Dale Innis’s Seaspray 1.1!!

My very very wonderful friend Dale is amazing in so many ways…from scripting, building, photography, teaching, mentoring, writing, brilliant thinking, terraforming to his incredibly open, caring, generous, beautiful heart and soul.  I would need to write more than several posts to even try to describe all of how wonderful Dale is as a person and to everyone who knows him.   And even then, words would fail.  But where words do succeed is in describing Dale’s latest creative venture:  that of a brilliant content creator!  Yay!!!!

Avid about so very very many things, among them boating and the ocean, Dale’s first product offering is a truly fitting one:  a hawt, powerful water vehicle that is jam-packed with amazingness:

very Wonderful Dale on his wonderful Seaspray 1.1

Very Wonderful Dale and the wonderful Seaspray 1.1

 Dale’s Seaspray 1.1 (available at Busy Ben’s Lot 44) is an incredibly sleek and scorchingly sexy, powerful and raucously fun boat.  I’ve had the great honor of watching Dale create the Seaspray — through various stages from conception to finished vehicle.  And I also had the wildly great fun of beta testing the Seaspray 1.1.  This boat tears through the waterways and handles with such elegance and grace even with all of its massive power.  It effortlessly slices along the top of the ocean.  It zips smoothly forward and backward, turns with gorgeous agility in any direction, and for those moments when you really want to amp it up, press the pgup key a few times in succession and see what happens!

I **love** the Seaspray.  It is built for speed(s), agility, wonderful surprise, and unquestioned hawtness.  And all of that comes not only from Dale’s beautiful imagination, design and scripting, but also from his beautiful selection of textures.  This baby is fully loaded.  Dale gives us 125 different colors, glow and shine features on a wildly hot boat that manuveurs in all directions, has screamingly fast and gently modulated speeds, and can be made to go air borne.  How much did you ask?  50L!  yes…50L!  Yes…TWO digits.  Only 50L!   For that price, Dale is basically giving away an AMAZING creation.  So put on your hottest, baddest racing swimsuit, zip on over to Busy Ben’s Lot 44, and snap up Dale’s utterly fantastic Seaspray 1.1.  I love it so much — and just can’t believe the price, honestly – that I literally purchased the Seaspray a few times (even though Dale generously gifted one to me), and I would gladly do so many more times.  Because it’s just that wonderful and that wonderfully fun.

Note:  Stay on the lookout for additional Seaspray products from Dale, who plans to release the Seaspray Subscription Line (100L for everything described above plus free updates for the life of the product) and the Seaspray Rezzer (200L for an unending stream of Seasprays to be enjoyed by friends and guests and the bonus is the boats automatically clean up after themselves when they are no longer in use!).

Concentricity … 8

Ch 8 ~ Down the Rabbit Hole

For all she knew, the young romantic couple had sat at their table with their cell phones glued to their ears and with their free hands intertwined for quite a while.  Possibly close to a half an hour already or more.  Emily had lost track of time, not an unreasonable thing for her particularly when she transitions between the future and the present, but she was also fairly sure that losing track of time might be a chronic condition for the young romantic couple as well.  She shrugged.  Well, perhaps that’s true for most people in the world. 

They hadn’t changed their physical positions, the young romantic couple, but plates littered with crumbled nakpins cluttered their small table top.  Emily wasn’t at all certain how they had managed to grow another set of hands to use for eating, but somehow it appeared that they had. 

“What if we become the medium.  What if…we are the medium,” Forge repeated because he felt it an important enough point that deserved to be repeated.  In fact, it seemed to be his only point which suggested to Emily that in point of fact, he had something to prove.

“I think you’re going over the edge, Forge.  And I say that kindly.”  And, indeed, Emily’s voice had been very kind when she uttered those words.

The connections our brains make…she paused slightly and smiled internally.  She felt the redheaded young man’s energy.  It soothed and excited her all at once.  Yet she couldn’t dwell there too long (although she remained keenly aware of the energy from the redheaded young man) because another feeling  much less pleasant kept bullying its way forward.  In fact, it had crowded in on her mind like an angry mob, the mounting overload of chaos and noise that had been flooding her senses.  It was nearing its limit, she was fairly sure.  The back of her head ached in a recognizable way.  A way that usually indicated that her brain couldn’t process to much more.  At least, that’s what those types of knots at the base of her skull always felt like her body was telling her.  

Oftentimes, Emily’s body spoke for her brain when her brain couldn’t seem to find the words.  It was another one of her quirks that she had learned to listen deeply to.  And it was always shortly after those signals, if you will, that — at least for Emily — the sensory overload reached some limit and broke through some kind of threshold or barrier, carrying her to a place where all the data impulses around her were filtered automatically for her — beyond her say-so — or by her or to her through some mechanism or another.  She didn’t know which or how, but she was grateful in one sense.   It was nice that a part of her mind (she assumed) wouldn’t tell her what was going on because when it did do one of those surging information dumps, it was just too much.  Sometimes all the noise gribbed itself around her body and rattled her so hard intside that she just about hyperventilated and probably physically vibrated.   A near panick attack?  Maybe.  Her best defense was to pause and to focus on her breath.

What really mattesr?

Emily knew she wanted to continue feeling his soothing-intoxicating energy so she focused a portion of her mind quite fixedly there.  And she knew she should be polite enough to continue to hear — okay, even to genuinely listen to — Forge because to not do so would be completely rude and thoughtless, so she focused a portion of her mind there as well.  And for good measure, she kept an eye on Pat, because something was troubling her there, and half an eyeball each on the slight man seated in front of the slight woman who continued to slouch over the tabletop, hunkered over napkins on which she doodled.

Does anybody doodle anymore?  She shook her head.  Guess it’s just a feeling, she said to herself after glancing across the half-wall divide at the two slight folk seated separately in the other portion of the diner.  Guess it’s just a feeling…

“M’dear.”  His voice was quite a bit more firm, nearly terse.

“I’m not at all accustomed to being ignored quite so summarily or so blatantly.  At least be decent enough to indulge me by feigning interest.  I quite know you’re not listening.”

“What if we’re the medium…” she repeated softly, realizing Forge was entirely right to chastise her for her lack of attention.

He smiled a little. 

“Indeed.  We’ve long since been the messengers.  We’ve long since had a message.  What if we’re now able to be all three.  The messenger, the content, the broadcast station.”

After a long pause (several long seconds), she said, “I’m not at all sure where you’re headed with this, Forge, but I do know you don’t ask these things without a purpose in mind.  So, okay, if I’m trying to understand what you’re saying, then I have two questions.”

“Only two?” he twitched his nose as if her statement smelled badly.

“Well fo rthe moment…”

Pat zipped past, pausing only to expertly arc some piping hot coffee into their cups.  Catching the torn packets of sugar with her eyes, Emily realized they had been sitting at th ebooth for quite a while. 

“M’dear.”

Forge lightly spread his hand across Pat’s slender wrist, which had the effect of generating a snarl to rise just barely up from the base of Pat’s throat.  But she switched gears quickly, Pat did.  She was on the job afterall and always put in an honest day’s work.  She hit the pause button in the back of her eye, freezing whatever reality show she was currently watching in the back of her head into place.  Only then did she look at Forge, but when she did, she studied him with no small amount of displeasure.

“This will only take a moment, I promise you,” he said evenly, then returned his gaze to Emily.  “Two questions, then?” he expectantly.

“Yeah,” she replied slowly, “You see a business opportunity in this messenger-message-medium idea?”

“Indeed.  Second question?”

“…isn’t,” she started even mor eslowly, “isn’t that what’s happening already now?”

He grinned.  Pat raised her eyebrow impatiently. 

Without knowing why, Emily suddenly realized she could expect to be seated in the booth for a very long time this day.

NaNoWriMos total word count this chapter:  1,070; total word count todate (not including this notation) this chapter: 9,970.

Concentricity … 7

Ch 7 ~ “How many words do you see a day?”  asked and answered by the Utne Reader and a few others (links embedded within the link to the Utne Reader)

Miles Thomas Brown was something of a genuis by far and away more than his employer Forge Myers.   And the redheaded young fellow with the laptop was every bit as charismatic.  By far and away.  Actually, many times over and on an altogether different plane.  The difference was that Miles Thomas Brown didn’t have to work at being charismatic, and he never worked it either.  Becuase the truth of the matter was he never had to, but the more essential fact was that “working it” was just not any part of who Miles Thomas was.

On top of being a genuis, Miles Thomas Brown genuinely knew who he was (good, bad, and borderline), and he genuinely liked himself enough to be who he was and to keep improving himself.  He could admit to himself when that might be needed.  Admitting a need for self improvement (not business, but self) was not something that came so easily to Forge.  Trace elements of insecurity drove Forge, although he would never admit that not even to himself.  But deep down, Forge always felt a need to prove something.  Did success propel this?  Maybe.  And maybe Forge had forgotten that a deeper learning often comes about from failure.  But the fates had been kind to Forge, at least during this general timeframe.  Because it didn’t hurt any that with every effort to prove something (and he usually made it a point to be certain that he did), he also made a killing financially.  Nice side effect, that.  Forge wanted to believe it was innate talent…but somewhere deep inside even he had a hard time saying that while looking in the mirror.

As for Miles, he felt genuinely comfortable, well, anywhere as far as anyone who knew Miles could tell.  Even in the Glenwood Cafe where chaos had long since erupted and where he sat alone in a booth until he was beckoned over — as silly as Miles thought this whole “caper,” as Forge had put it, was.  Miles’s ability to go with the flow was truly a thing of beauty, particularly at a time when no one could see the stream for the tsunami.  That didn’t bother him.  Instead, he leaned back in his chair, slightly angled his shoulder blade into the wall and multitasked between scanning his laptop and absorbing what looked to be an animated discussion between, well, at least, Forge who was clearly hell bent on a mission with the girl that Forge had mentioned to Miles only a few days ago.   Miles wasn’t entirely sure why.  Something about her in the future, Forge had said, and left it at that for the time being.

Pretty girl.  Quiet.  Seems nice, Miles Thomas decided.  He sat in thought, twirling the ends of a pen with his fingertips.  He liked pens, Miles did.  He liked what they did.  They made words and pictures.  They were a means to communicate, to voice.  He also liked that the girl from the future with the mousy brown hair had noticed him earlier.  He especially liked how she had unwittingly “voiced” what he considered to be wonderful aspects of her personality to him.  When they first caught a glimpse of each other, he liked that she had returned a smile to him – in a very unconscious impromptu way, he could tell.  There was something quaint about that.  And something wonderfully simple and authentic…slowing down enough in life, holding the onslaught of information and noise at bay for just a few seconds even to notice these things.  To notice.  A stream of calm in the mounting tsunami. 

Somewhere, not far away…not far at all…a flock of ducks manuveured the air in perfect unison.  

Whoosh.

Miles smiled and took his own silent advice.  He paused from his RSS feeds to reflect on the world around him, which increasingly continued to converge with the digital world.  He absorbed the physical world with the digital world not only because that was one of many areas of genuis for Miles Thomas, but also because the idea of the “bleeding edge” was being decimated (Miles would say “has been decimated already and quite soundly”) by the relentless effects of hyper-exponential progress.   No human being possessed the capacity to be able to see precisely where the advances in one world held separate and distinct from and didn’t nearly instantaneously spill over into the living of life in another world.   The two were increasingly inseparable, the rate of change such that in anyone who used the phrase “bleeding edge” sound dated and completely out of it.  The “blurring edge” was more descriptive. 

At least this week.

A latest article in his RSS feed used probably 400 words to introduce a discussion about the volume and velocity of information on the internet.  The conversation on this topic suggests that , measured in words, a person could easily and quite routinely see more than 490,000 words online each day.  To provide a sense of context the article shares that “War and Peace” contains 460,000 words.  Not that anyone would want to count the words (except for maybe a mascochistic proofreader) to verify this, but as one who had read the classic, Miles Thomas didn’t doubt the claim.  

The slight woman shook her head in astonishment as she continued to draw circles on her napkin while she sat at the table on the other side of the half-wall divide that separated the major sections of the cafe.  (Was it a cafe, a diner, a restuarant, an establishment?  Did it really matter?  At some moments the place felt grandiose like a fine restaurant.  Other moments found the place in a very inviting mood, relaxed and open like a diner.  The furniture in the place seemed to suggest a quaint outdoor cafe somewhere in Europe, but somehow none of the patrons seemed to be lulled into the belief that they had been transported to Venice.  And the idea of “establishment” really had a ring of “old media.”)  In her eavesdropping of Miles Thomas Brown, the slight woman hazard a guess and a crass generalization:  she had not read War and Peace and she guessed that most people (probably the vast majority) in a 140-character culture hadn’t either.  Imagine National Novel Writing Month as a series of tweets.  Intrigued, she carefully placed her napkin with concentric circles safely to the end of the table that butted up against the half wall divide and grabbed a new napkin from the napkin holder.  With a constraint of 140 characters, the average word count on a tweet is in the 15-word ballpark, according to this webblog.  (The slight woman nodded her head in thanks to Miles for the url, which he found by googling “average word count for a tweet.”  Miles grinned in a subtle way and acknowledged her with a quiet wave of his pen before he found both its ends with both hands again and felt the weight of the instrument as it twirled between his fingertips.)  The 50,000 word count over 30 days that is National Novel Writing Month translates into 3333.33 tweets over 30 days, or 111.11 tweets a day for 30 days.  She doubted that even the most prolific twitterer could make that tweet level.  War and Peace deconstructs into 30,666 tweets or more than 1,000 tweets a day for 30 days.  If War and Peace were written in 30 days.  But the point is every day we see more words than all the words in War and Peace, or in tweet-speak more than 1,000 tweets a day.

And that somehow seems a significant point.   One way out of a myriad of ways to illustrate the blurring edge.  But yes, she admitted to herself, yes still a tangent that for some reason the slight woman hunched over the napkin-as-calculator felt the worthy enough to piggyback onto Miles’s overarching point about the melding of the physical and digital worlds.  As fascinating as that was for her, the slight woman still wasn’t entirely sure why she ventured down this path or what it all meant.  But she had the sneaking suspicion that if nothing else, it might mean that it was time for her to hit the “save” button. 

And that’s exactly what Miles Thomas did.

NaNoWriMos total word count this chapter:  1,400; total word count todate (not including this notation) this chapter: 8,900.

Concentricity … 6

Ch 6 ~ “He forgot to put his hair on, didn’t he.”

“I don’t even want to begin to know what you could possibly mean by that,” she said.  Somehow the ridiculousness of his statement had the effect of calming her nerves.  With each passing second, she was definitely further removed from the future — as backwards as that may seem.  At least from that particular future.  With yet another man causing her to ask herself for the second time this day — but for wildly different reasons — who is he?  But really more than that.  Something really more than that gnawed at her. 

Why is he?   Why is he in Pat’s room.  Why is he shrouded in mystery.  Why does he seemed smothered in an air that easily tops the creepiness charts without any effort at all.  

Emily just had to keep thinking.  She just had to keep going.  Don’t pause, she told herself.  Let it all unfold on its own accord, how could anyone possibly map this out from a future date point to the present date point and a gazillion variables in between that could effect things in any number of directions.  (Was this Emily’s thought or the author’s thought?  Are we somehow letting the writing process have a voice in this effort?  What is the identity of a piece of art, afterall.  Does it belong to the creator or is it a separate entity?) 

How many butterflies could flap their wings anywhere around the world, not just the Glenwood Cafe, she reasoned.  It was less a question, more a reminder to herself that while she could see the future that didn’t mean she could control the future.  Necessarily. 

Is seeing, knowing?  Is knowing, doing?  Is doing, creating?  Is creating, impacting?  Is impacting, evaulating?  Is evaluating, rationalizing?  Is rationalizing, controlling?  Am I reaching?  What is it all but energy?  

She could see in the distance, not too terribly far away…not far away at all…a flock of ducks take to the air in perfect unison.

How many flock of birds could slice into the sky without a sound and set  the course of history in motion, pre-planned pre-scripted for the future.

But there were things Emily knew.  Without fail.  And even she couldn’t deny this.  Nor did she really want to.  She just didn’t have the answers to what she had just seen, no matter how much the wildly successful local entrepreneur who sat across from the table from her thought at this moment.  And at this moment, Emily could see as he cocked his jaw, that he was about to continue exploring.

“You see the possibilities in this,” he nodded his head back to the romantic young couple still thoroughly immersed in talk with who-only-knew on the ends of their separate blackberries.  (Emily suspected the people sitting at the adjoining tables might very well know who the folks were on the ends of those lines because the people sitting at the adjoining tables could hear every word.  Personal conversations as public “entertainment”, indeed.  Or perhaps public advertising.  Walking talking human billboards.)

“Actually…it’s not really what’s occupying my thoughts at the moment.”

“Precisely!” Forge sat straight, pumped with a surge of excitedness.

“Hmm?” she scrunched her eyebrows together.

“Imagine a time, Em, when we’ll look at the wireless devices people carry with them on the outside of their bodies as quaint.  Even…antiquated.”

“I suppose,” she shrugged, not entirely clear where Forge was going with this.  He grinned and held his grin for several, long seconds.  Somehow, she felt like she had missed his point and realized pretty quickly that it was more than a feeling.  It was a fact.  She had missed his larger point.

“Everything is getting faster and smaller…if that’s what you mean,” she said without a great deal of confidence that that had been anywhere close to what Forge had meant.  But the other thing was this.  If her confidence had been sucked out of the room, the sudden hyper explosion of activity at the diner could have played a part in that as well.  There was a defeaning cacophony of whispers and ramblings that roared over the place and crashed down on every voice around it, like a vocal tsunami that ironically snuffed out every sound in its path.  

Sunday mornings at the Glenwood Cafe were more than a bit ridiculous when it came to crowds.  Because on Sunday morning, it seemed like every crowd on the planet – forget that…not only “every crowd on the planet” but the entire freakin’ planet — converged in the tiny little diner of this sleepy little farmtown.  Every Saturday and Sunday every weekend over, the population seemed to double because every Saturday and Sunday every weekend over throngs of people — couples, families, children, grandparents, friends — wallpapered any and all available wall and countertop space as they waited patiently for an open table.  The food was plenty good here, there was that — some of the best comfort food around — and the service pretty fast and friendly (even if the wait staff appeared to be a bit zoned and into their own little world).   Pat had long since picked up her pace and had shifted it into high gear, buzzing effortlessly around tables, not batting an eye even when having to navigate what was increasingly a flush of customers that was now overflowing into some of the walking spaces near the patrons as they ate their fried green eggs and ham at tables not too terribly far removed from the front entrance.  Oh the places the crowds may go, but on Saturday and Sunday, inevitably there was only one place those crowds went for breakfast, th Glenwood Cafe.  And everyone in town (probably even those who were only driving through, like the young romantic couple) knew that the tables positioned half-heartedly as an offshoot from the entrance weren’t the best seats in the house, a fact that always motivated Emily to get out of bed extra early so that she could plop a comfortable squat in a lower-traffic area at the diner before the rush of the Sunday after-church crowd. 

She stlil had no idea about the layers-in-layers in which Forge’s meaning seemed perpetually to be wrapped.  But the chaos at the front entrance had distracted them both, Forge less intensely than Emily who admittedly was biding her time because she didn’t really know where this conversation was headed.  And who had just noticed a couple of individual customers move through the sea of limbs that swayed in the space of waiting bodies as they repositioned themselves and ears craned to hear if their name had been called yet by the hostess.  

