October 5, 2008
Solving the Problem of Evil.
Either God is a Trickster, or Man is Morally Stupid.
(Hey, no one ever said that the Tree’s Knowledge was heritable.)
October 2, 2008
Grove of the Hesperides.
The tree would look like something from a horror film, if it weren’t for the fruit clinging to its branches. Tall, twisted, and dark gray, the woody giant is an awesome sight…
…But the fruit on its branches makes it even more so. These are the famed Golden Apples — but even a glance tells you that is something of a misnomer. Apples don’t glow like fallen stars. They don’t smell like a sort of sweet cinnamon. And, if there were anyone around who had eaten of the tree, he would tell you that they certainly don’t taste like apples — these fruit are all icy, sweet fire.
Or maybe that’s the immortality flowing through your veins…
The tree is so imposing that you fail to see the serpent coiled in its branches, but as he slithers down to you, you wonder how you could have overlooked him. He is, quite simply, massive. His gaze pins you to the spot, and you begin to feel like the child caught with one hand in the cookie jar — a thousand times over.
As you stand there, the pit of the stolen fruit falling from your numb fingers, you finally realize why no one has ever returned from the Garden…
September 29, 2008
Vandermeer.
Irina strode through the bar, ignoring the stir behind her.
In the back of the bar, a woman watched her, half smirking behind her glass. She was on the tall side, though it was a bit hard to tell since she was seated, and her rolled-up sleeves revealed muscled forearms. She was tanned and clad in sturdy, work-worn khaki. Add in the hazel eyes behind round copper-framed glasses and her bristling copper hair, and she was a study in earth tones.
A shotgun was nestled in the corner of the booth, beside the redhead. A glint of color above it resolved into a hummingbird, flitting about in the gloom of the bar.
Just like the woman had said. Irina stopped at her booth.
The woman raised her glass. “Goeienaand, Voevode.”
Dragonsson.
The bar door swung open. Ankhiale, in the midst of downing her drink, sat back in her seat as a ripple of unease swept through the room.
The woman who entered was a tall woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of an ink drawing – black hair, black leather, pale skin, pale eyes – save for the gleam of brass studs on her long coat, heavy boots, and thick gloves. The coat was fully buttoned, even the high collar. One hand held a long, polished ash pike. Her long nose and heavy eyebrows completed her severe appearance, and made her instantly identifiable.
The woman stopped at Ankhiale’s booth.
Ankhiale raised her glass. “Goeienaand, Voevode.”
July 5, 2008
A Story about a Box.
Well, first of all, it wasn’t a box.
(It is now. A foolish man broke it, and from its pieces I made a miniature mosaic chest.)
…formed perfect by the greatest craftsman the world had ever seen…
It was a jar, like a moderately large perfume jar, made of some luminescent green stone, with a copper stopper.
…knowledge of all crafts, the wisdom of the age…
And it didn’t hold what you think it did.
…speech and persuasion, grace and dignity…
Everything that they wanted for you, they put in that jar, and they gave it to me to deliver.
…justice, right laws, peace…
It was the heaviest jar in the world. It weighed nothing.
…beauty, mirth, and good cheer…
And they told me never to open it.
…but Hermes gave me a cunning mind.
But I knew what would happen if that jar remained sealed.
So I opened the lid…
But this isn’t my story. Or yours. Or even theirs.
…and let loose every ill you’ve ever known…
This is the story of a jar
…and faster than a human could move…
that contained
…in the long moment of a blink…
every good and true thing this world has ever known
…trapped the last of them in the jar. For you.
that was meant to be kept from you forever.
Here’s hope.
All golden ages must fall, lest we become monsters.
I am the All-Gifted, and I give you yourselves.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
—-
April 10, 2008
In the Labyrinth.
Bothvild stood outside the door, listening to the sibilant mutterings and the eerie, whistling cries coming from the room within. The fiery red glow that marked the smith’s presence wandered back and forth across the forge as Weilend paced. Steeling herself, Bothvild opened the door.
A fiery hand that somehow avoided burning her seized her arm. “What do you want, captor’s daughter?” asked the mad smith.
Trembling, Bothvild extended a cracked ring. “M-my father sent me to give this to you, and request that you repair it.” The princess flinched as Weilend snatched it from her fingers.
A strange light sparked in Weilend’s eyes, almost a light of recognition. Then he blinked, and it was gone. Unsure, Bothvild backed up.
Weilend chuckled. “Are you afraid of me, captor’s daughter?”
