Kiss of Death

 
KISS OF DEATH

She didn’t mean to kill him, never wanted him to die. She wanted only what everyone wanted, to be touched, to be loved, to be part of something beyond just her.

Eris looked down on his lifeless form and wiped the tears from her cheeks just as the fear began to creep in. How would she explain this? She couldn’t tell them the truth. Even if they believed her, they would still condemn her and find her a monster. She had to get him out of here, remove any trace that he had ever been here. It would be night soon. She could secret him out then, take him home where when they found him, they would think he died of natural causes. Yes, that is what she must do! So, she gathered his things and put his clothes back on him, placed his keys back in his pocket and waited.

The first faint rays of the predawn were softly illuminating the sky as she pulled back in her driveway. The black skeletal branches of the trees reaching up to the sky as if to grab the last morsel of darkness before it was swept away. Their bare fingers strike deep within her, sister spirits to the barrenness of her soul. She took a deep breath, then got out of the car and went inside.

Eris looked about the room as she entered and took in what must be done. She turned on the stereo. Dark Gothic music fills the air, the instruments throwing Cathedral waves through the room pierced by the ethereal voice of the singer. She allowed it to enter her and spur her into action. She walked across the room and picked up the glasses and plates from the table, took them into the kitchen to wash out the evidence of the shared evening.

The sun was well up by the time Eris finished and all memory of the night before wiped clean. No scent of him lingered, no trace of anything beyond her remained. She drew the heavy curtains, lit the candles in the room and took a seat on the cushion in the center, a glass of liqueur in her hand and lets the music begin to carry her away. She gazed at the flames curling and licking the air in the fireplace. She loved the dance of the flames, the feel of the warm heat touching her face, the soft tendrils of smoke reaching up. As she watched the flames, her mind began to still, a quietness entering her soul and her thoughts began to slowly drift.

Images and memories began to float through her mind The faces of the past began to stream by, the scents, the feel of their fingertips upon her arm. Each tale unwinding, opening itself, recounting in her mind, taking her back to each moment, each touch, each final embrace.

There was John. The first, with his eyes as blue as a spring sky and a smile that could make you forget everything bad in the world. He could make her laugh as no one ever could, either before or since. It wasn’t hard to be swept away by this gentle giant of a man and he wasted no time in sweeping her to his side. Those were easier times then, girls were expected to keep their distance. Keep it or lose respect. That was when she was still naive, when she thought they were just stories told told to frighten her into good behaviour They tasted of the stuff that fairy tales were weaved from. Not things that were of this world. And such cruelty couldn’t be true. She couldn’t be so cursed. And the more time she spent with John, the easier it was to push it from her mind and believe she could have what she had been made to believe had been denied.

It went on for months, the days riding the pastures, talking in the little cafes, strolling through the parks and going to the theater. The countless hours they spent talking and laughing and sharing their worlds. She began to relax and forget. And they talked of their futures together, of the life they would share. Then came that fateful day when he bent to his knee, took her hand in his, then slipped the ring on her finger. A moment later it was all gone, in the blink of an eye, his body slumped at her feet.

She put him on his horse and sent it flying with her whip. Then she ran. Ran until the tears had ceased to flow. Till she no longer knew where she was. Or who she was. Only that the words spoken to her when she was a child were echoing, pounding through her mind. The stories wrapped around her and she could no longer deny that she was them.

How many more were there after John? There was Claire, the beautiful artist that painted the dreams of angels. Her desire, so fierce, she couldn’t resist. She was a force of nature that carried all it came across with it. She never dreamed that Claire could be a danger, for such a thought was unnatural. Even for one such as her. But, from Claire, she learned that such bounds do not exist in love. The wicked cherub cares not where he shoots his arrow, nor finds fault where it lands. She learned that the night of the showing as they stood out on the balcony of her home and Claire reached to touch her face. Then leaned and she felt the warmth of her breath almost touching. Her loss, thought a suicide by everyone, sending her work into fame after.

Dear, sweet Charles. So like a child in many ways, trusting, innocent and patient. She held him at bay for the longest. It wasn’t hard as he never pressured her on anything. That is, until the day of the accident. He was so afraid she couldn’t love him anymore and wouldn’t believe her until she proved it. He never left the hospital and they believed his heart just wasn’t strong enough to recover from the injuries.