The first customer was a slight man of average build who was seated by the hostess at a small vacant table just on the other side of the half-wall divide that buffered Emily and Forge’s table from the mass of patrons in the main section of the restaurant.  The second customer was a slight woman of average build who was seated by Pat at a small vacant table directly behind the slight man, again just on the other side of the half-wall divide that buffered Emily and Forge’s table from the burgeoning mass of patrons in the main section of the diner.

“Imagine a time,” Forge continued, undeterred by the random distractions that clammored about everywhere suddenly…or perhaps that had always really been the case and Emily had edited it out? 

Somehow that’s just too much of a subtle thought, the slight woman behind the slight man thought to herself.  What exactly is the point in saying that Emily might have edited that out, she asked herself, wholly unsure of the answer.  Relinquish structure…push beyond comfortable processes.  It reminded her of a phrase a friend had coined:  “he forgot to put his hair on, didn’t he?”, meaning that the balded-headed man was out of sorts when he didn’t follow his usual routine (in this case, affixing his toupee before entering the day…a known and comfortable, safe routine for this man.)  Damn that is not easy.  If she didn’t know any better, she might have to say that she forgot to put her hair on too, metaphorically speaking.  Not easy in the least, but it must be done, she said to herself then pulled the white napkin closer to her nose as she bent herself over the tabletop, removed a pen from her purse and began to draw circles.  She paused once to catch Pat’s attention who floated among the tables with a carafe of coffee that she quietly placed on the table to the right of the slight woman’s cup and hand, which had returned itself to the pen and the napkin and was busying itself with forming circles.

The slight man partitioned the movement in his neck in such a way that he barely turned his head to his left.  It was a movement as slight as the man was in build…it had barely registered to the world around him.  Except the slight woman knew.  She snorted quietly because she would like to think that she would have known this before it had even happened, but that really wasn’t true.  She only knew that the slight man had moved his head so very very subtlely only after the deed was done.  The slight woman chuckled, feeling somehwat knocked down a peg.  She’d like to think that she was inside of everyone’s head here.  Quite literally ahead of their own thoughts and feelings and even experiences, but that wasn’t the case.  She could have been like anyone else in that room who might have been paying attention.  But still.  It would have had to have been paying nearly excruciatingly close attention to catch the slightness of the slight man’s movement.  And that degree of focus certainly wouldn’t be attributed to Emily.  Her mind was a bit chaotic still, perfectly reflecting the conditions of the diner around her.  Couldn’t say that would be attributed Forge, either, he, yes, is perpetually focused but very selective about his subject matter.  At present, he was entirely too focused on a very slow reveal of his many layers (because he doesn’t really know where this is going either, the slight woman thought to herself).

But though no one heard the slight woman, although no one heard much of anything really except an ever-mounting crescendo of dissonant noise, Emily somehow picked up the message from some place that something maybe profoundly central to her entire existence had been put into motion.

“Em,” Forge said in a voice so sincere that Emily couldn’t help but snap her attention immediately to him.  “What if instead of holding these faster smaller devices…what if they were implanted within us?  Audio, video, phone, search engine, internet, social networking platforms, virtual worlds.   The works.”

She stared.

“What if…we become the medium?”

NaNoWriMos total word count this chapter:  1,800; total word count todate (not including this notation) this chapter: 7,500.

Concentricity … 5

Ch 5 ~ Moments Unforgettable

And yet she had the feeling that most of what he was about to say would be.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, his voice modulated down to something somewhat in the vicinity of a normal volume.  This had the effect of reducing his physical presence.  You see, Forge was a man of slight build who used his voice like another appendage. 

She stared at him, studying.

“It’s true…I have been,” he confirmed.

“Well.  Why does that usually make me nervous when you do that?”

Forge cocked his rather large-ish head on his rather slightish shoulders, hoisted a rather tightly groomed salt and peppered eyebrow, and released a rather light chortle.  “There was a time, m’dear, when those of your persuasion deemed my thinking to be quite charming.”

“I’m sure,” Emily said.  For some reason unknown to even her, she felt compelled to gaze from behind a wisp of her brown hair at the redheaded figure with the laptop.

At just about the same time, Forge’s small hand had swallowed her own (which were still noticeably smaller than even his even though his were very small indeed) and which had been clasping and unclapsing themselves on the tabletop.  She returned her gaze to their booth and squinted deeper into the plumpness of his gentle rather soft hand (this was not a man who labored).  She watched absentmindedly while his hands politely pawed at her fingers and quietly silenced her fidgeting…something she had been quite unaware she had been doing.

Emily had several nervous ticks.  Wringing her hands together while deep in thought was one of them.

“Your inability to focus is causing no small amount of concern in me,” he nearly whispered, all traces of his usual bravado gone and then added after a long pause “…the young fellow works for me.  Maybe he’s enough to entice you to come back under my employ again, as well?”

Her eyes, quite almondy and clear, changed.  Emily had been blessed with large eyes, this is true.  But typically her eyes were described not so much as big, but more said to be bedroom eyes.  This wasn’t because of any trying for that effect on her part, no.  She just happened to have been born with heavy lids that framed her gaze into a near perpetual come-hither look.  But now, as she thought more intensely about the redheaded figure — the quiet, good looking man with the laptop –  her eyes pooled wide.  Round and huge like two planets fixed in space but not in time.

“I…I think I’ve met him before,” she said just barely above a whisper.

“Oh?” Forge kept his voice low in return.  In fact, he had leaned in across the table, impercetibly so, but he had leaned in nevertheless one could only assume in an effort to crowd the thought and back it up into a corner.  “With me?  Or before that even?”

A small sigh escaped the corner of her large almondy eyes.  She knew — all too well — what Forge was asking.  

A familar road, this.  With the same general conversation signposts, she thought.

“I’m not entirely sure where…”

“Em…” he paused just long enough to make her cast her pooled eyes back upon him.  He smiled in that shit eating smile kind of way that he always tended to smile when he knew something and didn’t feel the least bit inclined to share that knowledge.  Cheshire cat.  He rather enjoyed the knowledge imbalance.

“It’s not so much ‘where’…is it?” he asked just a few seconds after her eyes looked into his, with his lopsided grin egging her on.  “It’s more… ‘when’ … wouldn’t you say?”

With that her hand recoiled from under his softened pawing.  She quickly withdrew from his physical attempt to pull or poke at meaning in what was for most people casual conversation but what inevitably became for Forge a strategic manuveur.  Or maybe it was more tactical than strategic, she thought.  In any event it just smacked of “some other purpose”…a thought that always launched an internal argument.   She’d had this thought before.  She’d had this internal debate before.  It’s what all friends do with each other when there are quirks or charactertistics or mannerism that confuse or go against the grain…we react, we make judgements, we get to the point of talking about it or not, we make allowances or not, we come to an understanding or not.  We get on with life somehow.  It’s all a journey.

She was no different.  While her internal debate raged on and Forge stared at her with growing expectation that she would say what was on her mind or he would nag at her until she did, it helped, at that moment, that a young couple had entered the diner.  Somehow they were nearly as loud as Forge, and that fact alone had caught everyone’s attention including Forge, who seemed to be quite dismayed that anyone could put on more of a show than he.  But he could gather some satisfaction from the fact that it clearly took at least two people — both armed with cell phones — to out-bluster him.  But the real thing that caught Forge’s eye was how deeply engrossed this young couple was in their separate phone conversations.  They held hands, strolling through the diner to their table, never once acknowledging the world around them or anyone in it save for the other persons on the end of their separate cell phones.  Yet decidedly a couple.  Most likely, a romantic couple.  Hands laced together as they trundled into the restaurant.  Laced hands draped across the tabletop as they sat in their chairs and Pat buzzed over them, menus in hand, daily specials rattled off all as if in a hurry, as if somewhere else.  The young romantic couple — passing through town, no doubt, and stopping for a bite at the local — never once looked at each other.  Even from the distance, Emily could see that their eyes were glazed…tunnelling inward to someplace where the thematic constructs of their separate story-telling was formulated and playing itself out through wireless devices.

He clicked the roof of his mouth and nearly smiled as he twisted slightly around to study them.  At the same moment, Emily gathered together the outer corners of her eyes and studied Forge.  Always an angle, she thought.  And just as quickly huffed at herself.  Yes, he is a friend, she chastised herself deep in the silent recesses of her mind, the one place that she felt fairly sure no one was interested in entering.  No one…except for this blasted friend sitting across the table from her, twisted into a corkscrew but still leaning forward toward Emily as if his entire body — his shoulder, his adam’s apple, the hair in his ears – could see into her skull without any need to use his eyes to evaluate her. 

It’s not that he had that kind of hair in his ears.  The point was, he was so *certain*…even about what he didn’t know he didn’t know.  How can anyone be that way.  That was the thing that usually drove her batty.

“Really,” she nearly snapped, her hands flying up to her side, fingers wide in exasperation.  She nearly snapped this to the hair in his inner ear since he was still engrossed in the odd behavior of the young romantic couple who were ever engrossed in lacing their fingers and talking a mile a minute to separate people on their separate phones.  They didn’t need to look at each other.  Forge made it clear he didn’t think he need look at Emily to know what was on her mind…even though he fully admitted he had no idea. 

“Do you all drive like this too?”

“erm…?”  His head swirled forward, revealing curious eyes and the corner of a slightly uplifted mouth.

She shook her head and waved at the young romantic couple.

“I know.  Utterly *fascinating*…I’m sure they drive like that.  Perhaps you drive with your head twisted to the back instead of facing forward.”

“Cranky pants,” Forge mumbled through a laugh and danced on her mood with pitying eyes.  He wasn’t one to baby, and she wasn’t one to seek babying.  It’s just that she had come back…from that place…with a fright and was quite a bit more out of herself than in herself.  Not at all prepared to handle herself around the likes of someone like Forge.  Yes, friend.  Yes, with an agenda. 

Pat sliced through the path of oncoming traffic without batting an eye or volleying a platter that was loaded with table orders.  No one batted an eye that she walked as if she were driving in Europe.  Everyone did these days.  The path of least resistance had become not fast enough, imagine that.   People slice out any path they can find anywhere, usually on impulse.  She refilled their coffee, mumbling something about “nice junk!” (a double entendre no doubt in reaction to the images of the Real Suburban Trashmen that were being broadcasted into the inside of her head…from the inside of her head…but no one in the diner would know that) and buzzed on.

“Yeah.  Well.”  Emily wrapped her hands around her freshly topped off cup.  “I couldn’t help but notice that…”

“…that nobody noticed?  Nobody noticed them?  Yeah, fascinating, ain’t it?,” he grinned big and jutted his jaw out with glee.  “I suspect, m’dear…” he paused for good measure, certainly for effect, “that you have an idea or two why that is.  And probably even more importantly, to me, at least, where that sort of thing might be headed, hmmm?”

NaNoWriMos total word count this chapter:  1,600; total word count todate (not including this notation) this chapter: 5,700.

Transformations

Please plan to attend

Transformations, a jewelry installation of Cocoon Jewelry by Yoona Mayo, November 7th, 7 AM SLT, Shengri La sim 79.217.401

It is with great delight and pleasure that I share a little bit about Yoona Mayo, creator of Cocoon Jewelry.  Yoona is a huge talent.  She is a graceful, delicate soul whose outer elegance belies her inner strength.  As a Shengri La curator, I’ve had the great pleasure of knowing Yoona for many months while she participated under Shenlei Flasheart’s tutelage in the Shengri La Vintage Marketplace for new or early-emerging designers.  When Yoona came to Shengri La, she brought with her an astounding ability to work and very finely tune tiny tiny tiny prims and connect them together to form unbelievably intricate works of art in the form of jewelry.

And, Yoona’s artistry is simply breathtaking, as evidenced (below) by just a couple of the many pieces to be featured during “Transformations.”  By the way, the “Transformations” jewelry installation is at 7 a.m. STL because Yoona is from the Pacific Rim in FL, and the 7 a.m. SLT timeslot is the best hour to accommodate a pretty huge time difference.   (It will be very very late at night for Yoona and her friends, while very very early in the morning for many of us.)

But no matter the hour, I’ll be there with bells on (and coffee in hand).  In actuality, I’ll be there with the great honor of modelling one of the pieces to be featured:  the glorious jewelry wardrobe called Harvest Moon (below).  What can I say…I *love* this set.  It is unbelievably intricate and yet so richly detailed and somehow despite its delicate nature has such an unmistakable presence that it completely amazes.  

Harvest Moon from Cocoon Jewelry by Yoona Mayo

When I first saw Harvest Moon a few weeks ago, I gaped and purchased the earrings immediately.  (Yoona sells her earrings and necklaces separately, both at unbelievably reasonable prices.)  But I had snapped those earrings up shortly after Yoona created them and so I eagerly anticipated the creation of the accompanying necklace.  Then, because I have the good fortune of modelling in  “Transformations” (which I would do in a heartbeat in support of Yoona), I was gifted with the complete Harvest Moon set.  By the way, Harvest Moon comes in an array of gem choices.  My favorite is the diamond (featured in photos).  But all of them — from diamond, emerald to ruby and more – astound and confirm over and over again Yoona’s monster-size talents.  This level of design — from conception to build — is amazing.   For such a tiny, gentle soul with such a delicate and refined eye, Yoona is a screamingly massive talent.  Take a closer look at all the amazing intricacy in design on the earrings alone.   Simply wow!

earring detail of Harvest Moon set by Yoona Mayo, creator of Cocoon Jewelry

From earrings to necklace, Yoona echoes design elements, repeating the strongest theme in the structure even when the designs are ethereal and organic in feel, which the vast majority of Yoona’s creations are.  She creates this cohesive, beautiful symphony of levels and depth all in one set and interprets FL nature (Yoona’s source of inspiration) into gorgeously wearable jewelry-art for us to enjoy inworld. 

Here’s Yoona’s “Wisteria” set (below).  It, too, comes in a range of gem choices from diamonds, black pearl, ruby, to emeralds.

Wisteria earrings and necklace by Yoona Mayo, creator of Cocoon Jewelry

Here (below) is a photo that I share in an effort to show the dimension in the necklace.  The center design element on the necklace lifts up gently away from the body and the other branches of the neckwear.  The overall effect is this gorgeous depth and mimmicking of the wonderful cascading effect we see of wisteria in nature.  Only in this case, Yoona brings us a cascading effect of gems:

Wisteria earrings & necklace from Yoona Mayo, creator of Cocoon Jewelry

Not only is Yoona’s source of inspiration nature, but she loves working tiny prims and she does — indeed, she does – like nobody’s business.  In fact she’s elevated it to an artform in a way that very, very few have.  Please do come to “Transformations,” meet Yoona and see firsthand how incredible Yoona’s artistry truly is.  You’ll come away just as amazed as we all are, those of us who have had the pleasure of working with her.  And you’ll be sure to come away with any number of gorgeous wardrobe sets to fit perfectly in with the upcoming holiday season…really, with any season.

Transformations, a jewelry installation showcasing the gorgeous jewelry of Yoona Mayo, creator of Cocoon Jewelry

November 7, 7 a.m. STL, Shengri La sim (79.217.401)

 

Note:  I am continuing to write entries for NaNoWriMo(s) but am withholding posting them until after the November 7th Transformation show.

Concentricity … 4

Ch 4 ~ Chaosversation

Shit.

That always freaks me out.  Freakin creeping up on me when I least expect it but never — no, never — when I want to know what’s ahead.  That’s when the door is slammed tight, but yeah sure, just wait, Em, just wait.  When the future is the last thing on my mind, yeah, then I’m thrown right into the fucking center of the mess.  Of some mess.  Excuse the language (as if I really need to) but, fuck!, it never gets any easier.  Stupid rude jolt to the system.  Excuse me.  Do I really need to see the same thing over and over again?  Pat laying in bed, dying how many times now?  Do I really need that, Oh Great All-Seeing Future?!  What exactly is the universe trying to say to me with this scenario.  Covered completely in darkness.  Makes my hair stand on end.  Not to mention breaks my heart every time.  And now this…this…Strange is all I can say, definitely Strange-with-a-capital-S man…whoever he is.  Looking straight at me in there.  I could swear he saw me.  Plain as day right in the center of my own mind’s eye.  Acting like I’m the intruder.  Yeah right!    In my own freakin head!  Staring me down and watching the news.  In his own freakin head! 

Shit!!

She heard sounds, the most discordant sounds around her.   Saw a blurry fuzzy waving of what she knew to be the arms of a very loud man who bullied the air with his voice and who happend to be sitting on the opposite side of the booth from her.  Forget (pronounced “Fore jay”)…Forget Myers, her other friend in this small town of Glenwood.  Forget was more than a bit of an eccentric (as his first name might indicate…and in fact, most people referred to him as “Forge”) and more than a bit odd to the people who lived in Glenwood.  Because, although a huge question mark in most people’s minds, Forge remained nobody’s fool.  And yet he chose to stay in Glenwood when he clearly possessed a mind that was vastly much more global in view…and a heckuvalot larger than life.  He was the local entrepreneur…not budding, not failing, not faltering.  Wildly successful, in fact, several times over.  As much as the locals thought he was loud and obnoxious and were probably secretly (and not so secretly) jealous of him, all of them to a one respected the man’s bank accounts.   Emily was the only person in Glenwood who didn’t give his massive personal wealth the time of day.  He knew because she had worked for him in one of his ventures.  He had come to know her personality pretty well.  His mind was agile enough, afterall, to size up situations and people fairly quickly and to modify his thought processes when necessary…the secret to the longevity of his successes.   But when Emily turned down a substantial salary and chose instead to part ways with his businesses rather than be promoted into a rather generous slot on his Hummer size wheel of commerce, well, then his hunch about Emily not giving a rat’s ass about the rat race was confirmed.  Forge chuckled silently.  He was not accustomed to being told “no” yet somehow her “no” was palatble and they had become even better friends as a result.  Oh, they still worked together on projects from time to time, always initiated by him.   Forge knew Em “had the goods.”  Forge had a sneaking suspicion of her particular talent, too, and he made no secret about it around her.  She didn’t seem to mind.  If she had minded, he would know.

Em never pulls any punches, he whistled behind his eyes, and as nobody’s fool, Forge knew he needed someone like that around him, no matter how much he might not like it at the time.  This latest venture was definitely one of those times, he told himself as he studied her expression closely. 

She busied herself with tuning him out. 

So he spoke even more loudly, god bless his healthy lungs.

 ”Top of the morning!” he bellowed, even though he sat on the other side of the same table as Emily.

Her eyes glazed over.  She knew it to be so but really couldn’t do much to stop it.  Coming out of that void — basically stepping into and out of the future — wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, she chortled inside.  People had no idea…for the most part, because they denied the possibility.  Even if they did believe that she could see the future, people still had no clue.  It simply was never as easy as one might think, but this time it had been acutely alarming.

“Huh?!”  His hands clobbered the formica tabletop.  Silverware jostled with some annoyance.  Coffee hiccupped out of their mugs and slapped its umber color onto the napkins. 

“What’s the MATTER!”  

That always did it.  That exaggerated inflection he put into his voice.  Made her groan and roll her eyes.  As much as she hated it, somehow it always worked and brought her focus to him. 