Bothvild swallowed, trying to force some cooperation from her dry tongue. “My name is Bothvild.”
“I don’t really care.” Weilend walked away from her, turning the ring over in his hand. “Get me out of here, and you might deserve a name.”
“I can’t.”
A glare from eyes that crackle with genuine flames is very unnerving. “Are you your father’s daughter?” He snapped the broken ring in two.
Bothvild fled.
She collected herself halfway down the first bend. Am I my father’s daughter?
In the back of her mind, an idea began to form.
In Hell.
Something prickled at Ashmedai’s awareness, needling him out of his trance state. The sound of chains echoed in his ears for a moment, but the demon ruthlessly forced the jangling back, searching out what had awakened him.
An angel stood in his doorway.
Ashmedai rasped a dry chuckle, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’ve finally begun hallucinating.”
“I doubt it.” Blue-gold light crackled across the room as Raziel moved. He stopped a few feet away from the laughing demon.
“Well, you didn’t fall, I’m sure. Not you. And I doubt the Voice would send you here for something, unless he didn’t intend for you to come back.” Raziel’s face tightened, and Ashmedai laughed again. “What, am I right after all?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here, Secret? Got lonely up there after all?” The red light coloring the room dimmed slightly as Ashmedai winked.
Raziel sighed. “None of the above. I know you know why I’m here, Ashmedai. You’re not as stupid as you act.”
Ashmedai froze, then buried his face in his hands. “I’m mad; you know that.”
Raziel knelt. “You’re not mad enough, you mean.”
“I’m hearing things…”
The angel pried Ashmedai’s hands away. “Yes, but nothing that isn’t real.”
Ashmedai glared up at Raziel. Raziel smiled grimly.
“He’s waking up, Ashmedai…”
In Miry.
Baal strode into Mot’s hall in Miry, brash as always.
“No guards?” came Mot’s soft voice.
“Do I need them? They did not help me defeat Yam,” Baal replied.
Mot slinked out of the darkness. “It was nice of you to come.”
Baal smirked. “What is it you want, Mot?”
Mot’s inky eyes fixed on Baal; in spite of himself, Baal shivered. Mot did not reply.
“You want my throne? Is that it? You’re not worthy, Mot. You’re a useless blot that had to be cast from the earth for life to thrive. You should be grateful that you were granted this much – you deserve nothing.”
In the gloom, Mot’s reaction was hard to gauge. “I have heard it all before, Baal.”
“Maybe you should listen sometime.”
“Maybe you should take your own advice,” Mot replied as the darkness moved around them. “I know Anat told you not to come alone.”
Baal didn’t have time even to blink before the Yellow Ones descended.
The Answerer.
Tethra looked down into the water, and locked gazes with Manannan. In the blink of an eye, the Danann’s face vanished into the water in a series of ripples. Suddenly angry, the Fomor threw a stone right where Manannan’s nose had been, but it sank into the turbulent depths, and clanged off something metal.
Tethra froze. It couldn’t be…
Tethra reached into the water, using his affinity with the ocean to guide his hand. Within moments, his fingers brushed against a foreign object –
- And his hand closed on a sharp blade. Biting back a curse, Tethra tried again. Grabbing the hilt this time, Tethra raised the blade.
The Answerer glimmered in his fist.
The ocean laughed with Manannan’s voice.
The ocean cried with Manannan’s voice, too.
Grimly, Tethra strode away from the seashore, the Answerer clutched tightly in his fist, as Manannan’s soul screamed behind him.
Two Serpents.
Nehebkau ran, throwing spell-core after spell-core behind him, sealing every door that he passed through.
He could hear them exploding open behind him.
Ahead of him was a room with no exits – at least, none that any sane person would take.
Fortunately for Nehebkau’s health, he wasn’t quite sane.
It was the work of moments to unseal the stairway to the Duat, and a whispered word severed the stairs’ supports, making entering the Duat even faster than usual.
Chains clanked in the darkness. “Ah… A little serpent this time.”
Nehebkau stiffened. “Aapep.”
“Nehebkau. Running from your sister?”
“Yes.” Nehebkau bit off the word. A cold hand gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at the Duat’s most notorious prisoner.
“Whatever for?” Aapep was amused, damn him.
“As if you don’t know,” Nehebkau spat.
Aapep coiled his serpentine lower body around Nehebkau, pinning him. “You have time to tell me,” whispered the serpent-man. “It’s nowhere near dawn.”