So many more through so many years. So many times she tried to seclude herself from others, from temptation. She even tried secreting herself in a convent once away from temptation, away from tempting. But, the young priest with the haunted eyes spirited his way into her heart. She was not the first he sought to seduce, so when they found his broken form at the base of the tower, they assumed his guilt had driven him there.

It wasn’t long before she began to realize that she didn’t seem to age as others did. It would not be safe to stay in one place too long. It was only a matter of time before others took note of it as well. So, she became a wanderer, a gypsy, moving from city to city and eventually across the continents. She watched societies rise and crumble, was witness to the intense goodness in the hearts of men as well as the unspeakable evil. It was this intrigue with the complexity of them that held her locked to them. No matter how many times or ways she tried, she couldn’t keep her distance for long: ever and always drawn back to them. And always there would be another one that would reach out to her and touch her heart.

The curse of her kind was told her when she was but a young girl. Her kind, it was said, had been around for as long as humans had. It may be that they came from the same seed. Always they were drawn to each other by a need that wrapped them in a net and bound them, one to the other. Their desire, a calling that could not be dismissed or ignored. She was told of the cautions she must take in life. That she must harden her heart to their calling. Or at the very least, not take them into her heart. She listened to all the tales, all the cautions, all the histories. But, they made her feel alive as nothing else did. And even when the tales proved true, still she hoped that maybe there was one who could rise after the kiss. One that didn’t grow cold after.

The flames had died to glowing embers as she began to return to the now. She set her glass down and rose to begin putting out the candles She heard voices approaching from outside. She peeked out the curtains and saw the car out front. Panic seized her and she began to go over everything in her mind of what could have been forgotten. She was always so careful! She heard their footsteps coming up the walk to the door and felt a wave of panic setting in. Did she forget something? Did she leave something? Was she seen?

She opened the door to them and invited them in. There were three of them, so official in their crisply pressed blue uniforms. They begged admittance and the door seemed to open to them of its own accord. His sister had found him there, they told her, when she went to pick him up early that morning. A stunned look swept over Eris’ face. She hadn’t known about any plans he had. She felt a small sense of relief when she looked up at the officers and it was obvious they registered it as shock over the news and offered up condolences.

She took each one of them in as her mind began to whirl over what to say, to do next. The older, heavy set one with the ruddy cheeks and playful eyes. He was no worry to her. The gentleness in his gaze told her all he felt was compassion. The young slim one as well was not a concern. He hadn’t been on the force long, still nervous, eyes darting about the room and wiping his palms on the tops of his legs frequently. He was here to watch and learn. That’s why there were three of them and not just two.

But, the one with the grey eyes, so intent, so serious, she knew she couldn’t lie to him. He watched every breath she took, every move she made, listened far beyond the words, making note of the inflections and every movement that accompanied them. No, this one would spot a lie in an instant. The tale must be told in truth. That she could do. There were ways to tell the truth that could turn the story in many different directions.

So, she told them of her night with Mike, of their time together and how they had met. Answered everything they wished to know of their relationship. How they had spent the day together, then had dinner and wine. Except she said they had dined at his place. And that the hour had grown late, so she had begged his leave. And she had left after kissing him goodbye.

The grey eyed one watched her for a few moments, then closed his notepad. “I think we’re done here.” He told the others. But, his gaze never left her as they walked to the door. She could feel her heart racing as she watched them walk to their car and closed the door slowly, leaning against its weight for support.

She jumped and almost screamed when the rapping came to the door. She looked through the peephole and her breath caught in her breast and pressed against her heart when she saw him standing there.

Carefully, she opened the door to him and he peered in at her. “Sorry to bother you again and I do realize its been a difficult night for you and this is probably not a good time, but when you are feeling better, I was hoping you might have a cup of coffee or some lunch with me sometime.” Eris couldn’t find any words as she stood before him, a flash of heat spreading across her face, her throat so tight she could barely breath. She took his card, nodding slowly and then closed the door behind him.

She took a few deep breaths as she walked away from the door. Then a gentle smile spread across her face as she thought of those deep grey eyes, his smile and the nervousness in his voice when he asked her. Maybe it would be okay this time. Maybe they could just be friends and the kiss need never happen. Maybe.