“Why.  Must.  You.  Yell? – ” she asked with a voice that sounded like it was behind a velvet curtain that was roped around the back of her mind.

Exasperated and not quite out of what looked for all appearances to be a trance, her head lulled itself in a backward motion onto the weathered, lumpy stuffing of the settee in the less-than-shiny booth of the less-than-sparkly diner that had been around the block more than once or twice.   In fact, over the years, the Glenwood Cafe had been literally on the other side of the block and down the adjacent streets of the same block, here and there.  But, really, that was neither here nor there just now, Emily chided herself.  

“Top of the morning!” he bellowed even more loudly, determined to get her full attention and in the process creating quite a commotion…enough, in fact, to cause all the wait staff to scowl.  Who needs to listen to customers?   He could read the complaint as plain as day on their expressions. 

Pat rolled her eyes, being the most clearly invested in the complaining.  But there was something else to that eye-roll.  In her high annoyance, she just about hurdled her thoughts deeper into the far reaches of her mind.  The place where it was darkest and by contrast could provide the greatest illumination if a light were turned on.  That place — way back there — was where she retreated to alot these days.  Because it was a place where she could still have an idea of what was happening in the world around her even while fully concealed.   Like a cave…dark and enclosed in the recesses, but open to the outside at its opening.  Still.  For a person to be able to physically take her mind by the hand and go there — disappear into darkness but still reveal the world around her within each passing moment and through her senses…well…even Pat couldn’t help but marvel.  This was not something she took for granted.  Not until she turned the channel and was immersed in her favorite cable station. 

She sighed, hearing Forge’s bellowing.  You’d almost think he was a one-man orchestra for all the sounds coming out of his mouth, she thought.   Poor Em…better her than me, she thought and continued searching in the back of her mind.  There was some kind of electrical impulse.  They need to make that more obvious, she thought with some frustration.  She still struggled to find the “on” switch even after having this — what is it, she thought to herself, “contraption”? — inside of her head for a couple of months now.  There was some kind of switch somewhere in the back of her head to change the channel basically, and in this case at this moment, blot the bellowing Forge from her senses.  Remote access to a remote control to blip out of conversations or media that she wasn’t remotely interested in.  Thank god, she breathed, as her concentration brought forth images of South Parked, the Whether Channel, Project Frock, and the Real Suburban Trashmen of whatever city they were in now.  Trading spaces in a whole new way, Pat smirked in a very contented way because now the visual of Forge was quite literally out of her head, and she was walking around obliviously taking customer orders while she caught up on the boob tube. 

“Forget For-Jay,” she muttered with glee under her breath and quickly oogled the buttcrack of the Suburban Trashman as he dumped a load of garbage into the compressor…and as Pat scribbled out “two eggs over easy, bacon, rye bread, coffee.”

But not everyone had that luxury.  In fact, few really knew too much about this new technology.  Those who didn’t know reacted quite differently to Forge’s dramatics.  Of course, everyone’s heads (patrons, employees, cafe owners…all except the guy with the laptop) spun around, which had the effect of showering the carpet with more bits of food crumbs as they whirled off of utensils because everyone (well, patrons really and idling owners who hunched over the countertop noshing…all of them except for Pat and the guy with the laptop) somehow felt compelled to spin their hands with their heads. 

As if they were driving while eating, Emily thought, as she looked around dimly.  As if *that* ever happens in a day and age consumed with driving while texting, with driving most definitely being the secondary activity.  What do they all talk about all day anyway, her mind wandered off for a nanosecond, until she pushed past her embarassment.

“WELL???!!!!” he boomed.

“Do.  You.  NOT.  Speak.  Lightly.  Or. Even.  Conversationally,” she rattled off in staccato, “Must absolutely everything — everything — be an announcement?”

“M’dear,” he said quite calmly for once, which was rather irksome to her…the moments when he chose to be calm.  They were usually the moments when she chose to feel quite justified in not being calm with him.  “No, not everything.  But definitely the important things.  Most definitely, those.  That is, assuming you don’t want what you say to be completely forgotten.”

NaNoWriMos total word count this chapter:  1,700; total word count todate (not including this notation) this chapter: 4,100.

Concentricity … 3

Ch 3 ~ Membrane

She had heard of muscle memory and so when she flinched she wasn’t terribly surprised.  She had flinched this way for this reason before.  What did surprise her was the sense of time for this entire setting.  Because it wasn’t now; it wasn’t here.  It was someplace off…somewhere.

A short average-sized man stood in darkness in some kind of room.  A room that felt large despite the fact that she couldn’t make out much beyond the man and his illusive shadow.   Like anonymity personified, he hovered over a thickness that teased at exposure in the gathered darkness. 

She narrowed her focus, concentrating her mind to put meaning to the edge of a context that somehow bound itself into black inky secrecy.  Eventually, she recognized a bed, a form.  A body yes, a body, she confirmed in her mind…a body that lay in the bed.  Someone asleep?   She couldn’t tell exactly but knew somehow that the person was alive even if every other appearance suggested otherwise.  The sudden quiet hum of machinery that penetrated her mind surprised her at first then reassured her when she realized what it was.  Her eyes quickly chased out meaning.  She could see now that the wavelenghts pulsing from the source of the noise were saturated halos that flickered in and out ever so subtlely from beyond the encasement in which they were housed…from beyond the boxes of what she assumed only could be medical equipment.  In a deathly-still quiet room.  With a body lying just as dealthy still.  In a bed.  With a chillingly-shadowed man standing — no…prowling — silently over it.  More alarmingly, over the person in it.

Why am I here, she wondered in her mind, in this space, in the dark. 

And as if he heard her –

of course he couldn’t have just heard me, she panicked abruptly and more than what she was certain was quite loudly into the silence  –

And as if he had heard her..she flinched.  Because he had turned his head under and he had cast his eyes over an average-sized shoulder — his shoulder —  to deliver a hooded and ominous gaze directly into the center of her eyes — into the center of Emily’s pools.

Holding your breath was radically difficult, she now knew, when you felt deep within each molecule of your being that your thoughts and your entire thought process…was alive.  Thought as form.  Intention as presence.  Made manifest.

Nearly hyperventilating, she tried desparately not to move.  She was virtually transparent — even though, for crap’s sake!, she was barely in the same physical space! — she fought the possibililty of materializing and blossoming out from an uncontrolled will into a room that on a primal level every impulse in her shouted flight!  NOW!  Her heart raced so furiously that her pulse thrashed within her eardrums and nearly deafened her.  She forced herself not to blink from the compression.  Staring straight into his cold eyes, in the void of his expressionless stare, she saw nothing that would identify him.  But what she suddenly did see startled her more than she already had been startled…even more than the fact that somehow he had become aware of her intrusion.  She realized he must be thinking “Intrusion.”   She allowed the word to sink into her aura like an anchor, locking her firmly to this place.  Or like a pair of cement boots, plummeting her to the drown in the depths of her own demise.  Intrusion into what, she nearly screamed within her brain.  Into why?

Then, imperceptibly at first, the wheels turned in his head.  She watched a series, a small tightly compact series, of cogs and screws whirl slowly into a circular progression that suggested forward movement born from a firmly coupled feat of engineering.  Images flickered across the blank canvas that was his darkened mind.  Astounded, she found herself leaning toward him, hunched forward scrunching her eyes, compelling them to render the images that flew rapidly past in the front of his mind.  There were backwards the images…entertainment-newscasts?  mixed-reality shows?  social platforms?  tweets? 

“What?” she gasped.  

His eyebrow cocked itself and the machinery behind his eyes immediately hid itself from her view.  Several seconds passed as she tried to make sense of what she had just seen.  Several more seconds passed until she realized she had gasped not only in her mind but through her breath.  Her startled state had become manifest, and the short menacing figure with the machinery in his head had heard. 

It was then, that Emily blinked.  

 

NaNoWriMos total word count this chapter:  760; total word count todate (not including this notation) this chapter: 2,403.

Concentricity … 2

Ch 2 ~ Visceral

Emily had a little talent that she rarely kept to herself, unless she was in a particularly shy mood.  Usually, she was.  God…sometimes thoughts just didn’t come to her.  At least sometimes not in a way that made any kind of sense (at least to outside people) so why would she give voice to the clutter that frequented her brain?  Exactly, she said to no one in particular but herself.  She laughed.  In a small way.  Nearly imperceptibly, which was the point exactly.  Because it was more than just a touch ironic, that thought back there.  A couple of sentences back…she nodded her head back as if to point to the precise sentence that floated like a cobweb somewhere in the back of her mind.  The one that mentioned talking to “…no one in particular but herself.”  Yea, that one.  Ironic because most of the people in this quiet-smallish still-but-caught-in-a-perpetual-cycle-of-terrible twos-farmtown of Glenwood thought of Emily Wentwood as precisely that.  (See what I mean?  What a jumbled thought that was.)  No one in particular.  Just a transparent film of a person with a knack for blending into the background.

Still.  Even that wasn’t Emily’s particular talent.

“Welllllllll!” a voice boomed over the cluster of tables and chairs and half eaten breaksfasts with jellies and ketchup slopped carelessly over the plates and onto the surface.

She poked a long strand of mousy brown hair out of her eyelashes and turned her head around to stare over her shoulder.  Her eyes pinched, stressing the skin across the bridge of her nose and mounding it into bundled creases of fuzzy curiousity, until at last, her vision focused.   

She could see through the window, not far away…not far at all…a flock of birds manuveured the air in perfect unison. 

He glanced up from his laptop.  His mousy blondish-reddish hair blurred the air, his smile tentatively entered into her sight.  She flinched in some kind of recognition that she didn’t fully know, couldn’t at all ignore, wouldn’t possibly explore at this moment because that bellow from somewhere further down, striding down the aisle, jerked her head away until her vision landed squarely on the chaos that seemed to be unleashing itself at every table before her.

People eat like such animals sometimes, Emily thought before barely having time to register all of the napkins lifting off of the tables like flat, spineless flying structures that were propelled into the air by his wildly exaggerated movement.   Nevermind the mounds of food crumbs that graffitti’d the floor.

The patrons in this diner bullied food.  He bullied air, he did.

Here thoughts flew back to the general vacinity of the laptop.   Whoosh.

Who is he? she ventured to ask with no time at all to discover an answer.

A voice grumbled from a standing position somewhere near the edge of Emily’s booth.  “Oh brother,” Pat said.  She had a habit of saying that.  She had a habit of thinking she knew everything that was about to unfold.  But see…that’s the thing.  Pat didn’t have that particular talent.  Pat was just one of those who thought she had everyone’s number because she people-watched for a living.

“More coffee, Em?”

Emily rolled her gaze back to Pat, who stood as all waitresses do on the outer edge of the booth and who looked down at Emily with a smirk on her face.  Not all waitresses did that, but at least Pat’s smirk was friendly.  Yet, a smirk just the same.  Knowitall, she thought but Emily really knew that Pat was okay.  She was, in fact, her closest friend in a town that really regarded Emily (and possibly to some extent Pat, for all she knew) as inconsequential at best.  Pat might exercise snap judgements far too frequently, but the one constant she displayed was a genuine caring for Emily.  And that was very mutual.  So, Pat’s tendency to think she knew everything at all times simply by virture of the fact that she waitressed at the Glenwood Cafe was annoying, yes, but, really quite minor if you could look past it.   Emily could.  It was always nice to have a friend.  Besides.  Emily knew Pat had a heart of gold and that in two years that same heart would constrict so massively as to snuff the life of all of that self-satisfied knowledge right out of her.  For good.

Emily knew this as nearly unavoidable fact.  Regrettably so.  Because that was Emily’s particular talent that she rarely kept to herself, unless she was feeling particularly shy (which was usually the case) or particularly fearful (which was definitely true in Pat’s case).

Emily could see the future.

“Sure…sure, Pat.  Thanks.  Love some more.”

She shoved the thought of two years down the road far away into the recesses of her mind and focused instead on the steady stream of coffee arching out of the carafe into her cup.  Not one dropped spilled.  Damn, Pat was good.  As steady as they come.  Who would guess what was coming at her.  Emily only hoped she was wrong on this one; she only hoped that her inner eye was as blind as her external vision appeared to be.  But she had little time to dwell on all of this because before she knew it, he had bullied the air completely out of the room and was standing completely in focus next to Pat, wearing a wiseguy smile to beat all heck.  Pat raised an eyebrow which had the odd effect of turning down the corners of her mouth in a rather exaggerated, comical way.  Emily couldn’t help but snort softly.

“Wellllllllllllllll!  HI THERE!  Mind if I join you!”  The man doesn’t ask questions.  For the most part, he punishes the air.

Emily shook her head in mild amusement.  I mean what does one say to such an exhibit of a person?  Especially after Pat turned on her slammed heel like an exclamation point punctuating the close of her participation in this conversation.

He snickered.

“WHAT?!  What did I say!”

Emily held her hand out in surrender and gestured for him to sit.  Because, after all, she knew that he would whether she wanted him to or not.

“The question might be,” she leaned in and mumbled quietly in the hopes of stifling the stares he was generating, “what haven’t you said.” 

Then, for some reason – one that even she didn’t yet know – she craned her chin to her shoulder.

And in that moment, their eyes caught, wordlessly from laptop to booth, underneathe tassles of mousy hair, for the second time that day.

NaNoWriMo(s) – total word count this chapter:  1092; total word count todate (not including this notation):  1,635

Concentricity … 1

Happy November 2009!  Here in deep fall arrives national novel writing month (NaNoWriMo).  /me smiles tentatively.  This was so *not easy* when I first tried this last year.  (Very wonderful talented friend Dale…you utterly amaze, having done this every year for the past decade now?  You utterly amaze in so very many ways.)  On my first attempt, I didn’t finish the novel in the 30-day time allotment; I took 6 weeks instead of 4.  But the larger triumph for me was finishing…and the process (as agonizing as it was on several evenings when the computer taunted me with a blank page).  This year, for me, the effort is more likely to be NaNoWriQtr (quarter indeed) because, well, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s going to be a more accurate description of the time it will take for me to reach 50,000 words.  I will do my best not to backslide.  I admit I wrote 4000 words sporadically a couple of days in September and then a couple more days in October and then promptly became lazy.  What is it about time pressures that spark a writing process?  Is that where my muse is?  If so, then I better launch right in…because NaNoWriMo or NaNoWriQtr — either way — time’s a wasting and the process is itching to begin.   

 

Ch 1 ~ Sunset

Somewhere, not far away…not far at all…a flock of ducks manuveured the air in perfect unison.  

Whoosh.

It was late afternoon.  The birds flew low at first, swooping silently just over his head before they lifted into the silhouette of dusk.   With amazingly few beats, their wings cut a powerful sweeping arc across the sky’s cloudy backdrop.  The atmosphere’s early evening veil overlay what looked to be a turbulent sunset.  Blues, purples, fiery reds fairly vibrated on the horizon as they inked the boisterous clouds that masked the star.

Funny, this.  That he had taken the time to even notice this unsettled display of nature.  But the irony hadn’t escaped him…even in the heat of this moment or of the moments that had just come and gone.  Indeed.  It had been a turbulent night.  For one, he thought as he easily concealed his weapon of choice.   He had just killed a man.  Did it really matter how?  A terrible threat had been averted.  Snuffed out completely by a more powerful, forceful will.  

Only to him — and to no one else — did the details matter.  Not unless you were looking for the evil in those trivialities.   But, he told himself with total convinction, you still wouldn’t find me…not even then.  He focused himself with even more purpose.  Although he dwelled a bit on this topic, it was much more reality for him that his mind had swept well past this act, well past this scene.  His body soon would as well.  He walked rapidly now to his car, keeping his eyes on the flock of birds as it continued a graceful flight of unspoken purpose, natural precision, and unwavering instinct. 

He smiled rather easily, concealing to himself any rationalization in which his mind might still be engaged.  Perhaps at some level.  Perhaps not.  He wouldn’t really know, because if he gave focus or effort to those thoughts…if he voiced them even silently…he would risk acknowledging some sense of guilt or agnst.  And he simply had none.  If not angst, then, conscience, perhaps.  But no, he told himself because he had little of that to speak of either.  And that wasn’t really the point, he calmly reminded himself as he sat in his car, heard the gleaming door close with a gasp, and strapped on his seatbelt.  A safe killer.  No, no, he frowned slightly until he corrected himself:  “A responsible victim. Yes.”  The point was that the man laying dead in the alley had to be removed.  He was loud.  He was dangerous.  He was on the verge of unleashing a capability far more overwhelming than conscience.  Soon enough, if not tonight, then soon enough, somewhere not too far away, he was on the verge of giving the world access to a word similar in sound to “conscience” but more importantly some would argue, profoundly more powerful in capability.  The collective.  Such a potently dangerous notion.    

This was simple, he reasoned as he manuveured his spotless vehicle, a muscled vehicle that with just a few accelerations silently cut out a powerful stretch down an otherwise politely submissive road.  Just like the flock of birds, this was instinctive.  The doing of this act, he confirmed to himself, done to maintain a thing of beauty really…the perfect order of disorder. 

NaNoWriMo(s) 2009 – Total word counts, not including this notation or the intro:  545

Iconoclast Rising … 1

Note:  Well, it’s November…and that means it’s National Novel Writing Month.  No, I haven’t yet done this.  But this year, I’m giving it a go.  So in an attempt to challenge my writing process and write with abandom to churn out about 1600-2000 words a day (fingers crossed!) for a total of 50,000 words by month’s end, here are the first 1800 words (not counting this paragraph).  I confess that I started this a few days ago and, of course, immediately fell into my normal writing process of rereading-finetuning-rereading-finetuning-overthinking ad naseum.   Should I not hit the 50,000 word mark, but if in the writing, I find myself going through the strange and unusual paces of a completely different writing process and I learn from it…man, will I consider this a success.  Off we go…

 

“The greatest challenge of the day is:  how to bring about a revolution that has to start with each one of us.”  ~ Dorothy Day

 

Ch 1 … The Babel Whisperer

 

Energy warm and light touches.  It moves along like a dream.  It whirls and rushes.  Slows and circles.  It tickles deep down.  A gentle prickling and now a feathered tingling.  Skipping along, raising excited little imaginings and tiny delighted yearnings.  Coos and soft songs instinctively release their sparkle.  I giggle like stardust.  I swirl like moonlight.  My inner eye closes tight.  My energy rises and twists.  Becomes a dazzling summit before the tickling and squirming billows out and ripples around.

Now brightness.  Now glowings.  Pretty and soft and cheery.  Laughing colors and happy lights.  The sky, the sun?  The moon, the stars?  Words, what words.  All the glistening beings that surround the spacelessness of space?  I touch each one…one by one.  Smiles stream out in cascades, rushing through and over and under and in and with and for.  I feel each one.  I know each name.  At the beginning of the then.  Of the when.  Of the now. 

They are here.  The tall one, the less-than tall one.  The right; the left.  Together, one.  A burst of thoughts radiates through me from the less-than tall one.  Oh. So. Yes. True.  The right, has a vague sense…cranes to the Every When.  The tall one, the left; in Now.  I feel the thoughts weave a tapestry of arcing dimensions and taste the brilliant energy.  I lace and weave into the ideas.  Arc and dance in all directions.  So easy.  So connected.  So true, so one.  Singing and reaching, flitting and expanding.  Flickering myself in and out of their minds.   One in particular.  And still…

…they are unmoved.  The less-than tall one frowns.  He stares into particles unseen, trying to remove the curtain.  I smile in return as I sweep the way true and woven again.  He scratches his brow as if confused.  I smile softly as I envelope him.  I am incomprehensibly huge for them…even as I journey so unencumbered inside the tips of their fingers.  I am unimaginably miniscule to them…even as I expand unimpeded to the edges of the universes.   Yes, soft smiles.  I move quickly.  Like light, like breath, faster than instinct, faster than awareness.  They – the tall one, the less-than tall one – they hardly are ever aware of the fullness of me.  Hardly ever do they hear the All. 

