time, you looked each of them in the eye, dared them to do their worst. Called their bluff. Played metaphysical poker and won. Royal Straight Flush. You looked into the eyes of the fears of man, and you smirked. Ever since, they have followed you, a strange sort of friends. You do not invite them into your home. They do not leave you spread on the ground as obscenity.
It’s a quiet sort of life, but not one that’s empty. There’s never a dull moment, and you would never have it any other way.
And still more, because I had an extra dorm duty today! (The file name is “sorceress” but that lacks something as a title….)
Next part of the original story (that needs a name one of these days).
In an effort to ward off Death and live forever, you have created a safe room filled with all kind of talismans, good luck charms, and magic circles. It doesn’t work: The Reaper found you anyway and you die just the same. Only, now neither of you can seem to get out past all the wards.
“In my defense,” Timothy begins meekly, nervous fingers digging into the hem of the ghostly remains of his shirt. “I didn’t actually think you’d find me.”
Hey flamethrower, I was wondering if I could ask you a question? I’m a writer like you and for a while its been bothering me that outside of my immediate circle of friends and family I have no way of sharing my writing with other people. I write original fiction so I feel like I can’t really post any of it, and your post asking us not to share any of Ashlesha makes me wary about posting on the internet. Do you have any suggestions about how I could reach out to a wider audience? Thank you
I absolutely do have advice for you, and it’s awesome.
(And I only meant that I didn’t want the original fanfic version of Ashlesha wandering around the internet, but I know it’s gonna happen regardless.)
Self-publish. That’s how you reach out and gain readers.
If you’re not ready to self-publish in a way that gets you a wide reader base, or if you want to build up a reader-base first, AO3 also accepts–and protects–original posted works.
As for self-publishing, now that I have gone through the miserable process of learning it all? I can totally tell you how to do it, and it’s sort-of simple.
But I’m not doing it at 6am. (Whoops, not supposed to be awake right now.)
I *will* help you if you email me. Use my tumblr ident @gmail, and I will tell you Things. When I’m awake. *g*
If you happen to see this reblog, nonnie, I’m a fanfic AND selfpublished original fic writer, and my advice if you’re not quite ready to leap out there and start asking money for your work… self-publish on Wattpad.
There are a LOT of writers who got their start there, and STILL write there. There are people who post say the first three chapters of a book for free, and then you can buy the rest off Amazon if you’re so inclined.
Just another thought!
I’m also putting together a series of anthologies designed to help fandom and new authors take that leap to self-publishing. You need to be able to write smut scenes, but it’s worth taking a look at my upcoming opportunities to see if any of them interest you!
Reblogging for job opportunities!
(I am looking at someone in particular who is going to hide under plushies when she realizes it.)
Wait, AO3 accepts original works now?
It does indeed! (I sometimes go take a look at the original works tag because there’s some interesting stuff in there. I have a couple of bits and pieces up that are original works too, though not much. Been up for a couple years now, I think.)
Edge In Shadow
Went looking at one of my older original ‘verses because one of @lectorel‘s posts niggled at me about it, and I’m re-reading my stories, and grumbling at myself over a few things, and making mental notes about research to do to take what I have and expand it. Ok, and actual notes, too, because who knows when I’ll have the spoons to go doing the research needed.
When I wrote these, nearly a decade ago, I deliberately left out names and places and other markers, and now I’m pretty damned sure it’s (a) all the US, thank you, (b) all but two of the characters are either not male, straight, white, cisgender, protestant, thin, able-bodied, neurotypical, monogamous, or wealthy, most are multiples of that, and © the two that are all or most of the above (they both may fail to be wealthy) are very distinctly the villains of their pieces.
Putting the rest beneath a cut because I don’t actually have the stories themselves posted publicly anywhere, and without them as reference, some of the bits might not make sense.
…. Erm, ok, and some of the snippets and bits I’m thinking are worth keeping, in some fashion or another, are also under the cut.
Also, anyone who wants to take the idea of a world where magic is present, and deeply distrusted in the US (just another minority to exploit, oppress, and murder, as far as the government is concerned), and run with it, or any of these characters, feel free. I’m honestly not sure I’m up to writing much in this particular ‘verse at the moment. It’s depressing, and I do not have the spoons to deal with it as is right now.
The pair who are straight – one is black or Native American or both, and the other is ADHD or autistic, and she’s very fond of playing a very particular sort of game (magic, it’s a cooperative game, the goal is to create something pretty and interesting and challenging for each other to add to). They’re the ones in the most bits, and in the end, theoretically, he dies. At least, as far as anyone from the outside would think. I’m not entirely sure he actually does so. (I’m also, while still proud of certain lines of his dialogue, am not certain I’m proud of them in context so much as out of it.)