SephiPiderWitch
copyright 10/30/10

Arachnafelorpion (New Version)

 
Arachnafelorpion
The tiny figure slipped demurely from the shadows of the building, hesitantly, like a mouse, darting glances about for the dangers potentially lurking in every corner, then shot across the alley and slipping back into the shadows of another building.  She looked about her for an exit, a sanctuary at the least, so she could gather her thoughts for her next move, preferably one that would offer a true escape.  Out of the corner of her eye, she spies a door about halfway down the alley, just slightly cracked open.    She rushes quickly to it and peers into the darkness beyond, then slips inside and pulls the door closed behind her.
They lumbered noisily into the alley, debris crashing about them in their invasion and sending scurrying the scavengers of the night.  The smaller, weasel faced one diving into the trash bins, tossing its contents in a torrent above his head before leaping back out.
“Not here, m’lord!”  he squeaked as he landed on the ground beside his companion.  A grimy creature who promised to smell as fetid as he looked, his long beak nose the sole feature visible under the dirty single lamplight of the alley.
“Well, she has to be here somewhere, Allbritch, you worthless pile of worm dung!”  the other yelled.  He was as massive as his partner was slight.  A giant lumbering creature shrouded in a long dark coat, with arms hanging unnaturally long at his side, with massive hair coated knuckles balling into fists just below the sleeves.
“She turned this direction.  There’s no where else she could be.  Keep looking, dammit!”  Then he slammed one of his massive fists against the wall, opening a gaping hole in it, sending his weasel faced companion darting through the rest of the alley, peering in corners and testing doors.
Desolinia stood with her back and hands pressed firmly on the inside of the door, taking deep slow breaths to slow her heart thundering in her chest and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light within.  Gradually, the geography of the inside began to take shape and her chest began to relax somewhat.  It was an abandoned warehouse or factory of some sort, broken machine skeletons and crate remnants scattered throughout.  She made her slow way across the room, making sure to take inventory of all potential hiding places and potential exits.  As she crossed into the growing darkness on the other side of the room, she spied a door at the far corner.  She bolted toward it, excitement racing through her veins, only to discover it firmly bolted shut with iron bars and heavy locks.
She sunk to the floor desolate.  She was so very tired!    She had meant no harm when she opened the gate into that room.  All she had wanted was to take a small peek around and spirit away before anyone had scent of her being there.  And she would have done so if the small thing hadn’t looked at her so imploringly.  She had never seen the like of it in any of the books she had ever browsed nor any story that had been told her.  A sprite-like whisper of “something”, the creature glimmered in frantic sweeps within its enclosure, begging freedom and being dimmed by the loss of it.  How could she refuse such a plea, how could she turn from offering aid to such a one?  So, she stole quickly across the room and released the latch on its cage.
Like a firefly, it burst out and into the air, a trail of sparkling dust weaving behind it.  She giggled softly at the spectacle, her ears filling with the sound of tiny bells showering around her head.  Then gently, it lighted upon her hand and set a bag and a stone in her palm then vanished from sight.  She fingered the stone softly before slipping it into her pocket, then tied the bag to her belt, its size and weight expanding as she let it drop.  A knowing smile crossed her face, “a fresh magic bag!”  It seemed fortune was smiling on her this day.
Just then she heard the voices above and started.  She had tarried to long, they would catch her scent.  And there was no telling what they would do when they discovered she set their “pet” free.  Quickly, she made for the gate and did her best to cover her trace as she fled.
She had been fleeing from them for days, maybe weeks.  Sometimes she had thought she had eluded them, no sense, no trace of them in the vicinity.  But, just as she was about to relax and loosen her guard, she would spy one of them around the corner, at the edge of her eye.  So far, the bag of tricks had kept her safe, kept her one step ahead of them.  A small pinch here, a slight dip there and she would “shift”.  She lost track of how many forms she had taken, each one taking a toll on her waning energy.
And now here she was, trapped, in this abandoned building; they, close on her heels.  They wouldn’t lose her scent this time, this she knew.  She heard the small one as he entered the building, his nasally breathing whistling in the air.  The thundering bulk of the other followed right after and she looked frantically about her for a place to hide.  They would surely find her where she was if she didn’t.
She spied a gaping opening at the end of the hallway and crept slowly towards it and slipped inside.  It was an old service elevator, the floor creaking slightly under her weight.  She froze in the corner, fearing more movement would stir another sound sure to expose her.  At least she could hide for a time in here, as she waved a concealing door in front of her.  It wouldn’t offer protection for long, she knew.  Her magick was almost gone.  But, maybe there was just enough time.
Slowly, she reached into the bag.  It was almost gone!  She wondered if she had enough for one last “shifting”.  She pulled the stone out of her pocket and held it tightly.  She had never figured out what its purpose was.  Maybe just something to hold on to, something of substance.  It glowed faintly in the darkness.  “Hmmm?”  she thought, “its never done that before!”  Now, to the form.
She thought deeply on the memories of the beasties and creatures of fantasy, searching for the right one, the right combination that would make this work.  She heard them approaching, it was only a matter of time before they figured out that the only place left to look for her was in the elevator and the door in front of her was as insubstantial as the air it was woven from.  But, summoning a creature from story or mythlore was most dangerous.  One need rely on the accuracy of the telling and hope that there did not exist an older, more dangerous version that might emerge in its stead.
Their footsteps approached nearer and she stilled her breath and willed her heart to soften its beating.  She could smell the rank staleness of them.  There is nothing so vile as the scent of stolen dreams and magicks left to rot upon a trophy cord.  Softly, she drew in her breath and wishpered a prayer to her spirits and released her substance to their will.
A soft twitter-giggle echoed gently through the elevator shaft.  Desolinia was no longer so timid.  Her spirits had served her well.  She rather liked this new form.  Seems they fashioned her out of some of her favorite creatures, the sleek feline body, all these wonderfully tactile legs and such a tail!  That barb could slay her most formidable enemies   Now she supposed she needed to give herself a name.  Hmmmmm????  A knowing smile spread across her face . . . . . Arachnafelorpion!  Desolinia giggled again and began to draw herself further up the shaft by her silken thread.  She could hear their distant voices cursing her below.  She had found a form even “they” couldn’t pursue.  She placed the stone back in her pocket and leapt out of the top of the shaft.  It was a bright sunny day out.  She figured she had earned the right to enjoy some of it.
Persephone
copyright May 16, 2010