Dyrst twitched momentarily.  He continued to scratch his brow, trying to chase at some kind of mental itch.  He hemmed a bit, then jerked his attention to Mya.  “Did you hear that?” he asked.

Always searching.  Always so close.  Right on the lip of it all.  But words.  What words.  Breath shifts.  Sounds perplex, escape, stream by in waves of energy and light.  Words transformed and transforming.  I know what surges through them. 

“Hear what,” she asked.

Feel. Be. Am.  Here is here.  Aware is Here.  Possibilities…words, what words.  Endless dimensions.

Mya had been studying a piece of scrap metal.  It was jagged and dirty and large.  Its form contorted.  Its edges unforgiving. 

Remember.  Open.  Unknown.  Known.  Aware. 

“It reminds of something,” her fingers thought as Mya stood oblivious to them and evaluated the object within her hands.  She scrunched the corner of her lips together and felt mildly bothered.  She turned the twisted metal carefully over and over in her hands, inspecting the scratches, the weathered sheen, the jagged outline that more than once bit into her fingertips, causing them to jump instinctively in recognition.  And yet Mya remained oblivious to them.  She was grateful for the gloves, but they were more a fashion protest than anything functional: their tips cut away; their seams stitched into to display sparkling charms and hanging, flowing ribbons.  Hardly meant to protect her ivory skin.  And yet when the metal bit she felt little to nothing, despite the instantaneous reflex that the sensation had generated in her hands.  “Oh,” she moaned softly.

Endless dimensions.  Infinite choices…now diverging, now travelling down separate paths within the choosing.

“What…did you hear it?” Dryst asked.  He turned to face Mya fully, now.  The heel of his sandal kicked up dust and sand on the barren-lush desert-beach where they had found themselves.  It was early dawn.  Or maybe it was early dusk.  He couldn’t tell.  He couldn’t remember.  They had travelled far.   In search of something, some kind of object or artifact, but what exactly he couldn’t remember or why.  But that didn’t matter.  His attention was on Mya.  His frown intensified as he watched her stare at her hands.  She stared as if locked within a tomb with no room or oxygen to spare.  But there she was…freely in the open, free to breathe.  In this moment, she was bent over slightly, which had the effect of reducing her height just enough to be level with his.   But for all her length and hunched stance she was slender.  Even when she was bent over she was lithe and of smooth lines and looked nearly transparent with her golden white hair and her ivory skin and her body adorned in a cream-colored bodysuit.  When she moved – before now…before she had become frozen in place – she naturally glided.  Not any kind of conscious affectation in her gait.  No.  Her legs floated her being along silently.  Her walk graced the planet like a ray of moonlight rippling in the breeze. 

“Dude,” Dryst asked again.   “What’s up?”  He called her “dude” deliberately, just to get her attention.  It always irked her and seemed to have that effect on her even now.   Mya glanced briefly at Dryst and narrowed her eyes.  He was glad for it because it gave life back to her form.  Dryst chuckled mildly.  For such a lithe being, she could be incredibly rigid in her ways about some things, he thought with amusement.  So predictable when it came to certain things.

Infinite choices…now merged and joined when met in the realization beyond.

“My fingers, Dude,” she bit the words mildly through her teeth, eventually somewhere somehow realizing that taking offense at being referred to as “dude” was taking a stance with little to no substance or meaning.  Particularly with a dear soul.  But she was dismayed, and somewhat alarmed.  And didn’t have an answer for what was happening…and that bothered her and made her somewhat edgy.

“The metal cut into me, but…” she continued, “I didn’t feel anything.  No pain.”

Dryst raised his eyebrows.  He shrugged his broad shoulders and offered, “That’s a good thing,” knowing full well that somehow it wouldn’t be.  He shook his own hand absentmindedly.

“I don’t see anything,” she pressed on in a tone that confirmed his suspicion that it wasn’t, in fact, a ‘good thing.’  “I mean…no blood,” she said specifically.

For reasons he couldn’t describe or explain and, in truth, didn’t even know, Dryst lifted his own hand, turned his palm to meet his own gaze, and studied his own flesh.   

“Oh,” he rumbled low.  He envisioned.  He saw traces of lines that mounded up slightly and then dissolved away completely.  ”Scars,” he murmurred.

Startled, Mya dropped her hand.  That was the only thing she had seen on her fingertips.  Tiny little raised scars, pinkish-white in color that hadn’t been there before.  She stared at Dryst.  He had done something like this in the past….had seen what hadn’t been shown to him.  She broke fully out of the freeze that had gripped her, swivelled her body and raised her head to look fully onto him.  Dryst’s eyes were kind.  She always loved his eyes.  So open, so soft, so fueled with quiet energy.  She knew they always reflected inward and outward…somehow blurring and traversing any confines, any boundaries.  Mya had known Dryst for at least two lifetimes, probably many more, and trusted him like no other.   She studied his face…naturally handsome and relaxed, framed by wild auburn-streaked hair that ruffled softly in the air and that suited his earthy, open and rugged appearance better than anything else could.   And despite his ease with life and most importantly with himself, Dryst focused his mind in a singular way and on multiple planes.  He always tapped into more levels than he let on.  Mya knew this, and she supposed he knew that she knew.  Well, she thought with some irony, when you’ve known each other more than a bazillion lifetimes, not many nuances escape detection.  

Still, there’s always wonderous surprises…even in the knowing…

She twitched briefly, rummaging in her mind at something, then parked her search and switched gears to focus on his eyes.  Together, they held the gaze.  Together, they read the air between them. 

She looked down at her hand again, only to find that the scars had vanished just as soon as her eyes had surveyed her skin.

Addition, not subtraction.  Wholeness, not sections.  I know what surges through them.  The travel in memory beyond time and place.  The will to envision beyond answers and control.  The weaving all together beyond structure and physics.  Oh so easy.  Oh so near.  The connective light gleaming.  Until…

Silence. 

The ground shifted imperceptibly.  Dryst clenched his jaw and scanned the tumbleweeds that bullied themselves onto succulent tropical plants.  Like a lightswitch that had been flicked off, something had changed.  A film or grey haze was building on the horizon.  Was a storm coming, he wondered.   He peered into the distance, searching out the cause of his sudden feeling of disquiet.  Then abruptly he discovered it as he turned to Mya just as a blur of a figure tore along the winds and ensnarled Mya, ripping her away from Dryst, knocking Dryst to the ground from the sheer force of the winds.  The figure was large and fierce, with weapons clanging against its sides, and Mya clutched cruelly in tow.  Dryst’s heart pounded.  His angry breath choked on shock and rage and alarm.  He watched helplessly as Mya — imprisoned by the large weapon-bearing figure — hurtled toward that grey haze on the horizon, flying on the back of a whipping, screaming sandstorm.   But Dryst allowed that feeling of helplessness to grip him only in that moment.  As much as he didn’t know what was happening or why, as much as he didn’t know what was to come or when, Dryst knew he would find Mya.  He gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright from the ground.  When he did, his fingertips glanced the edge of the metal scrap that had fallen from Mya’s grasp.  He scowled as the sandstorm and its dark rider and frightened prisoner stormed toward the horizon.  Blood pounding through his veins, he bent to pick up the metal scrap, which burned hotly now and pulsated a surreal glow. 

And he knew.   Dyrst knew this object would lead him there.

The connective light…beyond time and place, structure and physics…gleaming…

Bursting into SecondLife(tm)

 

“Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.  Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”   …Begin it now.

 

per Wikipedia, this “Goethe Couplet” (the two sentences in quotations above) is attributed to John Anster, based upon his loose translation of lines 214-30 in Goethe’s Faust

 

It’s been an intense few days/weeks at RL work with an org-wide audit covering a five-year period, and using animoto again has proven to be a bit of a gentle decompressor. I love this animoto tool.  (Thanks, again, to Botgirl for blogging with/about it.)   Happily, I learned from the last time.  This time, it didn’t take me a day and 45 minutes to complete the project.  Only mere minutes.  So much so I finished this a couple of days ago (before the audit stressed everyone utterly out) and scheduled the blog to run now.   (I feel super nerdy with the scheduling point and click, even though I’m sure this is a very simple undertaking for most.)

So, I couldn’t resist creating another video trailer, but this time to present the new creations at the Shengri La Vintage Marketplace.  In all of 29 seconds, the tool showcases (again with free music from the site) some of the gorgeous creations from Balderdash Jewelry; Kicks & Twirls; PasDeDeux; Luminous Designs.  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that two of the photos are by ober talented Callipygian Christensen.  

 

 

Those photos a wee bit out of focus or low res?  Uh, yeah…those would be mine.  I like to think that they give the piece a certain patina, as Saiyge would say.

Project “Runway”…of the Shengri La Variety

It’s challenging not to keep writing about the Shengri La Vintage Marketplace.  Many a night we’ve seen any combination of impromptu fashion shows on the boardwalk, a sneak preview of award-winner Callipygian Christensen’s lastest photo series, a welcoming of a new designer (with the official announcement of his fashion line forthcoming), a finding of another designer resting on a gargoyle, or a close encounter of the Linden kind with Torley (he of video tutorial fame) running around as a tiny kitten snapping pictures of the five-island Shengri La sims for his SLBuzz, Snapzilla, KoinUp, and Flickr streams.

So without saying too much, here’s a couple of images of a couple of those happenings.  

Here I am in Jare’s shop at the Shengri La Vintage Marketplace.  Jare’s “AU V” fashion line represents the latest addition to the Marketplace, with the official announcement to be made by Shenlei Flasheart through Shenlei’s Shengri La Utopian Micronation blog.  But I couldn’t resist wearing one of Jare’s truly very finely-crafted creations and sharing a bit of a sneak peak (beyond last night’s impromptu boardwalk fashion show).

An early look at one of Jare's finely crafted creations

Another peak at Jare's wonderful creation

There’s only so much walking one can do in stiletto heels.  So, where does a girl rest her weary feet after a long day?  Check out the gargoyles.  Not quite Santa, but they’re comfy when you just feel like plopping a squat.  Here’s a photo of Shengri La Marketplace Designer Misteria Loon and me resting on one of the many gargoyles that line the Marketplace boardwalk.  The most serious problem with this photo is that it doesn’t do justice to Misteria’s latest creation, the black feather gown that she and I are both wearing.  Her newest creation is simply *sublime.* 

Sneak peak of Misteria's gorgeous feather and lace dress

We’re both wearing the dress version, but it comes with a long skirt (and a capelet) to make it a gown.  Every part of that creation is gorgeous, down to the lace stockings which are so impossibly intricate and meticulously detailed it’s astounding.  Please do check it out at Misteria’s PasDeDeux shop in the Vintage Marketplace (slurl in the first paragraph).  You won’t be disappointed.  The artistry is amazing and what you get for the price will, well, simply knock your socks off.  

Speaking of knocking socks off…this gal is about to kick off her shoes, drink some hot chocolate, and literally smell the roses for a bit.  (The forecast calls for flurries tomorrow…FLURRIES!!! GAH!)  Maybe I’ll ponder a bit on November’s National Novel Writing Month .  I *greatly* admire (beyond words, ironically enough) those who participate(d) in this.  I have yet to do so, but hope to one year.  Meanwhile, its fast arrival and my admiration for those who do are both inspiring me…if not quite yet for a novel, then perhaps for my next blog. 

Until then, how about that nice cup of hot cocoa…extra chocolate, please, yes, indeedy do, smiles.

Iconoclast Rising … 2

 

“The wind has a thousand eyes.  The heart has but one.”  ~ Zen

 

Ch 2 … Locomotive Breath

 

Oh.  My.  God.  I am so unbelievably uncomfortable, Mya screamed in her mind.  Why the hell isn’t Dryst here?  What the hell is happening here?  Where the hell are we going?  Who the hell is this foul-smelling beast that’s clutching his gnarly, hairy arm around my waist and digging his splintered dirt-filled nails into my ribs?  Mya had half a mind to laugh, despite the fact that the sandstorm wailed deep within her ears and whipped pin-size daggers deep into her flesh.   Though she flopped about like a ragdoll from the sheer speed of their chase-to-somewhere and though she repeatedly found her body crashing against the creature’s chestband — a chestband that was heavily threaded with sheathed (thankfully) daggers — Mya risked twisting her head slightly.  She peered gingerly over and around her abductor’s shoulder in an effort to absorb any information she could about how they were travelling.  Her thoughts bounced just as hard as her breathing did:  were they riding on the wind, exactly?  (It appeared that they were.)   And how exactly does something like that work, she wondered but her wondering was met with the full void of silence.

“This cannot be happening,” Mya half muttered, half laughed to herself.  The last she remembered, she had cut her hand on that scrap metal in that plush tropical desert where day and night merged and where she and Dryst had been standing.  And Dryst had asked about hearing things.  She thought it was an odd thing to ask at the time, but even more odd is that now she realized that maybe she could hear something then…if only she hadn’t been so preoccupied by a piece of metal.  But now without Dryst, now she couldn’t hear anything at all, except for the piercingly sharp whining of the wind.  God, she thought with some anxiety, the last she remembered, she and Dryst were talking about the cuts on her fingertips.  (Where exactly IS he, her mind complained rather loudly now.)  And now, now without Dryst she was being hauled around – and nearly mauled – like a bag of twigs by some snarling creature that looked like Keith Richards in relief but on steriods and wearing a mohawk, and who, instead of staggering like a drunk, punched through the air like locomotive breath.  

I must have cut myself more deeply than I realized, she thought.  This is shock.  This is from rapid blood loss, she convinced herself.  She lifted one of her hands into her line of sight and anticipated seeing a river of blood flowing from it, twisting its ruby liquid sickly around her wrist and forearm.  But nothing.  No cut.  No wound.  No blood.   No scar.  Instead, only a tingling, nagging sensation in the places where the metal had penetrated her flesh, where the pinkish mounded tiny scars had momentarily appeared before they had disappeared with Dryst’s thought.

The beast’s armor banged shrilly together.  The sudden thundering of their flight and the alarmingly noisy clanging of the creature’s piled-on weaponry reverberated through her thoughts and jarred her mind back to her current situation.  Their surging pace fatigued Mya greatly even though she wasn’t the one who was exerting any kind of physical energy.  In fact, she felt limp.  In the ruckus of their frenetic run, the back of Mya’s hand randomly slapped against the creature’s shoulder.  The large, darkish shadow of a figure growled just as largely and darkishly – but far from randomly –  in her direction.  Where she happened to be inside his clutches she didn’t know because he seemed to be swallowing her whole.  This should have greatly frightened her, but to her surprise, it didn’t.  Neither did his ominous growl…at least, not entirely.  She pushed back the nervous tension that suddenly ran through her and tried to concentrate.  She thought she had heard something, had sensed something within that growl.  Could it be that this brutish, large creature wasn’t a he?  Could it be…he was, in fact, a she?   Could it?

Mya couldn’t help but obsess over this, and just as immediately as she had started to gnaw away at this question, she began to chastise herself.   There I go, she thought (ironically enough)…overthinking.  And in entirely the wrong moment.  I should be panicking.  Where is my panick, she panicked.  Good god, woman…a sense of decorum, please!  Panick is the appropriate garment to put on for all to see right at this moment in the very unlikely case that anyone other than the wind was watching right now.  But who would have imagined a smelly warrior kidnapping me in the middle of a tropical desert in broad day and dusk light, she asked herself rhetorically.  Anything is possible!  “So, panick, dude!” she bit the words out from between her teeth, desparately urging her mind to bolt out from underneathe this mental flight-avoidance that seemed to have seized her and into some kind of committed primal-fighting state.  And besides…if anyone was watching, they would have to notice me, she told herself emphatically.  Dig deep, she chided herself, for that sheer, unadorned, screaming, glaring and blaring, flaxen and waxen, out and out freakin panick!

But no.  For a lithe being, she was sometimes incredibly rigid.  (Part of her mind rapidly searched for where she had heard that before…where she had sensed that before … but the search soon gave way to the puzzle pieces that were teasing out a picture in the rest of her mind.)  In this moment, Mya refused to listen to herself and would have none of her own goading…no matter how much she tried to ignite her own ire by calling herself names, least of them “dude.”  No.  The point wasn’t a million eyes paying heed to her.  The point was one pair.  Curiosity had gripped her too much for any other focus to work.  A nagging certainty yanked at her even more harshly than the smelly creature who crushed her waist within his grasp.  Mya burned to know.  She gripped her neck muscles to steady her head against the wild jerking that kept jolting through her body.  She gripped her mind to seize calm in the face of the thunderous rampage that had transformed the tropical desert into a gigantic blinding sandstorm…and more urgently, that was nearly threatening to overtake and smother her being were it not for her mind’s inability to process what was happening.  No, instead, she dared to control her body and to turn her gaze evenly and directly onto the rancorous being whose physical energy screamed ill intent without uttering a single word.  She steadied her mind and nervously shoved a breath down into her lungs, forcing her chest muscles to open, and waited for her eyes to fall gradually upon the creature’s face.  And that was when Mya shuddered.  That was when Mya discovered her panick:  real and genuine and insurmontably huge and deafeningly loud.  When Mya’s eyes landed squarely onto the center of the creature’s eyes, that was when she saw…

“MYA!”

Dryst yelled with an intensity that pierced the distance between them and that knitted their senses woven indisputably into one.  Dryst yelled with a ferocity through time and space and circumstances.  His voice swung at matter and air and clobbered it into submission.  He would have none of this obstacle, none of this circumstance, none of this tearing viciously away.   He yelled her name loud and deep into the void of silence.  So loud and deep until she saw his words inside the core of her bones.  Until she was forced to gasp from the breath of life that his call of her name pumped back into her essence despite the physical distance and crazed happenings.  And gasp she did…long and repeatedly but out of shock and into whatever lay ahead as she stared down into the creature’s face.  Deep, deep into the face of eyes she had known for a lifetime.  Stared down them like a deer staring transfixed into the headlights of an oncoming train.

And then Locomotive Breath grunted…a deeply heated grunt as if resolving to outdistance himself and his prey from Dryst’s reach.  Mya trembled then.  In all of a nanosecond, she felt his great thighs dip down; the knee bend low; the ankle flex hard; the feet thrust violently off of the sandstorm, unleashing a cataclysm on the planet below.  In all of that moment, Locomotive Breath was irrefutably male, his muscles chorded and twisted unimaginably deep to gather then unleash enough power to send the creature and Mya hurtling straight up into the air.   A rush of sand-filled oxygen battered her lungs.  Mya rapidly felt dizzy and muzzle-headed.  She choked and sputtered as a solid wall of air thrust her torso back hard onto Locomotive Breath’s insisting arm…an arm that seemed to refuse to release her from its clutches.  The sky rained angry sand pellets over them, stinging in her eyes and scraping against her face, creating an overwhelming multitude of tiny pulsing, piercing white jabbing lights in her mind until she could tolerate it no more and blacked out completely holding desparately to one thought.