The boy who suffers entirely more than he should, damnit, is transgender and utterly confused by people who care. He’s also physically disabled, and possibly has mental health issues beyond C-PTSD. He’s definitely nonverbal, and whether that is just because talking was dangerous or more than that, I don’t know.
The woman who dances in the storm surge and incoming hurricane is poor, and lives along the Atlantic coast, somewhere south of Delaware. Most likely, considering my own experiences, Maryland or North Carolina.
The person the priest makes the mistake of confronting is AFAB nonbinary whose depression tends to manifest as rage. Who has no one to turn to, is suicidal, and has absolutely no qualms about taking everyone around them with them.
I have no idea who the woman who is the figure in the dancing bit is, but I’m fairly certain her deities of choice are deities of life and death, creation and destruction. She’s also probably not thin, but I have so little to work from in her snippet. (Which is at the end of this post.)
The band is a trio who are poly, whose gender I can’t figure out, are pissed off, are probably white and probably aren’t the heroes they want to be, but they’re the ones the media focuses on, so they say fuck it, and do their damndest to turn conversations and interviews to those who are being exploited and murdered and stripped of their rights by a right-wing, conservative, reactionary government.
And the one with roses, I only know the villain of the piece, and I would dearly love to punt the “Inspector” into a deep dark pit full of pissed off non-venomous snakes. Because it’ll take longer for him to die than if they were venomous. (I’m not posting any bits from it.)
Interesting lines and snippets:
“Can’t control the mountains with iron and piss. Can’t trap the wind in a jar.”
“You can’t hear her screaming, and you think you have the power to hold her back. Think that concrete and steel will keep her out, that by burying your prison cells far from shore or fault line you’ll hide from her fury.”
“Mother’s cradle, hands rocking you to sleep. Can’t run now, the walls are shaking off their foundations. Don’t scream now, baby’s sleeping.”
“I don’t intend to go down quietly when they find me.” Take them with him, instead. Expend every trace of energy he could gather in a brilliant firestorm that would be hard to miss.
There’s a knock on the door, and he looks up, uncertain why the person hasn’t just come into the room. Surely it can’t be his, something like this never is. He curls against the pillow, his arms wrapping around his knees as he waits for the person to come in, for them to tell him he doesn’t belong here, to leave.
An admonishment that never comes, even when the person finally opens the door, looking in uncertainly before giving him an encouraging smile, and asking him if she can come in. He doesn’t know what to say, a shiver going through his body. No one ever asks him anything. No one cares enough.
Except they do care, they tell him. Let him stay in the room, let him eat as much as he wants, never hurt him, never tell him what he can do is wrong. He doesn’t come out very often, sits at the window and watches the rain, tracing the trickles of water that slide down the other side of the glass. He can’t quite bring himself to believe them, can’t quite believe this is real.
“You cannot take this from me,” she murmured, a smile curving her lips before she shouted it again. Laughing as she spun, feet splashing in the surging surf, arms stretched wide. Knowing she was dancing on the knife’s edge, all but daring the storm to take her off her feet, take her away from this world entirely, and not caring if it did.
“Cling to your cross and your book, holy man. Pray that your god will deliver you into the mercy of death, because I will have no such kindness for you.”
“Oh, call me a demon, call me an angel, call me a god. Call me mother, call me father, call me Death.”
“The world believes they’re wrong, believes we as a nation are wrong. A whole generation of Americans believes they’re wrong.”
“Change is a necessity, or a culture stagnates, and they’re desperate to prevent the change their children and grandchildren want. Everything they say and do makes them look like they’re trying to recreate the ‘good old days’, to create a time that never actually existed.”
"If they’re wrong, what would you say to the violence known to be committed by the so-called ‘magical community’?”
“Most of it can’t even be proven to have been them, rather than acts of nature, or the malice of those who want to maintain the status quo. That which can be confirmed is them defending themselves, which isn’t illegal unless you’re using magic. They aren’t afforded the right to live their own lives, to be human, in this country, only the right to be government property and cannon-fodder.”
Dance With Us
Hands raised with arms spread in welcome, she stands in the center of the circle, her lips moving in silent invocation. Hips sway slightly to the beat of intangible drums, hands beating out an old rhythm for her call. Warrior and mother, creator and destroyer, beauty and danger. Old memories rising on wind and dancing around her in a heartbeat promise of renewal.
Blood on stone, death and new life. Voice rising with the wind, drums louder beating against her skin. Ecstatic in the pain and the promise, pleasure warm as the blood painting her bare skin. The roar of wind, swirling around her filled with dust.
Dance, daughter. Dance with Us.
Yet more of this story, overlapping slightly with the last post because it ended in the middle of a paragraph.
More of this story
There's a Mirror on the Wall 