Reclaiming

 
Reclaiming
Soul weary and with a leaden heart, he slung the pack across his back and began to walk.  He walked until he lost track of how long he had walked, till his mind was stilled save for the placement of the next step, long past the time where he crossed others upon the trail, till the muscles in his body screamed “enough!”  And still he continued, placing one foot in front of the other.  It was as if the trees were beckoning him onward, parting just slightly to show him the way.  And still, he continued. Still further he would have gone, save for the fallen trees that barred the path forcing him to veer off to find a way around.
He pushed thorugh the brush and branches and heard the soft trickle of water nearby.  So, he pushed a bit further away from the path to look for its source.  The soothing crystal sound pulled at him until he found himself in a small clearing.
Soft rays of sunshine poured through scattered breaks in the branches and the mossy veils of the trees.  The small steady stream of water slipped over a crease in the hill to play across the rocks, casting prism glimmers of light on the slope before coming to rest in the small pool in front of him.
He let his pack slip from his shoulder onto the ground, then slowly lowered himself down beside it.  He pulled a small bag of food from the pack and leaned back against an ancient tree stump, a furrow in it a perfect fit for his spine, its gnarled roots granting a cradled seat.  He slowly began to eat, allowing the silence to fill him, the scents to intoxicate him and the low heartbeat of the land to lull him..
He slipped into a gentle slumber and was awakened by a sense; a presence maybe.  He looked around him to notice the sun had dipped slightly, shifting the shadows and play of light around him.  Off to his side, he noticed a slender stump robed in a deep carpet of moss, rising up from the ground like a small moss-robed man.  He smiled at the thought, remembering the stories he had been told as a youth of the fey spirits of the forests.  He could see in this visage how such tales got their birth.  And the more he looked upon this man of moss, the more real he appeared to him.  It was almost as if he could sense him waiting, listening.  But, for what?
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He leaned back and watched it for some time and the spell of the forest touched him once again.  “So, its a story you wish to hear, is it?”  He asked the little man.  “Well, fine then.  Then tis a story you shall have.”  He reached into his pack again and pulled out his pipe, filled it with some sweet smelling tobacco, lit it, then leaned back against the stump and began to talk.
His story, he began to tell, of his life.  The words, slow and faltering at first, then flowing into a stream whose dam has broken, into a torrent of tales.  He spoke tales of his pains and sorrows, of his joys and accomplishments, and of course, his failures.  He recounted the tales of his youth and many adventures then.  Of his loves and his losses, and of his children.  Of those he had said goodbye to far too soon and those whose brief touch left an indelible imprint on his soul.  He spoke of those that had loved him and those that had betrayed him and laughed at how often they were the same.  He wept and he laughed as the stories poured out.  The miles and the years and the lifetimes he had experienced, all were told, all revealed.Silently and patiently, the figure listened.  An understanding being who had all the time in the world for him, who begged to hear, with his quiet countenance, all he had to tell.  So, on he talked, telling the secrets he had never told another soul.  He told of the things no man speaks of to another.  The secret fears and the unfulfilled desires locked and guarded so deeply within.And deeper, the sun began to slip.  And on he talked, till his voice was hoarse from the expense, till there were no more words to speak.  And still the figure listened, silently, patiently, till the last word had been summoned forth