When she came to, the air was calm. 

The sky glistened gently with stars.  All around the horizon, the night was draped in a velvety black.  There was no punishing sandstorm, no whipping thrashing winds.  The cacophony of nature splintering into pieces around her had stopped.  The ground cradled her aching body, somehow more gently than Locomotive Breath…what else could Mya call him?  Or her?  He had punched his way into this world like a freight train flying down the tracks.  He had seized her and taken her someplace…someplace above the planet, someplace below the heavens.  Someplace to idle.  For some reason. 

But now, he had released her, and he stood quietly in front of her.  He studied her as she lay on the ground.  With some effort, Mya slowly focused her senses onto his looming image.  What the hell had happened, she asked repeatedly, almost with some annoyance, in her mind.  She looked down at her body and took a calculated inventory.  This helped her breathing.  And it also helped her to know that everything was intact.  No breaks.  No bruises.  Just a whirlwind of confusion and — bravely, she looked up very suddenly and with confidence at Locomotive — just such surprising familiarity, she whispered.

“You…know me,” Locomotive said in a voice that startled…because that voice didn’t belong to a broad-chested, powerfully weathered and tested, seething warrior. 

Mya blinked.  More than once.  In fact, several times.  And rapidly.  Because that voice…that voice…Mya could have sworn that that voice…could it?  Oh could it be?  Could it belong…

…to her?        

 

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 2 of 30 (fingers crossed!); Chapter 2 total wordcount:  1700 words (not including this notation, or the youtube widget code thingie).  Total total count:  3500.

 

Iconoclast Rising … 3

 

“Where there is an open mind, there will always be a frontier.” ~ Charles F. Kittering

 

Ch 3 … Primal Gestalt

 

Dryst stood immobile and faced the back end of the thundering sandstorm.  His brain and heart raced just as furiously as the freakish event of nature that had unfurled itself and had cruelly altered his world.  His thoughts boiled in a rapid sequence of connections…a process that hid itself even from his own mind, allowing him the Presence to stand silently and to watch anxiously as the storm rapidly blurred the edges of the world and blended back into the long horizon.  

He had yelled Mya’s name from a place of primal desparation.   His sounds had texture and substance.  They weighed heavily in the air but with an indescribable velocity.  They bullied through space undeterred and unimpeded by anything, including gravity.  Even Dryst had been shocked by the sheer power in his own voice.  From deep within his breath, he had felt the sound of her name hone in on and lasso another level, find another path, travel another plane, and move faster than light, faster than instinct, faster than awareness.

He whispered to himself, “Mya…did you hear that…”

In the gathering silence, Dryst felt a sudden wave of her presence rush over him.   He grabbed ahold tightly and absorbed their connection…a connection that was so strong it would not be broken, even as his eyes widened and he was overcome with the sudden shock of witnessing the edge of the horizon buckle and crack as if it were dough being kneaded and punched into.  The ground crackled.  The sky inhaled itself into a fiercesome gulp then released a fury of light and dark winds that rushed out for miles before rushing back into itself and vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared.  

And still, Dryst knew.  They held on tightly to each other, knowing each was still there.   Heart racing, breath pushing in and out of his lungs.  Still.  Without question, he knew this to be so. 

In his next breath, his legs lunged.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Dryst frowned.  His feet had been digging into the ground, moving him forward into the part of the planet where the world and space and time had all torn themselves wide open and then — just as unbelievably, just as improbably so — had gripped themselves bindingly closed again.  Like pinkish white scars that mounded up and disappeared…only they weren’t little this time, and this time, the disappearance was beyond the pale.  He could see a tingling, subtlely pulsing rippling in the air that hovered around the spot where the world had born a gaping hole only to heal itself whole.  This time, the turn of events would not stand, Dyst was certain and in fact, had long since decided.  No.  They would not hold.  On this, he was single-minded.  He could feel in his fiber that the only thing calling to him was the need to find Mya.  

And now…what!…he thought with growing exasperation.  He growled silently.  What other weird shit could happen? he muttered.

“Oh, oh…plenty, m’friend.  Plenty.”

The muscles across Dryst’s shoulders knotted together…both from this strange and new intrusion and from the strange “m’friend” reference, which reeked of being a touch disingenuous.  Dryst had no idea who this person was who spoke to him now…or why he spoke to him now.

“How is that.” 

It was far less a question, far more a strong insistence that this new voice provide an explanation.  Invisibly poised on the balls of his feet, Dryst turned quietly to see who talked to him.  His chest and arms threaded themselves tightly, instinctively.  He was in no mood for games.  He was feverishly questioning everything that had just happened but only in terms of the urgency of figuring out just how he could get to Mya or how she could get back to him.  He had no idea how long the rippling in the air would stay visible to him.  He cared less about being sidetracked by what he presumed would be an exploration of the logic or the science behind a soaring warrior that rode on the back of a raging sandstorm, or a gaping hole in space and time that swallowed itself up into what appeared – by all outward appearances – to be repair, or a curious voice that played at threatening and toyed carelessly with the notion of true friendship.  A voice that had come out of nowhere to the exact spot where Mya and he had been standing alone and where, in one fell swoop, up had become down, down had become up, and little to nothing made sense.  Fine.  Chaos has been unleashed.  Fine.  There easily would have been a time when Dryst would have enjoyed tinkering idlely through the logic, the lack of logic, the sensations, the perspectives, and the improbabilities of it all.  But that time clearly wasn’t now.

They stood eye to eye, Dryst and the owner of this new voice.  From all outward appearnces, Dryst guessed their ages to be different (with Dryst the younger of the two).  Although, they were about the same size, which wasn’t small despite the fact that Mya was taller than Dryst.  But that was only when she wore heels.  Otherwise, she was a few inches shorter.  Still, tall for a woman.  Dryst’s thoughts drifted more deeply around Mya.   A lithe slender reed.  He counted on that fact.  And impossibly strong-minded in some ways.  He counted on this fight in her, too.

A soft breeze skipped along the base of his neck as Dryst steered his mind back to his immediate surroundings.  He evaluated the source of this new voice, the owner of which Dryst was positive didn’t feel that same breeze around the neck.  Too many people stood behind the fellow for him to feel anything as gentle, as subtle as a swirling breeze…one that required open space in which to lull in and over and under and through the tiny hairs that graced the flesh.  In the heat of all this insanity, Dryst was momentarily surprised that he could feel something as soothing and gentle as this breeze.  Something deep within him told him to listen to it, even while he stood very much in the Now and faced a tribe of some unknown quantity and intention.

The older one sensed Dryst’s edge.  He smiled like someone who had seen a great deal…like someone who had come away from it all understanding some of what he had seen, but who, ultimately, had come away from it all having given up the chase of trying to comprehend most of what he had seen.  Maybe it was more giving up control, less giving up comprehension.  Either way, this older one clearly was the leader of this group of various assorted individuals – men and women, all somewhat wary-eyed and watchful – who collectively had the uncanny ability to move with stealth-like silence across a barren topical desert…whether in daylight or dusklight, didn’t matter.  But, in the face of things, who couldn’t.  Part of the world just had a hole punched into it and a massive amount of energy sucked out of it - with Mya along for that preciptious ride up or down or around into some other place, he didn’t know - so it could be that Dryst just hadn’t bothered to give them much notice until now. 

“Could be we should try this again.”

“Could be,” Dryst said flatly.  “Could be ‘nother time.”

“What’s your hurry.”

“m’friend…no offense…if you have to ask, I don’t have the time to tell you.”  Dryst turned on the balls of his feet and launched into a run.

“You can’t get to her that way,” the older one yelled.   “Son…do you really think you can get to her that way?  Chasing the horizon?  How the hell will you know when you get there?  The world isn’t flat, kiddo.  Hasn’t been thought of as flat since, oh, a few hundred years.  Not unless you’re a host on ‘The View.’  You ain’t…are ya?”

Dryst heard the old man but kept running.   He didn’t care that it was clear that the old guy had witnessed the day’s event just as much as Dryst had…but nowhere near as intimately, as primally as Dryst had.  Dryst didn’t know and didn’t care how long this tribe had been present, but he got the gist that they had been there long enough to understand that Mya had vanished.  And from the sound of it, they might even have a sense as to how she vanished.  And this all might have interested Dryst in another place, in another time; but not here, not now.  The only thing that mustered the full force of Dryst’s interest was that blasted air that hovered like a signpost at the spot of The Event.  What else could he call it but The Event…he didn’t have time to think through this, to label it, to sort it, to contain it.  It had happened…as outrageous as that was even to him, but it had.  And that blasted rippling air – so very far away but so very much in his sights – had just started flickering.  His chest tightened.  Skittishly so.  His blood pounded in his ears.   Like a candle in the wind that was about to blow itself out.   His breath flattened.

And then it did.

Dryst bolted up hard in his tracks, pulled up fast to a dead stop.  His chest heaved.  His eyes tore wide open across his face.  They strained to see.  They pressed themselves to will the rippling air back into existence.   But the air was unmoved, and in that moment, so was Dryst.  He stood motionless for precious seconds but it felt to him like he was losing excruciating hours.  His mind hushed itself into disbelief.  He was no longer sure what to do.  No longer sure where to go.  He was breathing hard.

“Kid…friend…“  The old man’s voice was softer, kinder, less snarky.  “Trust me.”  He put a hand on Dryst’s shoulder.  “She’s okay.  Don’t ask me how I know.  I just do.”

Dryst turned to face him full on.  Without hesitating, he said, “How do you know.”

The old man smiled, more warmly now…almost in recognition of the circumstances, almost in understanding The Event.  Maybe even comprehending the lack of control.  Maybe even with some defiance directed at the uncontrollable. 

“Because m’friend,” he paused.  “I know how to get there.  I’ve been there.  I can help you get there.  But chasing the horizon is like herding cats.  Can’t be done.”

They stared silently at each other for a few seconds.

The old man shrugged and held his arms open at his sides.  “What other choice do you have?” he asked.  “Trust me.  Come with us to the encampment.”  Dryst listened, still unmoved.  “Name’s Spence.”  Dryst’s mind processed the man’s words.  No action in Dryst resulted from them, but he did feel a burning sensation in the palm of his hand. 

“There’s nothing to be done about things until The Gloaming,” Spence added, and nodded his head toward Dryst’s hand.  “The Gloaming,” Dryst murmured and followed the man’s line of sight to the object in Dryst’s hand.

“The Gloaming,” Spence said to reinforce its significance.  “Now, let’s get a move on to the encampment, Kid.  …and make sure to bring that Portal with you.” 

Spence pointed his gaze again to Dryst’s palm where the scrap metal glowed and burned.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 3 of 30 (gah! eyes crossed!); Chapter 3 total wordcount:  1900 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  5400.

 

 

Iconoclast Rising … 4

 

 ”A person’s mind once stretched by a new idea never regains its original dimension.” ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

Ch 4 … Dialogue Interrupted

 

“Make yourself at home,” Spence said.  He absentmindedly whistled a complex melody…a tune that sounded vaguely reminiscent of, and certainly as unrestrained as, “Flight of the Bumblebee.”  His arms flailed wildly about as he found himself caught in a blustery updraft of his own making that was completely devised of flitting, buzzing noises.  But even in this flurry, he managed to retain his balance and eventually remembered his manners (such as they were) and gestured around to showcase the eclectic assortment of chairs, sofas, loungers, hammocks, and rugs that were placed in a haphazard manner on the camp grounds. 

Dryst surveyed the area.  It was a far cry from what he typically imagined when he heard the word “camp.”   Spence had led them — Dryst and the tribe of about 30 others — to what must have been at one time a large mansion, possibly even a museum.    If it had had a zip code, it would have been on the tropic side of the tropical desert, but this didn’t stop a meandering tumbleweed or two from dallying feebily onto the building’s stone facade.  In its entirety, the building cast an expansive shadow around them and branched off into multiple wings that outlined a number of great, jutting swaths on the ground.   Its roof was intact for the most part; although large sections of the facility turned a yawning eye upward to the skies above (as opposed to the skies below, which, depending on your perspective, one could argue could exist since the world wasn’t flat).  Dryst glanced in particular and with some anticipation at the numerous seating areas in one such yawning section of the building.  The section the group – led by this shepard or the pied piper, Dryst wasn’t sure yet which –  now found themselves in:  an enormous outdoor patio that was connected to the main building by granite beams and pillars.  

In a flurry, Spence spun around from the force of a rapid succession of notes that had issued themselves from his pursed lips.  He flopped his body into the folds of the nearest chaise lounge but only after the sounds had reached their height and only after they had twiddled themselves away into the day-dusk sky.  Dryst was glad for the silence.  The group had walked for quite some time, or so it had seemed.  And the building had appeared out of nowhere, or so it had appeared as if it had.  And Spence had whistled the majority of the time, or the melody had become so engrained in everyone’s psyche that it had seemed like Spence had fluted his breathing non-stop.  Probably to lighten the mood, Dryst understood as much.  Still, the Bumblebee’s Flight had become overdone with Dryst feeling a bit undone himself, at this point, by a sudden rush of weariness. 

He wanted just about to collapse but wouldn’t.  Sitting would suffice.  He wanted a semblance of clarity but didn’t expect much of that for a while.  Calmness for a moment would be good.  He wanted to know what Spence knew — about The Event, and the rippling air, and the Gloaming, and the metal scrap that the bumblee-obsessed-whistler had referred to as the Portal — because Dryst was convinced that an understanding of all of these would lead more directly to Mya, someone who Dryst knew Spence could never tell him about because no one knew Mya, no one felt Mya like Dryst did.   But while clarity remained elusive for now, for all the other things that Spence was capable of describing, Dryst expected to know of them in great detail, like, yesterday, and truthfully, even knowing them yesterday wasn’t immediate enough to suit him.  But evenso…first…Dryst would sit. 

“Plop a squat, Kid.”

“Dryst…”

“Dryst…”  Spence acknowledged.  “Take a load off.”

Stress-induced fatigue pulled at Dryst’s muscles and urged him to relinquish the tension in them.  If only for a moment.   And so he did.  He lowered himself into a chair that was shaped like a giant leaf.  It morphed its colors along the spectrum of yellow-reds, blue-greens, white-tans, then morphed its own morphing into countless other color combinations.  This comforted him somehow.  He felt cradled within nature’s creation, within a universal energy.  He put down the heavy thoughts, opened his mind, and listened.

“The trick is knowing what you don’t know.”  Spence cinched his teeth together and pushed the tip of his tongue against the back of them.  “That’s always been the trick.  And what you don’t know about what you don’t know…well, kid.  It’s alot.”

“So tell me.”

“Where do I begin…”

“Wherever it makes sense to begin.”

The mansion rumbled.  Rooms fell away.  Towers sprung up.  Tunnels stretched outward.  Chambers opened.  Hallways closed off and vanished.   Bricks and mortar materialized in places that previously had been exposed to all.  Dryst’s lips parted slightly.  Spence’s eyebrow raised knowingly.

“Good thing the patio’s still intact.  Good thing, I’d say.”

“Somehow you knew it would be.”

“…yeah…”

“Looks like we conveniently stumbled upon a perfect example of one of those things that I had no idea I didn’t know.”

“Sounds about right.”

“The not knowing or the convenience?”

“Both.”

“What else about this –” Dryst nodded his head in the direction of the rearranged mansion “– don’t I know.”

“It’s been here a long time.  A very long time.  Probably throughout the ages, I suspect.”

“Really.  Looks nouveau riche to me.  Well…yeah…even before it did that Transformer thing.  Still does.”

Spence snorted lightly.

“Nice to see a sense of humor.”

“Or the absurd.”

“Either will do.”

Dryst read the lines in the corner of Spence’s eyes; studied the furrow on the bridge of his nose. 

“You’ve been at this a while.”

“Yep.”

“What exactly is it…that you’ve been at…for a while.”

“Keeping watch.”

“Of what.  Of this?” Dryst gestured toward the rearranged mansion.

“In a sense.”

“In what sense.”

Dryst’s aggitation started making a resurgence.  I don’t have time for the old man’s run-around.

Spence inhaled.  “Kid, sit back and listen.” 

The mansion creaked softly.  They watched a giant flower push its way out of one of the towers, blossom fully, then slowly drape itself over and into the quiet tropical desert air.   It was lovely and soothing, powerful and beautiful.  And totally random.  And should have been shocking, but somehow, this lovely and soothing, powerful and beautiful happening caused Dryst to reopen his mind.  He turned his focus back to the old man, who Dryst realized was probably less old than he looked to be.  Certainly no kid.  But just as certainly, not ancient.  Just…been around.  Seen alot of things.  Probably things Dryst needed to know.

“We’re not all that different from you.  I am not all that different from you, believe it or not.  We were exploring.  The lot of us.  Just like you and your gal.”

“Mya.”  Dryst’s pupils dialated.

“Mya, yeah…”  Spence bobbed his head in small acknowledging gestures, then contiunued.  “So exploring.  A tropical desert…unheard of.  Bizarre even.  But here.”

“Yeah.  We heard of it, too.  We were curious, too.”

“Right.  Who wouldn’t be.  So how could we not be here to check it out.  We had heard of some magic, some mysteries, some otherworldly things that had happened here.”

“From who?”

Spence raised his eyebrows again.  “Don’t really know who those people were.”   He paused briefly, then continued.  “I suppose that’s part of the reason why we came here.  We thought we might find them here.  They had come into Eternity, our community…the last one just to the south, the one just before you enter the long crawl of this place, this tropical desert.  One day, they came.  Just showed up and sort of were there.  They stayed a short time.  Kept talking up the peculiarities of this place.  Before you know it, one day they were gone.  Whooshed.  Poofed.  They had left just as quickly as they had arrived.  Where to exactly, no one can say.   It’s a good thing more than one of us came across them, or a person would start to seriously question their sanity,” Spence chuckled.  “Anyway,” he continued, “some of us thought we’d find them here.  They seem to come from here, from the tropical desert.  Whether or not they live here, I don’t know.  But my guess is this seems to be some sort of junction, some sort of Way for them.”

Dryst frowned.  ”What makes you think all of that?”

“That they come from here?  Well, now.  They talked about it so much, it seems a leap, yes, but a leap in logic.”

“Well, yeah, true.  But moreso this junction or Way that you mentioned.  What makes you say that?”

Spence nodded and grinned.  “Well, that was certainly one of my many ‘didn’t know that I didn’t know that’ moments.  So you see, kid, you’re not alone in that department.”

“Good to hear, old man.”  Dryst bit the words between his teeth.  And then immediately, his lips tasted Mya, and he heard the way she bit at the word “dude.”  Suddenly, he felt both the way she reacted to that word and the way her reaction to it had made him chuckle.  Even brought him some relief.  He smiled inside.  Longingly so. 

“Good to hear,” he whispered and corrected himself by omitting the ‘old man’ reference.

Spence quietly, briefly looked up from under his brow then just as quickly, he relaxed his eyelids and continued speaking.

“This place…showed itself to us.  Much like it just did – or a bit of it did, I should say – just a few minutes ago to you.  It changes frequently.  Constantly, actually.  We just don’t quite have the pattern of it down.  Or the timing.  The patio always stays the same.  Oh, a roof may come or go, but by and large, the structure and the furnishings and the food and the water — all of the necessities and conveniences of life — remain intact.”

“Maybe a bit too conveniently so.”

“Maybe.  We’re pretty certain it morphs only into what we see and nothing beyond.  But…”

“…that could be another unknown waiting to be discovered.”

“Yes.  And the reason behind the morphing…there’s some profound reason behind it, something causing it.  Something other than oh discovering a giant Rubix Cube that happened to have been designed by, say, Salvidor Dali.”

“We’re not exactly talking about discovering the world’s biggest ball of Twine or the world’s Largest Frying Pan.”

Spence winked slightly.  “Most definitely probably not.”

“So…what do you think we’re talking about here.  With this place.  Those strangers.  And the Way that you talked about.”

“The mansion shifts shapes, changing its texture and material, its structure and appearance on a whim.  If its an ordered morphing, we haven’t discovered the pattern or process yet.”  Spence paused, lost in recollection.  Eventually, he snorted mildly again.

“Those strangers?  Heh…they were a strange lot.  A very strange lot,” Spence continued.  ”Not initially, no.  But soon enough.  They took to walking around changing their skins, changing their appearances on a whim.”  He paused.  “Something like this place.   …probably even shapeshifters, I suspect.”  He nodded to himself.  “Probably even that.”

Dryst absorbed what he had just heard and eventually said, “Yeah…I’ve heard of shapeshifters.  Didn’t think there was anything to it, though.”

“Oh, there is.  There most definitely is,” Spence replied quiety, then asked, “Had you seen one before coming out here?”

Dryst shook his head sideways.   

“Huh,” Spence chortled mildly.  His raised eyebrows lifted his eyes wide open.  ”Well, Dryst…friend…” he paused for effect. 

“You’ve seen one since being out here.  Oh definitely.”

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 4 of 30 (wah!!! eyes crossed, needing to make up an 1800 word count deficit because I was totally gripped by last night’s historic U.S. Presidential Election and didn’t post anything yesterday!); Chapter 4 total wordcount:  1950 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  7350.

Iconoclast Rising … 8

 

“Listen; there’s a hell of a good universe next door: let’s go.” ~ e.e. Cummings

 

Ch 8 ~ Threshold

 

When he landed – not that he had flown necessarily, but he had been quite outside of himself, even quite inside of himself; yet altogether he had not been completely himself; at least, not the self that he always thought of himself to be even in all of the totality of what he had always thought it meant to simply be…

So, when he realized that all the various pieces of himself had pulled together again (the pieces that in reality weren’t individual pieces but actually were part of a wholeness that taken together was too overwhelming for any human’s mind to grasp), he felt gravity.  He felt solidity.  He felt a sensation of landing.

He looked down at his sandals and confirmed that it was so.  His feet were on the ground, of sorts.   He wasn’t exactly sure what he was standing on, but he had landed.  And so had Spence who, at the moment, was tethered to Dryst. 

Spence lay sprawled on the ground, of sorts, like a dead fish that had been pulled ashore and was still hanging on the lure.  Though, Spence wasn’t a fish, and he wasn’t dead, thankfully.  Dryst smiled inside at the softly begrudging camaraderie he found himself sharing with the Bumblebee fanatic.

“Pleh,” Spence growled.  “Doesn’t get any less freaky the second time around.”  His hand clutched itself around Dryst’s ankle and heel.   Dryst studied him casually.  As for Dryst, he felt quite fine, almost invigorated.  Seeing the enormity of life’s wholeness and his connection to it, his part in it, was an awakening into the very fiber of his DNA.  Oh such a simple structure, DNA, a child’s puzzle…compared to what Dryst had just seen.  Then, he heard the old man groan slightly and wondered just what type of experience Spence had had.

“What did you see?” he asked the gruff guy who appeared to have aged a bit for it all and who, at the moment, released his grip from Dryst’s ankle to use both of his hands to push himself upright off of the ground. 

He exhaled a grumble, shook his head slowly, and said, “Turns me inside out, kid.  Inside out.  Can’t even tell you what that looks like.  Forget about how it feels.” 

Dryst wasn’t asking only about what Spence had just witnessed in the green flash; he was asking also about what Spence had witnessed the first time he went from There to Here.  But Spence went silent for several minutes, either by design or out of necessity or both.   Dryst wasn’t sure.  He watched Spence absentmindedly lay his hands on his own arms and chest as if to confirm that he had returned to the man that he always thought himself to be. 

And Dryst decided that after Spence had himself all sorted through, they would figure out where there were, where one of them had already been, and where they were going.

…

She panted, her breath heavy and hot and confused.  She stared at Him-Her, Her-Him.  Me, she thought.  How outrageous.  She was nearly angry.  Her body hurt suddenly…probably in an effort to distract her mind.  And it was working.  The muscles in her back and her shoulders screamed.  The threads in her neck tightened.  She wanted to stand.  She feared her body might permanently be disfigured…might remain shaped in a near fetal position on the ground, of sorts.  She could feel the weight of her limbs as if they were cement.  And there.  Before her.  Locomotive stood.  That would be his name.  Her name.  My name, she thought.  Hell be damned. 

“Don’t fight me,” he said.

“Who said I am,” she spat back.  She looked around with some amount of heat in her eyes.  She didn’t care that she was facing off with a warrior who was colossally bigger in every way than she could ever be.  But if he was her and she was him…  Well, hell, if I can’t take myself, she growled in her mind and then snarled, “And what is this place.”

“It’s the Origin,” he said in the soft voice that Mya used when she spoke to Dryst.

“The Origin…” she dusted off her cream colored body suit.  She was going to stand even if every chord in her being protested when she moved.  “Care to be a bit more specific, there?”  He loomed with such a solidness before Mya it was almost like he was a statue and they were in a museum.  He was so unyielding, so unmoving.  Why did this bother her so?  She didn’t like museums as a kid…was that the problem here, she snarkily asked herself because she simply had to belittle this…it just made no sense.

“No no,” Mya raised a hand in mocking acknowledgement as she moved to stand.  ”Don’t put yourself out.  I can manage.  I’ll get up.  I’ll get on my feet quite on my own.”  Truth be told, she was grateful that he hadn’t budged.  She didn’t know if she wanted to feel his grasps on her again.  As it was, she could still very much feel his pull.  Something about this place seemed to make that inescapable.  Perhaps because of that.  Precisely because of that…that Mya couldn’t find a way to escape.

“Yes.  Indeed, you will,” he said in her most somber of voices.  Mya shuddered.  It was more than a bit unsettling for her to hear her own voice coming at her…let alone from someone like Him.  She couldn’t quite reconcile that this Being was her.  Oh, she knew the voice.  There was no mistaking the voice and the inflection and the attitude.   They were definitely of her making.  But how?  And why?  And what?  and what now?  What of it?  What the hell, she thundered in her mind.

She stood.  A bit shakily, a bit nervously, but she stood and faced him.  He towered over her.  Even from a distance of a few feet between them, Mya could see the warrior was huge.  But ironically, now that they were here, he was far less menacing.  He oozed of something very close to concern, if not precisely that.  He broadcasted a startling quietness that belied his appearance, if not outright running counter to his appearance.  In a mental fit, Mya was ready to throw up her hands.  She felt like she had been abducted again, but this time by another Being…only a new one who looked like the warrior but sounded like her.  And if that were the case, would this still be her?

This just can’t be me, she decided.   None of this can be me.  There just has to be some other explanation.

“The Origin of what,” she measured out each word in the question so that there would be no mistaking that she wanted a fuller explanation.

The warrior widened his stance.  He put his arms behind his back.  His body language was confusing…he physically claimed the spot that he stood upon and was not about to be dismissed, but despite the wall of his presence and all of his weathered and multitude of weapons, he bared no hostility. 

“The Origin of the Struggle,” he said quietly.     Mya frowned and looked around.  Nothing was here.  Anything that might have been here was concealed in black, except for the Warrior and her.   How could a struggle be here, when nothing was here?  Even if it had happened in the past, there was no history of it, no memory of it. 

As if reading her mind – and perhaps he very well could – he continued, “The struggle comes and goes in terms of revealing itself.  But it is always here.  It shows itself when the light shines on it.”

“You’re speaking in riddles…and they aren’t even all that interesting,” Mya said flatly.

“There are those who seek power.  Those who seek control over others.  Not so much the body…”  He shifted shape in an instant, becoming a child – a little girl – before her.  Mya’s eyes widened and gasped her surprise.  Her gaze following down a few feet to meet the round, innocent eyes of this new creature who stood before her.  She was tiny and sweet, with transulscent skin that was softly flush with an untouched pink.  Her little mouth pouted itself into two plump cushions.  Her hair glistened like silk even in the dark confines of this place.   She wore an adorable dress and a flower that was tied loosely on a silk ribbon around her neck.  The weapons were gone…they had vanished…but in their place, the child held a fluffy teddybear that she dangled from her hands.  She sweetly shifted her tiny body and crossed a foot behind the ankle of her other leg.  Her arms clasped with a touch of uncertainty behind her back.  She swayed gently from side to side – swishing the hem of her sweet dress and the legs of her teddybear – as she cast those big, round eyes on Mya.

“It’s not so much a power over the body,” the little girl said in a high voice, a voice that had been Mya’s when Mya was a child. 

“It’s ever so much more a struggle for the power of the mind.”

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 8 total wordcount:  1500 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  12,925.  (omgah this is hard!!!!!!!!!)

 

2008 U.S. Presidential Election

I just have to say what I feel about this because I am in awe…

There are times when you feel a shift in the story.  When History is very much in the Now and at the same time, is very much in the Future.  And still it’s true that the Past doesn’t equal the Present doesn’t equal the Future.   But there are times when all three are merged and mold a new shape…on so very many levels:  culturally, nationally, generationally…shaping what we value, how we enact what we value, how we treat each other and the world.  Shaping possibilities, creating opportunities.

I didn’t vote for Barack Obama because of how he looks or because of his age or because of his name.  I suspect I’m not alone in this.  I suspect many voted for Barack Obama because of his call to action to get beyond divisiveness…and not in any kind of fairy tale way, but in a very measured and reasoned way that speaks to moving beyond the paralysis and helplessness, the obscene pervasiveness of fear, hatred, victimization, pain, hurt, and every other prison that has become nearly institutionalized into our culture.  He’s tapped into something we all feel…a realization of the very real difficulties that lay ahead, a recognition that fear and hate and pain exist but an unwillingness to be defined by them.  He’s tapped into and validated the genuine ability of the human spirit to rise to the challenge (and respond to a call to action much greater than shopping), a recognition and validation of our inherent ability to be something far greater than *only* fear and victimization personified…to be something far greater than Reality TV.

I remember saying the Pledge of Allegiance when I was a kid in school.  The part that always stuck with me was the promise we all made to the country – and not to any one party – when we uttered those words.  Barack Obama’s election to President is as much a mandate for unity as it is for change…for an end to the ugly hate speech and bloated inaction and bloated bungling that have put the country in a stranglehold because of obsessively self-interested people and parties…a stranglehold that has created a killer vortex with an obsessively myopic, obscenely indulgent ”ME ME ME!” person-view, party-view, political-view… that has gone sickeningly beyond beserk and frankly, needs one hell of a massive time out, even a severe grounding.

It seems to me that along with all the many divides that started to be bridged last night, last night was, and is, also a huge mandate for working together.  For “…listening to each other even more closely when we disagree” (from Barack Obama’s speech, slightly paraphrased).  

“Of the people, by the people, for the people…”    And with the people.  Here’s where the rubber meets the road.

Oh…Hope has texture.  It feels exhilirating, it feels inspiring, it feels serious and challenging but very very possible.  It feels very possibly like Junk Food Reality TV has been unplugged.  Just possibly. 

It feels like very possibly a reclaiming of our country.

Iconoclast Rising … 5

 

 ”Turn to face the strange changes.” ~ David Bowie

 

Ch 5 … Lock and Key

 

Dryst’s eyes widened.  He was going to ask, even though he already knew the answer.  Still, all of these happenings and all of this information mounded up into something so overwhelmingly bizarre that he felt the question spilling from the top of his lips and rushing down into the space that he and Spence shared on the patio, which was also filled with the 30 or so very quiet tribe members who were mulling randomly about but who did so with very open ears and equally open eyes. 

The word rushed out from Dryst’s tightening throat even before he truly had ingested the fullness of what Spence had said.  But Dryst knew the fullness.  He didn’t need to ingest it.  He knew.  He no longer needed to ask.

“…the warrior…” he said quietly.  His thoughts raced to The Event, to the shock on Mya’s face, to the fury that the beast had unleashed in his altering of the world.

Spence nodded grimly.  He didn’t say anything for a while, just continued to softly move his head.  Perhaps he was giving time and weight to the knowledge, helping it to sink into the recesses of Dryst’s mind.  Or perhaps Spence didn’t know much more beyond that…if he even knew all of that much.  Dryst met Spence’s grim expression with his own and gave an equal amout of time and weight to his renewed study of the man.  He sensed and felt more than he thought or said.  Soon afterward, he decided that Spence had spoken as honestly as he could but probably had been (and was) doing little more than exploring a series of best guesses.  Who could blame him.  Who could know much more than guesses at this point.

“We don’t know much about these shape shifters,” he said at last.  “And this warrior, as you call him — if that’s who or what he really is…”  Spence’s voice trailed off; after a beat, continued. “Well…can’t say I’ve ever seen that particular variety before now.”

Dryst nodded, waiting for him to explain further, to get to the heart of the matter.

Spence sighed and picked up on something hardening in the will of the other. 

“The entrance Way is here, kid.  Somewhere here, in this morphing house.  The patio has never changed…well, it hadn’t.  Not until that warrior blew in here. ” 

As he settled deeper into the chaise lounge, Spence held up his hand as if cautioning and lightly said, “I’ll explain before you even ask…so just hear me out.  A few of us saw you and your gal, Mya, poking around.  Don’t look surprised, kid.  We’re keeping watch, like I told you.  Looking for those strangers I told you about earlier.  Anyway, just before all hell broke loose – pardon the phrase, I’m sure she’s fine, trust me on that - the patio vibrated.  I mean the air around it, the atmosphere immediately within it.  That’s what vibrated.  Not the ground.  The atmosphere.  But only in this room.  And a strange glow travelled along the grid of that atmosphere – yeah, we could actually see the form and structure of what a simpleton like me thinks of as invisible air - and then circled the swirl of it…because like everything else about this place even invisible air morphs.  So that’s my long way of saying that well it’s only a hunch, but my hunch is that this patio is the front door to the dimension you seek.”

Dryst looked around.  The patio didn’t strike him as anything unusual, as any place of transport or magic.  But that’s not to say that Dryst doubted Spence’s word.  Still..there were times when all of this – from the moment of The Event to now – was difficult for Dryst to swallow.

“Yea?” Dryst said evenly.  “We must be sitting in that dimension then, because we’re sitting in the front door.”

Spence clicked his teeth.  “Probably are, kid.  Probably are.  And that definitely will be the case…when you use that key of yours.”

The scrap metal. 

Dryst had forgotten about it.  He rummaged through the pouch that was strapped to his left thigh.  Quickly enough, he gingerly felt its cool, sharp edge.   But a subtle heat radiated off of it at the same time.  It didn’t burn, but Dryst knew the metal was still glowing.

“Couldn’t help but notice that your gal set all this off when she picked up that thing,” Spence poked his jaw in the direction of Dryst’s pouch.  Then added, “The Gloaming, kid.  That’s when we can see if my hunch is right.”  He paused.   “That’s when we can go from Here to There,” he said as he lazily wagged his finger in the direction of some other place, some other level, some other area. 

Where Mya waited.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 5 of 30 (wah!!! gah!!! still needing to make up some deficit amounting to some such number); Chapter 5 total wordcount:  750 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  8100.

Iconoclast Rising … 6

 

“Really don’t mind if you sit this one out.” ~ Jethro Tull’s Thick as a Brick 

 

Ch 6 ~ Intermission

 

Dryst grabbed the book, such as it was (he thought to himself from a place of gentleness, ”I mean if you can even call it a book”), and turned the page.   He snapped the paper fibers tightly and flipped them back rapidly.  He sighed more than a little bit. 

Where is she, he muttered.   She’s in here somewhere. 

“Come out, come out wherever you are, Mya,” he sang. 

He paused and looked up, then said, “Sheesh, no offense.  Truly, I mean it…no offense.  But uh, c’mon.  It’s a bit of a mess, really.  Well.  Let’s be honest.  More than a bit of a mess.  It’s  — uh, yeah — really more like a meltdown.  Surely, even you can see that?  No rhyme, no reason.  Blah blah blah blah…oh!”  Dryst laughed hysterically.  “And you seriously think that you’ll have me saying what exactly in Chapter 21?”

He read for a few minutes, buzzing through the paragraphs. 

“Blah blah blah…hmmmm.  Uh.  Yeah.  You wouldn’t catch me saying that.  Just sayin’.  I know it’s difficult to know someone when you’re meeting them in bits and pieces across paragraph bursts for days running – and especially when you’re outlining or drafting or whatever it is you’re doing, ahead of yourself — but just sayin’ uh I wouldn’t say what you have me saying in Chapter 21, line 20 or whatever it is.  I know, I know.  The whole thing is organic.  It’s all unfolding and taking on a life of its own and all of that good stuff.  It’s all a work in progress.  But, uh, can we be honest?  The 1700 daily word count?  That’s driving alot of this, isn’t it.  Causing you to put – how do I say this delicately…well, there’s no getting around it — causing you to put words in my mouth?  No pun intended?  That’s it, isn’t it.  I understand it’s a great deal of pressure.  Coming up with 1700 new words or a new combination of the same words to describe something new.  And to do that every single day for 30 days.  Yeah, I wouldn’t want to trade places with you.  But…”

He looked up again and leaned forward.  His eyes scoured the edges of the web page.  He smudged his finger up and down on the scroll bar.  He pointed and clicked onto every button in the WordPress dashboard. 

“There’s got to be a delete key here.  Somewhere…” his voice trailed off as his nose bumped up to the computer screen.  “Owch,” he cursed mildly then chuckled to himself.  He looked directly at me and winked.  “Can really get lost in here, can’t you?”

“Mmmffphhooompphh!” 

Dryst pulled back with a start.  “What’s this?”  He dropped his chin onto the top of his chest and looked at the book.  ”Mmmmmfffphh!!!!” 

“Oh criminey.”  He lifted the book by its binding, turned it upside down, and shook.  Hard.  The pages in the book waved against each other like a drunk accordian until, at last, a body plopped out from between them and flopped onto the table.

“Shit!”

“Well, hello to you, too, Mya,” he laughed.

“Shit,” she growled, half kiddingly, half menacingly.

“Took you long enough to get here.”

“Took you long enough to get me here.”

“As if you couldn’t figure it out on your own.  C’mon.”  He winked at her and returned his attention to the computer screen.

“Uh,” she stared at him nonplussed, “have you forgotten that I’ve been abducted and am sitting twiddling my thumbs in some other dimension staring at some gothed-out caveman?  Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.   It’s not exactly an easy place to be released from.  Not exactly an easy place to reconcile and make sense of.”

Mya placed a hand over her mouth and whispered, “She put me there, let’s not forget.  That’s why we decided to come here, after all.”  Her eyes looked wide at the screen and then narrowed on the center of it with no small amount of insinuation.