The night had stolen in during this time and the man smiled gently on the robed figure in the dark.  The telling lifting the weight from his heart, his soul finally at peace.  He closed his eyes to the night and slept, his mossy guardian never leaving his side.
She broke into the clearing, eyes full of wonder at what she saw there.  She began to snap pictures of all that was about her, the sparkling little waterfall, the trees with their drapes of feather moss, the birthing blooms of Spring.  This was the kind of place that dreams were made of, that held the promise of fairy dances and midnight rites, of the ancient gods and a time where nothing was beyond belief.A shadow fleeted off to her side, catching her attention.  A small gasp escaped her lips as she spied the partial circle of moss covered figures.  She began to snap pictures of them rapidly, from every angle.  Worshipers frozen in time, the wise ones of the woods, guardians of the forest.  They looked so real, she thought, as she set her pack down on the ground.  “I’ll bet you all have such stories to tell!”  She pulled her notebook and pen from her pack and sat down.  She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed in the forest, and listened till the first soft whisper slipped into her ear.  “Yes!  Oh Yes!”  she exclaimed, opened her book and began to write.
Sephi’PiderWitch
copyright March, 2010

The Beauty in the Beast

 
The Beauty in the Beast
The liquid amber rays of the afternoon sun bathed the small clearing, dancing lightly upon the surface of the ripples in the stream below and showered the fringes of the clouds above. A kaleidoscope of wildflowers swayed gently in response to the touch of the breeze’s beckoning. And behind, the sharp, stark faces of the mountains tore their way through the earth to try and touch the sky, the shock white of their tips branching rivulets downward to form an inverse crown marking their majesty.
A lone figure sat at the top of the hill looking out over the symphony of nature at play below, sketchbook on his knee and easel before him. He let rest the tip of his paintbrush to his lip, closed his eyes and slowly inhaled the scent of life and allowed it to fill his soul. Slowly, his eyes opened and his gaze returned just as the figure moved from behind the shadows of the crop of trees.
He watched as the figure moved over to the stream, let slip the cloak from about its shoulders and as the light fell upon the figure, he drew in his breath. The misshapen figure sat down on a boulder by the side of the stream, sunlight catching upon the small shocks of sparse hair upon its head, almost translucent with lack of color. Its body deformed and twisted in such an unnatural way that it evinced pain to just look upon. He could not imagine what it must feel like to be trapped in such a body.
Its gaze turned upward to a hawk crying out in joy as it played in the waves of the air currents, soaring gracefully among them and swooping down to survey the ground for movements proclaiming dinner. The light caught the side of its face and the artist got his first full look at the creature’s face. Creature, because he did not know how else to refer to it, so far removed from human countenance that he had ever seen. The head and skull misshapen, the skin scarred and marred by lesions and disease. The horror at the monstrosity before him was almost too much to bear, he who worshipped beauty, embraced it and drank it like ambrosia. And ill though it made him to look upon the monster before him, he could not take his eyes from it.
Dusk began to slowly settle in and the painting that was the sunset began to draw its brush across the sky in a swirling movement of colors and bath the clouds in their haunting iridescent glow. As the sun began to slip from view, the shadows began their descent upon the land, looming ever downward and casting a half light through the branches and whispering the first summons to the conjuring of the night. The brilliant orb of the full moon kissed the earth in her ascent, her swollen form overflowing and radiating soft light, bathing all it touched in its blue-gray shimmers.
The monster rose and raised its arms out toward the rising beacon, stretching out its fingers as if to touch the glowing orb. And the darkness that was night closed further in, filling in the light voids and spreading darkness like a storm sweeping the land. As the last of the golden rays vanished and the silver glow of night was all that was left, the creatures of the night began to awaken and emerge. As is the case, the ones that crawled were the first to come forth, ravenous and devouring in their very existence. Then began the calls and songs of the night as the creatures of the air and land awakened as well to prepare to begin the night hunt.
And still the monster stood, arms outstretched and bathed in moonlight. And still the artist watched, unable to tear his eyes from the scene.
Dark wings cut through the air before it as shadows swept across the ground below. Then it raised its head and opened its mouth in a song that rang out and pierced the blanket of the night. A song of such beauty, he thought his heart would burst from its touch and he would melt within the flow of its waves and his mind was swept to another place that was both no place and all. When the moment passed and he looked again, its clothing had been shed and discarded and it was taking gentle steps to the center of the clearing. When it reached it, it began to spin slowly, lowly and then began to dance.
He still could not tell whether the creature was male or female as he watched its lithe movements in the soft glow of the moon. Movements which grew in energy and intensity till they became a dervish swirl that held him mesmerized and feeling faint. The deformities lost in the swirling movements, the ugliness transformed to grace and beauty in the undulations of the movement. He watched with the creatures of the night as they danced with it and worshipped with it till the moon crossed beyond the place of light and he feel asleep on the ground before it.
When he awoke, the sun was bringing the first taste of day to the sky and the creature was picking up its cloak from the boulder. Just before it entered back into the forest, it looked up at him and their eyes met, then it melted into the trees and was gone.
No one understood the painting in the gallery or what might have inspired such a thing. It was unlike anything to ever emerge from his hand. The elegance of the scene so vivid, you could feel the textures of the land, smell the scents in the air. So stunning was the sheer beauty of it, so intoxicating, it took your breath away. And at the edge of the woods where the trees met the land, a creature. A creature so vile, so damnable in appearance that it pierced one’s heart with its horror, and yet so riveting, you could not tear your eyes from it. No explanation was ever given as to its inspiration, or what was meant by it no matter how many times he was asked. All that was given it was a name; The Beauty in the Beast.
Sephi’PiderWitch
copyright  August 28, 2009