“Oh now…be gentle.  There’s no malice in it.  A touch of, well, incompetence perhaps, but certainly no malice.”

She brushed the alphabet off of her skin, along with a few misplaced commas, overused ellipses, uncertain semi-colons (they always seemed to be an insecure bunch, she noted), and the ever-present parentheses…two of which had affixed themselves over the top of each of her eyebrows.

“Ah hahahahaha!” Dryst just about choked from laughter.  “You look like Grocho Marx.”

She scowled.  “Can we get serious here?  For a moment or two?  Besides, I haven’t the first notion what a Grocho Marx is.”

“What? Oh –” Dryst tsked in disbelief.  “Well, you simply must google sometime.”

I cleared my throat. 

“Erh?” Dryst and Mya said together.  And, predictably so, at the same time, the two of them turned their heads back to the center of the computer screen and looked at me.

“You really want to talk…like that?  ‘You simply must google sometime’?”

The corner of his mouth turned up a tad, along with the edge of one of his eyebrows.  “Yes…well…hello.  And point taken, I suppose.”  He sighed a touch sadly.  “It’s not easy to hear criticism.  I do know.  That’s quite understandable.”  He leaned closer into the screen.  “Much like I’m not terribly fond of the way that you have the old guy calling me ‘kid’ all the time.  It really is a touch condescending, don’t you think?  And for what?  Oh but at any rate.  This isn’t about me.  Well…actually it is…but right at this moment and in this breath, it’s really about you.  All I mean to say in this moment is that I just hope that you find a way to take any criticism that you have heard and are about to hear in the constructive spirit in which it’s being offered.”

“Her story sucks, Dryst.”

“Mya!” Dryst chided under his breath. 

I inhaled a bit and tapped my thumb against the keyboard in an effort to preoccupy my hand away from a very real urge to mouse over and click on the delete key.

“Well?” Mya asked and shrugged as if victimized.

Dryst wheeled onto the computer screen with a gentle reassurance.  “It’s not that it sucks, really.  Really, it’s not half bad.  It’s just that…well…if I can put it bluntly…”

“Please do,” I said, more out of curiousity than out of seriously entertaining what he might say next.

He hesitated.  Mya poked him in his shoulder and muttered under her breath.

“Well,” he said softly, “it’s just that…we have no idea where you’re going with this.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Uh,” Mya chimed back, “not very.  What is with that caveman?  And I am so sorry,” Mya rolled her eyes and threw up her hands, “I so do not look like that.  That can’t possibly be me.   Not even on a bad hair day.”

“And,” Dryst added, “a magical patio?  Uh…it really feels like you’re over-reaching.”

Mya gestured in agreement at Dryst and exhaled a laugh through her nose.  “Yeah,” she said, “but come to think of it, I wouldn’t know anything about that because I’m stuck in limbo with Mad Max.”

I paused and thought about this rebellious little duo.  Rather fitting that they would rebel in a story with the word “iconoclast” in its title, I thought.  But if I give in to them now, there’s no telling where they will take this.

“Give us a clue where you’re going with this.  Tell us our motivation.”  Dryst smiled gently while Mya’s gritted smile looked pained.

I studied them both with a great deal of fondness.  Oh, questions I can’t answer, I thought to myself…but even if I could, there’s no controlling where they’ll go, how the pages will be written. 

“I’m not sure I know how to answer that,” I finally said.

And then the three of us sat and looked at each other. 

Just because we could. 

(I’m writing the story, after all…and hit my word count for the day.)

 

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 6 total wordcount:  1325 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  9425.

 

Iconoclast Rising … 7

 

 ”The motive is total control.” ~ JD Birch’s Total Control

 

Ch 7 ~ Blue Hour

 

The sun flirted with tipping itself over the edge of the planet as the planet engaged in its daily orbital dance with the star.  Fiery beams dusted the upper levels of the planet’s atmosphere.  The gentle rays hinted like a ghost at their presence in the air.  Their unrealized light cast a barely breathing, almost eerie glow that floated teasingly close to the surface of the planet.   As far as the eye could see, things were neither completely exposed in light nor were things completely shrouded in darkness.  Instead, all of life slumbered in that in-between state.  All of life blanketed itself dreamily in twilight and journeyed silently to the wakefulness that is unwrapped by the softly unfolding arms of the Gloaming, the “blue hour” of near sunrise with its otherworldly ambience so coveted by photographers, by dreamers, by artists, by poets, by lovers.   

And by Dryst.

Dryst lay back on the morphing leaf chair, which had cradled him in his sleep through the dark hours.  His eyes were open, and he watched the sky subtley unfurl.  All around him, things were silent, but he imagined Spence, in particular, and even the 30 other tribesfolk were laying awake instinctively despite the fact that the shades on their eyes were closed.  By all accounts, everyone appeared to be sleeping peacefully…even Spence whose lips only feigned attempts (thankfully) at whistling what Dryst was positive would have been another less than stellar rendition of ’Flight of the Bumblebee.’  Not that that was an easy tune to whistle.  Still.  Dryst sighed noiselessly.  He had not slept particularly well.  Yet, he was grateful that he had slept at all.  It was simply the less than stellar manner of sleep that he had experienced that nagged so at him.  His dream had been so very odd and so oddly perplexing.  He sighed silently again and pushed his body weight long and flush against the chair.  He placed one hand behind his head to cradle the abstractions of his thoughts.  He placed his other hand on a raised knee to touch the concreteness of his being.  And he began to retrace the dream. 

Dryst had been some place, trapped somewhere, as he recalled.  Inside of some kind of machine.  But he hadn’t been afraid.  Or claustrophic even, despite the fact (he chuckled soundlessly at the idea of ‘fact’ in connection with dreams) that everything had been whitewashed around him.  A flood of depthlessness, dimensionlessness white had draped every part of the place.  It was as if he had been moving around as a three-dimensional being on a physical, blank page.  The vaccuum of white was like nothing he had ever experienced in his wakefulness…not even so much as a semblance of it could he trace back to an actual memory.  But truth be told, none of the dream was like anything he had ever experienced.   Yes, he had been in it.  And he had been somewhat relaxed in attitude and had resembled his physical appearance.  These things rang true for him.  But other than that, Dryst vividly remembered that he hadn’t been much like himself at all in this dream.  Especially in terms of personality and speech.  He also vividly remembered that Mya had been there with him, but Mya also had been so very much unlike herself in terms of personality and speech.  

He smiled gently at having seen her.  The seeing felt so very real.   And indeed it was.

Then, Dryst shook his head at the recollection and the entire unfolding of it all.  It bothered still.  It was the Way in which Mya had gotten there that was so utterly strange, he thought.   Dryst, himself, had been Present.  He had been There, matter-of-factly, directly, and simply.  But Mya, well, she had squeezed herself out from the spine of a giant book.  She had pushed her body past and through countless pages that had whizzed by and had bared their razor sharp edges.  She had tumbled out from the guts of the page and had dropped rather clumsily, rather unelegantly, almost rudely onto the floor.   And she had been snippy and testy and nearly bratty…but not at Dryst.  No.  Instead, they had both been rather, what was the best word, ‘upset’ to varying degrees with a third person.  A person who hadn’t been in the actual space but a person who Dryst had the feeling felt very much as trapped in that whitewashed place as Dryst and Mya had felt.  Nothing had been said explicitly to confirm Dryst’s hunch, and in fact, he struggled at the moment to recall any specifics of what he remembered to be a rather animated conversation between the three of them.  But Dryst did recall the tone.  And he did recall how out of character and out of time and out of place and out of dimension and out of meaning so very many things had felt.  Things had shifted and had changed but not really.  And what had been had seemed to suddenly cease to be (but it also had seemed to be that that wasn’t the case at all) and then had undergone a replaying of a rennaissance that had played before and had existed again (then and now).  And conversation had flitted and had barked and had toyed with underlying, unspoken threats and underlying, unexpressed tenderness.  Then it had rejoined into something that had made little sense and was crystal clear and had been outright silly and outlandishly somber.  And there had been a face-down and a face-off and an about-face.  And then images and songs and the substance and history and legacy of bricks.  And then silence. 

All of this texture and tone Dryst remembered but very little of any specifics.  And he knew that overall the dream was a dream and carried with it very little, if any, meaning…except.  Except for a very huge yearning that remained.  Except for one overpowering want.  Out of everything within that dream, a dream that still haunted his psyche in these in-between hours, Dryst’s insides burned intensely with how very much – how utterly, how completely, how thoroughly no matter how relaxed or silly or serious - he had wanted control over the situation.  If any of the dream held a basis in reality in this bleary-eyed, muzzled-headed early early dawn, it was, for Dryst, the unquestionably very real desire for mastery over disorder.  Then and now; there and here.  A craving he felt like he had never ever felt before.

Within his chaotic silence, his eyes held the sky.  He watched the heavens seep gently down to the planet.  It was a breathtaking symphony of light that resounded around itself in slow, long echoes from all corners, all curves.  It was a masterfully unfolding dance that blossomed down from the heavens while it blossomed up from the planet, and all spheres gathered themselves together in unison and unity.  Somehow even discord, even chaos had its purpose, had its place.

“Look for the green flash,”  Spence’s voice interrupted.  It was low and measured; it was hushed and urgent.  “That’s what you want.  That’s what you seek up there.”

Dryst didn’t move his body, but his mind had shifted gears and his eyes panned the sky.

“It will be there…just before the sunrise.  Just before the tips of those rays spread themselves out.  When you sense that those feathered tips are about to lay themselves invisibly onto the edge of the horizon, look deep, then.  It will happen quickly, then.  And it will be brief.”

The bag that was strung around Dryst’s thigh vibrated ever so slightly…so slightly that only he could notice it.  And he did.  Without taking his eyes off of the sky, Dryst gingerly dipped his hand into the open pouch.

“Now listen carefully,” Spence’s voice rattled briefly, his breathing somewhat constricted.  “Your golden key, there.  The portal.  In your pocket…”

Dryst’s touched its edges.  He felt a tingling along his fingerprints from a swirling that suggested a level of complexity, a level of energy that he couldn’t comprehend, that he couldn’t describe.   So small, so concentrated.  So giant, so powerful.

“…take it out of your pocket (why does this sound sexual, laughing to myself), kid,” Spence nearly whispered.  A mounting tension that had collapsed his voice into a low whisper caused the tiny hairs along the edge of Dryst’s ears to prick upright.  Dryst had never heard Spence speak as clearly as he heard him now…and this, when the man’s voice carried hardly any volume at all.  But all of Dryst’s sense were suddenly electrified.  He could just about smell intention.  He could just about taste fact.  And though he never took his eyes off of the sky, he knew without question that Spence was no longer reclining and hadn’t been for some time.

“Do exactly as I say,” Spence rumbled so softly that it was nearly painful.  “When you see that green flash, take that portal in your hand…”  He paused to inhale, to force some air through the pent-up excitement or nervousness – whichever it was – that had lodged itself inside of his throat.  “Take it and hold it to the horizon.  Catch that green flash with it, kid.” 

“Catch it,” he wheezed.

And then it happened. 

Just as Dryst had released the metal scrap from the pouch, just as its energy had nearly melded onto his fingertips, just as he faithfully kept protecting the horizon with his unblinking sight, he felt the soft first drops of the sun hang ever so near the edge of the planet.  He looked deep and sensed a pulsing green light that imperceptibly expanded its way outward into the air to rest onto the lip of the world.  He heard the whispers of that light that were about to seep themselves into the DNA of the nearing new morning, and in precisely that moment, Dryst raised his arm with the metal scrap in his hand.  He turned it true and open-faced to point it at the horizon, and…

…the atmosphere rushed forward to the patio and blindingly exposed itself with all its dimensional swirls and grids that pulsed out in a glowing green light…and the mansion contorted and twisted and spun wildly in great arcing swings…towers and hallways and atriums rushed headlong in gasping narrow plunges…flowers and metal and bricks melded and rejoined in a spackle of color and material…fireplaces and draperies and furniture continually swallowed each other whole until a new configuration of stonework and wood and silk and heat belched itself into the air…joists and granite, air ducts and tunnelways, sheet metal and statues blended and melted and blobbed together, seizing on each other and wiping away any ownership that was feebily claimed by time or place or history.  And a windless onslaught of unimagined energy jolted through Dryst’s entire body and cast his face out of his being, extending all of his physical form into a blur of winding green light that outlined his features even as they stretched outside of the physical boundaries of his body, duplicating themselves in a vibrating blur that undulated and warbled into the atmosphere around him. 

The planet and the skies moaned a low song that coursed through every living being’s connective tissue and flashed impossibly detailed images of the origins of matter into the eye of every living being’s mind.  The sound surged and mounded upon itself, colliding forcibly against the Known, like waterwhite rapids punishing a riverbed, and hurtling any and all who were terrified of the Unknown back into the furthest reaches of flatness and sameness, of complacency and unyielding myopia. 

And within that green flash that had exploded violently out only now to begin a rapid dissolve, Dryst’s form had wrapped itself around the glowing atmospheric grid and had coiled itself among the accompanying random swirls.  And yet he felt no pain and no fear.  He felt only an overwhelming exhiliration and clarity…and…

…a hand…a hand that, if Dryst didn’t know better, was whistling, yes whistling, a less than stellar rendition of ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’

  

 

Note:  Bogon Flux – an amazing SL build by blotto Epsilon and Cutea Benelli – served as one of two inspirations for the changing house.  The first and strongest inspiration comes from very good friend D who, more than a year ago, wrote a wonderful and complex story about exactly such a house.  Since D’s story isn’t in machinima (yet), I’ve posted Mescaline Tammas’s machinima documentary of Bogon Flux.  D and I had the amazing and incredible delight of exploring Bogon Flux in person during Burning Life.  If you can get to the Wastelands sim to experience it, you really should.

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 7 total wordcount:  2000 (not including this notation or the changing house notation above).  Total total count:  11,425.

 

Iconoclast Rising … 9

 

“You are free the moment you look inside yourself to solve your own problems.” ~ Unknown

 

Ch 9 ~ Free-fall

 

The color – muddied, such that it was for a runabout man who had spent months on end living in the tropical desert – had returned to his grizzly face.  Spence had collected himself.  “Welcome back,” Dryst said.

“Chaos can roost here and change everything.  Even when it looks like nothing is happening.”  The little one swung her teddybear lazily in the air.  Her plump ivory cheeks lay gently on her face like half moons.  Her eyes were as big as flying saucers.

“Thanks,” he muttered.  “Good to be back.”  He paused and snickered to himself before glancing in amusement with Dryst.  “You know that phrase…’simply beside myself’?”  Spence chortled.  Dryst joined him.  “Yeah…” he said, “yeah.”  “Not just a phrase anymore, huh, kid?”   Dryst raised his eyebrows and chin and exhaled a shortened laugh at that bit of irony.

“You’re a shape shifter,” Mya finally said.  “I didn’t think your kind existed.”  “Ohhhh,” the little one cooed, “oh yes…we mostly do.  Mostly.”  She rocked from one little foot that was clad in maryjane shoes to the other little foot.  “We just don’t always appear.  Not always.”  Mya shook her head in disbelief.  Her eyes frozen open, she gaped at the little one.  “I can’t believe you hauled me off like that.  I can’t believe you cracked the planet wide open like that.”  The little one giggled.  Her eyes twinkled.  She absentmindedly put a finger to the corner of her mouth.  “But you believed a warrior could…”

“Where do you s’ppose we are,” Dryst asked when he was sure that Spence had settled his mind back into place.  His body had been there for a while, but his mind took a bit to catch up.  “Well,” Spence turned and looked around.  It took a bit for the lighting to adjust.  It took a bit for him to realize they were in a forest, surrounded by redwood trees that stood upside down.  They bristled gently in the air, with their great tangle of roots sprawled across the sky and twining and looping in and amongst themselves, creating an incredible living lace canopy to screen a modest and puritan heaven.  Spence sighed, both in amazement and in surprise.  “Didn’t expect the place to be the same,” he said, a little discouraged, then he looked squarely at Dryst.  “And it’s not.  I’m afraid it’s a maze, kid.”

I don’t know what to believe with all of this, she muttered to herself.  “If that was even me…that did that…” her voice trailed to her feet.  “Oh,” the little one sang softly, “oh that was you.  A part of you that broke out of yourself.  Because of something fierce inside of you.  Because of something you desparately want to protect.”  Mya’s thoughts ran to Dryst.  She felt…even here…she felt a sense of him.  Even in this otherworldly place.  “War is coming,” the child suddenly sang in a tiny voice that floated on lollipops.  “War is coming.”

Dryst lowered his head and frowned.  “You never mentioned…what happened the last time you came here?  Why did you come here?”  Spence cinched his teeth and evaluated the moment (…or perhaps he was evaluating the question).  After an extended beat, he relinquished the silence and said, “To get to the source.”  ”Another ‘don’t know don’t know’ example,” Dryst sighed, noticeably irritated, to which Spence released a laugh that began at his navel.  “Yeah,” he said through a smile, “yeah…I know what you mean, kid.  Gets tiresome after a point.  But…” he shrugged and raised his hands out to his sides, “you called it like it is.  When you’re right, you’re right.”  Dryst grimaced slightly.  “Yeah, well.  I’d like to be less right about that and more right about other things.  No offense.”   Spence nodded his head and grinned, causing divets to flow from the corners of his eyes.  ”The Source…” he continued, not making Dryst ask.  ”You got us here.  You have a right to know, but I suspect you already picked up on this.  A seat of power created all of this…the Here and the There.”  Spence gestured around them, above them, and below them.  He extended his arms and gestured to Dryst before saying, “There’s a Source — an ultimate Creator, an Alpha Builder — who owns that portal of yours.”  Dryst frowned.  He grew uneasy with all of this talk.  His only concern had been and was Mya.  He hadn’t considered the need to chase The Event and the portal down to an ultimate beginning.  And even so, why?  For what end?  “Are you talking about God?” his voice dripped with disbelief.

A tinge of green flash suddenly rippled across the night sky.  It illuminated the area long enough for Mya to see she and the little girl stood on the plateau of a large hill.  A forest of giant trees rambled off in the distance but looked strangely contorted from what she assumed to be twining, looping treetops that weaved themselves together in the sky.  Nothing made sense in this place, she thought.  Everything she had seen and experienced had shocked her senses so violently that seeing the odd top layer of the forest — a layer she really couldn’t discern — really didn’t shock her mind any more or less…certainly not nearly enough to yank her thoughts off of what the child had said.  War…” Mya repeated.  A word…what does this word mean, she asked herself.  “Who’s war?” she asked the child.  The little one blithely hummed and occasionally sang the words to a song about ribbons and laces and favorite things and at the end of a verse, she answered in the same sing-song happy voice, “A war between the Believers and the Non…the Believers and the Non…” she repeated in a chorus.

“Ohhh,” Spence stretched his length and darted his vision through the trees.  “I suspect the Source may think of themselves as God…”  “They,” Dryst interrupted.  Spence grinned through his teeth and lowered his voice, “Yeah, kid.  They.”  He paused, just because it was an ever present annoying trait of his, and then said, “But in my book, they’re not God.  And they’re not shapeshifters either,” he said with reassurance.  “In my book, they’re more like witches than any God I’ve ever heard of.”