A Quiet Disturbed

 
A Quiet Disturbed
Swirls of mist rose up from the ground, hovering gently above it, caressing it and checking its substance. A stir breathed into it and moved it in swirls and undulations, soft glows emanating within its depths like bodies swimming and riding the currents. Diffused faces looked around, disoriented, seemingly lost and confused. The glows shifted in varied hues and shades of colors within the deepening churning mists, soft muted colors from gentle pastels to demure shades so dim as to be barely perceptible. Occasionally, small sparks of light emerged as if a few tiny stars were trapped within and trying to escape.
The soft curtain of silence that was night became slightly severed with low unsettled whispers. At first, it was but a couple, then it began to multiply, urgent, confused, questioning. It sent ripples through the night air, awakening more spirits to join and bringing disquiet into this place of quiet sleep.
A small voice cleared the murmurs of the others, a soft voice, but clear as a crystal bell. “What has happened? I slept, I dreamt, all was complete, I was divine. I was alone and now there are many. It was quiet, now it is disturbed. There are so many! How came I to be in not the place I should?”
The shimmer behind the voice looked about. Their voices underlying the silence like the hum of a far off machine that is just within the hearing range and can’t be dismissed. They permeated the air and sent ripples through it that made nerves ache.
The sky began to lighten as the morning sun slowly crept upward. The unease grew within the voices, their movements quickening and the disturbance in the air rising. Their glows began to fade as the light grew till all that remained was the mist and the murmurs of the disturbed air.
Day crested and the gates were opened. Soon, a group of people made a slow, ritual way inward, their eyes downcast, their purpose focused. They found the assigned spot and began to take their places, waiting patiently for the last stragglers. Some shifted uncomfortably for a time while others looked around them and still others simply stood in contemplative silence.
They began. And the disturbed mists felt them and made their way over. They watched as the mists slipped in and about their feet as they began to speak. The mist rose and thickened, and as it rose, they felt a weight that was beyond the weight of this day, a weight that was beyond theirs, and yet felt like it should be, descend upon them and envelop them. As each took their turns to speak what they had come to say, they found other words issuing forth in the midst of their own, words that came from their mouths that were not theirs. Their sorrows made more bare, amplified, as they felt the anguish of the displaced.
A small girl stood off at the end of the group, holding tightly to her mother’s hand. She smiled as she looked to her side and saw the shimmer that was the small voice and they reached out to each other. The girl looked up at her mother and tugged gently on her arm to tell her. The mother leaned down and the girl told her of the shimmer that could no longer dream and the mists that had been forced out and had no home any more. And the mother heard it and believed that the weight of the day had been too much for the girl and tried to console her and tell her it was but her imagination playing tricks upon her. The girl sobbed and nodded, but never let go of the shimmer that held her hand.
As the last words were being spoken, the shimmer began to quiver and tightened her grip on the girl’s hand. She tugged gently, imploring the girl to follow and wrapped the girl in the urgency and desperation that had become her. Gently, the girl let her hand slip from her mother’s grip and let the shimmer wrap around her, cloaking her from the watchful eyes about. They went to a quiet hill with an ancient tree upon it, stretching its limbs to protect the whole hill. They sat under the tree as the shimmer told her story of her dreams disturbed and how she woke to find her place had become no place and of the others who once had a home and a place to rest and now had nowhere and were lost.
The voices of the party echoed across the area, frantic and imploring. They watched as they wandered around the area under the hill and sat silent, the great limbs of the tree hiding them from their seekers. The shimmer held tight to the girl, begging her to stay there so she would not be alone in this strange open place. The girl nodded and sobbed, for the shimmer’s sorrows as much as the fear of what the party would do to her once she was found.
As the party searched, the mists followed, circling the members of the group and wailing out at them. Their wails sparked fears in the party and they looked to the sky for the storm they believed to be approaching. The search grew more frantic and harried and the people darted in every direction, fear gripping at them like a stalker.
The mother came up around the back of the hill and that’s where she found them. The mists converged on her as she fell to her knees at what was before her and wept. The others came rushing and looked with horror with her at the jumbled wreckage of the discarded. It was like peering into a dragon’s cave. The remains were tossed in piles and strewn across the ground like discarded refuse. Remnants and shards dotted solitary areas. Eyeless holes peered out at them and skeletal hands reached out as if for help. They shouted and made calls and soon there were very many more. Many needed to untangle and make sense of the chaotic tangle of all these remains. Many needed to help piece each back together and make whole again, many to find answers and demand a reckoning.
A small lone form was the first to be put back in its place, gently lifted and given a new warm place to lie with soft cushions all around. As she was laid reverently onto the cushions, the young one with the laughter of a thousand bells and stars shining in her eyes, the girl felt the shimmer begin to release its grip and felt a gentle brush against her cheek. The shimmer settled in and once again dreamt and once again was divine.
Sephi’PiderWitch
copyright  July 25, 2009

Arachnafelorpion

 
Arachnafelorpion
The timid toy designer wrote a story in a broken elevator to confuse the investigator. She thought deeply on the memories of the beasties and creatures of fantasy, searching for the right one, the right combination that would make this work. Her bag of tricks was almost empty and it was only a matter of time before he figured out that the only place left to look for her was in the elevator and the door in front of her was as insubstantial as the air it was woven from. But, summoning a creature from story or mythlore was most dangerous. One need rely on the accuracy of the telling and hope that there did not exist an older, more dangerous version that might emerge in its stead.
His footsteps approached nearer and she stilled her breath and willed her heart to soften its beating. She could smell the rank staleness of him. There is nothing so vile as the scent of stolen dreams and magicks left to rot upon a trophy cord. Softly, she drew in her breath and wishpered a prayer to her spirits and released her substance to their will.
The news cameras caught the filming of him running from the building screaming higher than any bimbo in a B-rated horror flick. The camera men inched slowly towards the building hoping to get a glimpse of the cause. A daring reporter cautiously stuck his head in the door and looked around. There was nothing but empty halls and rooms that he could see. They moved in and began to scout around, becoming more baffled with each moment at the emptiness of the place. The offices were closed and all the doors were locked. The only open door was the elevator at the end of the main hall. The daring reporter that first entered the building approached cautiously and peered inside. It too, was empty. Laughing nervously, they began to file out of the building. It was unlikely the investigator would ever live this one down.
A soft twitter-giggle echoed gently through the elevator shaft. The toy maker was no longer so timid. Her spirits had served her well. She rather liked this new form. Seems they fashioned her out of some of her favorite creatures, the sleek sensual body of a cat, the legs of a spider complete with web spinning ability  And oh look!  She swished the venom barbed scorpion tale in front of her.  This will do just fine! Now she supposed she needed to give herself a name. Hmmmmm???? A knowing smile spread across her face . . . . . Arachnafelorpion! Desolinia giggled again and began to draw herself further up the shaft by her silken thread. It was a bright sunny day out. She figured she had earned the right to enjoy some of it.
Sephi’PiderWitch
copyright  2009

The Promise

 

 

The Promise

They arrived late in the night, at a time when even the moon had wearied of casting a glow. They knocked sharply at the back door, their feet making rough scraping sounds in the dirt and gravel outside. She opened the door quietly and they handed her the coarse-hewn wooden box without ceremony. She took it with trembling hands and set it down just inside the door, closing them outside without a word of farewell. Her knees began to buckle under her and she slipped to the ground, a weight descending all around her like a leaden cloak. She wrapped her arms about the box and the tears flowed, swiftly moving to wracking sobs that convulsed through her body. She slowly pulled herself up and forced herself to breath in some calm and will herself to open the box and pay witness to what lay there.

The shreds of what was once a dress met her fingers first. She remembered this dress, remembered the time she had stitched it together so many years ago. Its color now faded and stained, its form beaten and shredded, in pieces many too small to even yield a proper cleaning rag. Within the folds of the fabric, a couple of articles of jewelry met her fingertips. A ring that had been in the family for as long as could be remembered. She closed her hand about it and summoned the image of the first time she had seen this ring, on her grandmother’s hand when she was but a small child. How it had sparkled in the sun, dazzling her eyes and drawing her close to her grandmother’s sleeping side. And when she saw that the ring had slipped from her grandmother’s hand in her passing and onto her mother’s, she began to yearn that one day it might pass to her. She remembered the anger she felt the day it finally slipped from her mother’s hand and was not hers. She covered her face with her hands, the ring making a deep indent in her forehead from how hard she pressed it against her skin as she cried. It was hers now, with a passing as weighty as the loss.

She picked up the other item, a simple gold cross on a leather cord. She remembered the day it was hung around her neck, in front of the whole town. She remembered her form laid out in her long white gown, her arms outstretched and it felt as if she would never move. She had become a bride that day, a bride with no husband who would keep her bed warm at night or plant in her children to love. But, she glowed when she turned to look at them after rising and the cross was placed about her neck. Her mother had let the ring slip from her hand that day and given it to her even though it was against the rules and unlike what the others wore. But they allowed her it, or at least chose not to say nay. Both of these tokens, she pocketed to later put in her treasure box.
Gently, she lifted the shreds of the dress from the box and buried her face in them, breathing in her smell, her fears, her courage, her memory. Then slowly, she set it down at her side, tucking stray edges and softly patting it down.

She looked again into the box. There was a smaller box in the corner and she lifted it out. A deep wash of fear hit her as she held it before her. She didn’t want to learn what was inside, but she had made a promise and a promise must be kept. So, she took a deep breath and lifted the top. A bloodied kerchief lay folded inside. She touched the edges with shaking fingers, parting it open. A small nest of scorched human hair lay within. The sobs began again and she dropped the box, sending its contents tumbling into the larger box. Underneath, as the last of the contents fell, a small pile of papers cascaded down. She gasped softly as she recognized the hand that had penned the writing on them. Carefully she gathered them up and looked at them and knew the entire tale was there. She folded them gently and placed them in her waistband and closed everything else back in the box.

Tomorrow, she would give the remains the burial they had refused her. Tomorrow, she would be ready to speak what must be said.

She pulled herself wearily to her feet and headed to her room. Tonight though, she must read the rest of the tale.

Sephi’PiderWitch
copyright 2009

 

Sephi

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