     

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 9 total wordcount:  1050 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  13,975.  (omgah … I am seriously whimpering)

Shenlei’s Essay – Little Tiny Fingers

 

“Little Tiny Fingers“:  This is a most compelling, very powerful and moving essay written by Shenlei Flasheart (on her Shengri La Utopian Micronation blog) about how RL apparel is made.  I remember Shenlei describing this to me, and I equally remember being very surprised, quite honestly, by how very little I knew about how clothes are made in RL.   The process is most often the polar opposite of beautiful.

Please take a moment to read Shenlei’s essay.  It is powerful, and it is of real importance.  

Frankly, I look at clothing in an entirely new way as a result.  And I am grateful for it.  Thank you, Shenlei.

Iconoclast Rising … 10

 

Revisited:  “Listen; there’s a hell of a good universe next door: let’s go.” ~ e.e. Cummings

 

Ch 10 ~ Falling Up the Galaxy

 

It was oddly out of sorts for Dryst to feel a chill running down his spine when Spence talked of witches.   Dryst was not easily spooked, nor was he predisposed to believe in fantastical tales.  But he had seen a great deal in the past few hours (which were beginning to feel increasingly like weeks and months), and at this point, Dryst wasn’t about to rule out anything.  

As he walked carefully among the uprooted and upended redwoods that hung from the sky and created this forest, Dryst was fairly well convinced it was quite very likely that even the most fantastical of things could happen here…and if they happened here, they would somehow be beyond more than powerful.  If the witches did exist here and did show themselves, they would carry with them all that much more potency.  Something in the tone of Spence’s voice implied as much.  And while Dryst still didn’t know all that much about what that meant or all that much about the man, Spence had, in fact, led Dryst this far.  He had gotten Dryst to this world where Mya waited and where she was still very much alive.  Dryst could feel this truth in his core.  And he knew it was true that he could not have reached this dimension without the help of the crazy old man.  So his talk of witches Dryst tended to believe, even though he had yet to come across one…much less, all of them.  

His mind poked idlely with speculating how many witches might be in this Source clan.  Dryst raised his head and scanned the air.  He fully expected to see them in the storied way in which they were always presented — flying through the wind on broomsticks — but the atmosphere was proving difficult to penetrate at least in terms of sight.  The light was strangely captured in a filter of purple-gray darkness, which had the effect of adding to the mystery and compounding the creep-factor.  Dryst half wondered if witches would appear out of seemingly nowhere and seemingly nothing…right in front of them as the leaves crunched under their heels while they walked.  Because appearing magically is what witches do, Dryst reasoned, and this was their domain.  So being able to alter the fabric of existence here seemed entirely within the realm of probability.   But beyond all of that, the greatest probability was that the witches were already very much nearby, Dryst realized, since he had on his person something that belonged to them.   Or at least they thought it did.

“What is it about Forests,” Spence muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“What is it about strangers in a strange land,” a voice replied with a bit of play and a touch of irreverence.  Dryst and Spence both paused to look at each other before turning to follow the voice.  A colorful butterfly circled and bobbed around their heads before darting down to the ground in a pleasingly chaotic pattern. 

“Strangers in a Forest who might fly but who don’t…what is it with that,” the butterfly whispered, startling both men.  But what they saw on the ground of the forest startled them even more greatly.  The ground shifted.  Its upper most layer glistened and knitted its way back a long way down below the plane of the ground to a glowing swirl that completely mirrored the Milky Way galaxy.  The milky soup sang of its origins of time and space and life…and it did so in a soothingly, endlessly deep purr.

“My.  God.”  Spence gasped.

“If you believe in such things,” the butterfly whispered back and traced its flight along the purr of the swirling ground and the sparkling galaxy.  It dipped and lifted several times, mimmicking the gentle dance of other butterflies just on the other side of the galaxy’s glistening pool.  Dryst stared, transfixed.  The gently and brightly colored, softly curved and flitting wings of the butterfly puffed at the air around Dryst’s eyes.  He stared at the jewelled creature.  And the butterfly flapped its beautiful wings and stared back at Dryst.  And the galaxy purred and watched both.  And the butterflies on the other side of the galaxy danced and flitted through floating stars.  And somewhere inside each of them, inside all of them, they smiled. 

Except for Spence.  He peered over the slowly rotating galaxy that lay on the bed of the Forest, and he nearly fell in. 

“How odd that would be to fall up through the galaxy,” the butterfly whispered.  It danced and lit upon Dryst’s being.  “How odd, how odd, how odd that would be,” it just about sang as it flitted.  And while Dryst smiled softly again, he couldn’t help but notice what had stolen Spence’s attention away from a talking-singing butterfly.  Further down the spiral of the glistening, purring primordial soup, they saw traces of the house.  Still jutting and duplicating itself, still throwing off sections and pushing out new creations, still mounding and heaping.

“How odd, indeed,” Dryst whispered.  The dooryway between both worlds, he thought.  The threshold.  But not the source.  His hand grazed the side of his thigh, where he instinctively felt for the presence of the portal.  Its own vibrating swirling glow had settled itself.  “How odd,” he gasped and wondered at the similarity between the galaxy on the floor and the behavior of the portal.

“One man’s junk, another man’s treasure,” the butterfly whispered.  “Treasure, treasure, treasure!”  Spence looked up now, from the galaxy on the Forest bed and into the space between the uprooted redwoods that dangled upside down in the air.   His eyes fixed themselves on a talking butterfly.   Dryst had the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.   And he would have if for no other reason than because of the wonders of it all…because of the stupendous unknowables that were presenting themselves so gracefully to the two men.  But his delight cast itself upon Spence and for the first time since he met him, Dryst detected something close to a scowl on the man’s face.

At last he said, “I didn’t realize we brought something with us.”

“Not anything that wasn’t always there,” the butterfly whispered.  “Always, always, always!”

Dryst snickered and wanted to pet the creature.  For some reason, its whimsy made him feel hopeful and a brighter about things…particularly in a place that — aside from the awe-inspiring presence of the galaxy — shrouded itself in a foreboding that worked to wrap its dank grip around every living being, around every hopeful thought.  Spence, though, wasn’t amused.  But even he could see that the butterfly had journeyed itself to them…to Dryst in particular.  And there was some kind of immediate understanding and acceptance there that Spence knew he wouldn’t break through.

“Okay, kid,” he sighed.  The butterfly hopped north and south, east and west with no small amount of excitement and no large amount of directional inclination.  Spence pulled his eyes up and bore his vision through what he could only think of, with his closed mindset, as an insect, then said, “I wasn’t talking to you.” 

Dryst found Spence’s annoyance amusing and laughed while the butterfly twirled around his shoulders and lit elegantly along the top edge of Dryst’s ear. 

“It’s a butterfly,” Dryst emphasized.  Dryst grinned in amusement and nodded in appreciation.  “A pretty spectacular one, I might add,” he said with an incredible lightness of being.  And the butterfly purred and whispered in Dryst’s ear, “There are many in the roots.  In the air.  Eyes watching.  And even here.  Here, here, here,” the butterfly whispered so softly that only Dryst was capable of hearing the very rushed warning.  Evenso, Dryst managed to catch his smile before it receded too quickly and instead, softened its dissolve so as to escape Spence’s notice.  Dryst wasn’t sure why he understood what the butterfly was saying, or implying, or riddling out…but Dryst had understood that something wasn’t quite right with Spence and hadn’t been for a while.  The man wasn’t envious of the butterfly.  That wasn’t the issue.  Something else was going on.  Something less magical and awe inspiring than a swirling galaxy on the floorbed of an upside down redwood forest.  Something less otherworldly than a purple-grey sky that found itself knitted back by the interlaced roots of upended giant trees.  Something less unimaginable than a clan of witches pushing their way between the delicately powerful and wonderous feat of those entwined roots…the source of life and growth and being and essence for the magnificent, outstretched leafy limbs that graced the forest space.

Something more basic was happening here, and it was happening nearly imperceptively right before Dryst’s eyes. 

“Huhhh,” Spence sighed with some exasperation.  He snarled with mild disbelief at the butterfly before rolling his eyes and turning his attention squarely onto Dryst. 

“Kid…let’s move it.”  He nodded toward a path that flicked its way from their feet, burned itself around a cluster of redwoods, and opened itself onto the backend of the Forest.  He gestured his hands with some amount of fatigue.  “Take your friend there with you,” Spence said as evenly as he could, trying to remove any sound of mockery.  Dryst studied how Spence had placed a screen around himself in an effort to remove the film of intense disquiet that had washed over him earlier. 

“Time’s moving.  Even here.  Even if we don’t feel like it is.”

And on this, Spence was right.  Dryst started walking again down the path as the butterfly barely whispered “Here.”  And Dryst listened deeply. 

Perhaps all that Dryst really had sensed was a grizzly old man who had remembered why they had come here.  Not that Dryst had ever forgotten.  Mya was always on his mind, perptually in his heart. He had travelled through time and space and worlds to reach her.  And he would, he told himself with utter convinction.   Nothing would stop him.  Not even falling up through the galaxy only to find himself walking lightly across it with the force of a butterfly…one that kissed the air with its wings; one that set entire worlds in motion from the kissing.   Dryst had paused from the clarity and complexity of all of life’s connections.  He had paused from the ability to feel it and understand the profundity of it, the multi-dimensionality of it all through a gentle smile.  But in the pausing, Dryst had never forgotten Mya.  Quite the opposite was true.   Because of the pausing, the totality of his feeling and understanding for her had become crystal clear.  As it always had been and always was…even when it was something utterly beyond words.

They walked in silence.  The redwoods glanced along their bodies and hushed their footfall.  The purple-grey atmosphere misted itself around them and drizzled a moaning coldness onto their skin.   The galaxy rotated in slumber and focused its center eye fully on them. 

The place was at once beautiful in its magic and foreboding in its strangeness, and its yin and yang reflected greatly what Dryst felt in the moment, on this path, with this man. 

It was oddly out of sorts for Dryst to feel a chill from Spence’s silence.  How odd, how strange, how ironic for Dryst to almost wish for Spence to launch into a less than stellar rendition of Flight of the Bumblebees.  It was a melody of familiarity that Dryst longed for…particularly when his sense of his friend had been altered suddenly.   The old guy’s wild and pitchy attempt to breathe life into an extraordinarily complex piece would have softened the discordant space that carried the two of them, Dryst smiled deeply inside at the feel of Mya – the three of them, he amended if he included Spence…well, the four of them, he smiled again thinking of the butterfly that was perched ever so lightly upon his ear —  on this journey in this strange world.  

But how very comforted and how very focused Dryst remained from the gentle touch of Mya in his thoughts…thoughts that he always carried deep inside him…thoughts that he knew were mutually carried and mutually realized by her.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 10 total wordcount:  2025 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  16,000.  (omgah … seriously seriously seriously whimpering)

Iconoclast Rising … 11

 ~

 

Ch 11 ~ Frost on a Pumpkin

 

Ophania rested midway along the length of her whisk.    Her eyes burned red and then transformed to green, then purple, then a deep grey in homage to the mood and tenor of the hues that painted the landscape and colored the air around her and her clan.  Great strands of her blackened purple grey-hair lofted in the wind; as they rose and fell, they rustled like the leaves of the redwoods.   Ophania, like her many sisters this night, was rendered invisible in the trees by the changing colors of her skin and of her garments.  Lightrays of the same red-green-purple-deeply grey colorband wound themselves around her breasts and back; her hips and buttocks.  The colors shifted and blended to mimmick and please the natural or unnatural order of things, the natural or unnatural order of the many present, such as they all were, in the Origin.

As she surveyed the ground, her mind burned.  Ophania and her many sisters lived these lands.  They claimed the upside-down skies and the soupy primordal foundation.  They brooded for lifetimes in this place and had come to know the fullness of its lore.  They had waited for more eons than Ophania could recall…which were a great many lifetimes since she and her sisters had existed from the beginnings of the Origin.   A highly unnatural day, indeed, her thoughts rumbled inside her mind as she surveyed the woods that Ophania should discover two men – mere mortals – she thought with mild amusement, and a butterfly journeying through the land.  Her eyes gleamed along the path of their travels:  a lengthy, winding path; a path not without peril.  She shifted her weight on the shaft of her whisk and thought, with some bemused irony, that the worst peril for these travellers, Ophania knew, lay in wait within in the uppermost treeroots.  With her.

Sister, an unspoken voice hissed through the air, pushing impatiently through the leaves.  Now, sister?  Less a questioning; so very much more an urging.   Yes, yes…sister, another unspoken voice curled through the air, urging the first voice forward.   Soon a multitude of unspoken voices tripped along the upsidedown roots and pummelled the night sky.  Their calls clammering intensely; their sound mimmicking a poignant rhapsody like a flock of birds that bleat into the night.

Too soon, Ophania calmed, yet replied in unspoken tones that betrayed her own growing impatience but that was quickly overpowered by a stronger wisdom which Ophania carried and yielded…sometimes like a club.  Too soon. 

They spoke in their thoughts — this tribe, these sisters – undetected by anyone but those who freely commanded the unspoken language.  And so they chattered at length in the night air, expressing their urgency and desire and great disappointment at Ophania’s resolve. 

Dryst hesitated in his mind.  He thought he had heard…he would have believed before, but…He spun his eyes around the forest, stalking out the sound…the whispers…

Humhaaa, Ophania’s eyes widened.  Indeed, she thought with some pleasure.  Now?, the clan rejoined the pursuit of their want.  Not yet, Ophania growled to quiet them.  Yet she smiled Humhaaa  and blended her gender at will, co-mingling male and female as was her want to do.  Particularly for an Eternal who waited in solitude amongst noisy, impatient sisters who roosted in the uppermost tree roots while watching the endless pale of the night seep into the fabric of this world.   It dripped of coldness, more than not, but these travellers cast a light that infuriated and aroused.  Ophania softly licked her lips.  Her tongue dwelled  there, nestled within the seam of her red, then green, then purple, then deep grey mouth; her mind dwelled there for a moment within the pleasured memory of her most recent co-mingle.  And her cheeks – which transformed colors just like the rest of her – lifted into a soft smile. 

They will pass, Ophania said without words.  The path will lead them astray…as is our want, sisters.  They will pass this night.

The upside down trees, with their tangled roots pushing against the sky, echoed with wailing winds and grumbling breaths as the Clan of Ophania exposed its displeasure at the wait.

~

Spence clicked his tongue against the back of his clenched teeth.  “I keep fighting the urge to go back, kid,” he said at last.  “This place has a definite creep factor to it…no mistake about that.”

Dryst listened.  Every now and then he peered upward, but not too often.  It was more his mind that searched the skies.  And now this, from Spence.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about this confession.  For anyone else, he could understand not wanting to be here.  For Dryst, there was no alternative.  He chose to be here and would stay until he found Mya.  But for Spence…what must this journey be but more of an immense curiosity… No, Dryst didn’t buy that.  This was not a journey for the mildly curious, not for those who would stay home, safe within their confines, safe to watch as a spectator any travels that were to unfold, safe behind the down-filled silk toss pillows strewn about their sofas.  No, that couldn’t be it for Spence.  Besides, Dryst reminded himself, the old fox had been here before.

“I retrace the path,” Spence continued as they walked on.  He muttered in a stream of thought as if talking to himself, as if entirely forgetting that he was not alone, “…thinking I will find the key.  Thinking the answer will become apparent.  Some things change.  Altered here, a bit different there.  But the essence is unchanged.  And things aren’t any clearer to me than they were at the first pass.  Or the second pass.  Or any other pass.”

“Any other pass,” Dryst repeated, not understanding.  Here, the butterfly whispered.  Many of them.  Watching.

Dryst listened, his insides stirred from an unpleasantness that he wasn’t entirely sure he comprehended.

Spence paused as they walked.  Their footfalls sounded ever so much louder to Dryst…uncomfortably so.  He worried their travel through this forest in this night would soon be given away.

Here, the butterfly whispered again.

“I thought,” Spence continued in a disturbing voice, “I would force myself to do this.  It’s not easy.  Facing into this….massive unknown.  A bit of surrealism.  How can any of this really be?  Where does it all really lead?  To the grace of something higher?” Spence sputtered a chilled, incredulous laugh.  “If this is that ’something higher,’ we’re all in for a heap of hurt down below.”

Dryst quietly said, “What are you getting at.”  He was not going to allow Spence’s sudden lack of calm to rattle him…but he felt something about to emerge from this ramble of his.

“There is disorder here, kid,” Spence replied.  “Don’t you feel it?  In the air?  In the color of the sky and the earth?  In the freaking milky way that we nearly walked over.  Disorder,” Spence said to confirm his own view.  “Or maybe this all seems ‘right’ to you?”  He glanced nervously over to Dryst, then looked ahead as they began to curve with the path. 

“The trees…the trees alone,” Spence whispered with an unsettled awe, “upside down…a beautiful forest of trees, a lovely fall scene…but upside down?  It puts frost on my pumpkin, kid.  I shudder to think what magic created all of this.”

“You’ve retraced this path,” Dryst said calmly, gently steering him back to this statement.  “What is the key you’re looking for.  Is it the portal.”

Dryst came out and said it.

“What will they do with it, kid,” Spence said with little inflection in his voice; almost defeated; definitely fatigued.  They had travelled through time and space, dimensions and worlds.  It was a hard trip to make.

“What would ‘you’ do with it, kid, if given half the chance,” Spence asked, then nodded his head rapidly.  “Oh, I know what you’re doing with it now.  And there’s nothing more noble than that.”  He paused and moved his lower jaw from side to side.  “But say your gal –”

“Mya…”

Spence inhaled a chuckle.  “Admire your loyalty, kid.   I truly do.  But say…Mya…” he emphasized, “was never abducted.  Say she was perfectly safe and sound at home, and you two were about to make love, or you had already made love…”

Dryst blushed and cleared his throat. 

“Oh, kid,” Spence replied, “You never said that.  You hardly betrayed any intimacy.  Don’t worry.  Just say, is all I’m sayin’,” he explained, “Say that everything was fine and you felt no sense of urgency, like you do now, to alter the very fabric of the universe.  And say that under those circumstances you stumbled across the portal and all of its power…what then would you do…”

The butterfly’s wings stiffened.  Dryst narrowed his eyes, hoping to be able to more clearly see the expression that Spence carried on his face, but the night air was dark and swirling.  The purple-grey colors pushed back and concealed all definitions, revealing only a disguised intent and a flatness of purpose.  And when Spence spoke again, the same revealing exposed itself.

“…you could do anything, kid.  And no one,” Spence struggled to continue as if suddenly consumed by an internal battle.  “No one,” he whispered hoarsely, “could stop you.” 

Humhaaa, Ophania’s throat exhaled and the speed of the winds increased.  She arched in the winds along the whisk and melted her eyes back into the gaze of her co-mingled self.  Her tongue twirled between her lips; her hands ravaged her co-mingled form…and her cheeks – continually transforming colors, reflecting the mood and tenor of the Origin – twisted into a pleasured smile.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 11 total wordcount:  1600 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  17,600.  (gasping … seriously seriously seriously whimpering…am not at all sure where this story is taking me…well, kinda, but wow like who are these people?!?!!?!?  Actually I know very well who the most important people are.)

Iconoclast Rising … 12

 

 ”People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, and redeemed.” ~ Audrey Hepburn

 

Ch 12 ~ the Enforcer, the Thinker, the Innocent, the Tinkerer

 

Something was happening to Mya’s mind.  She was having trouble recalling what had just happened a few minutes ago.  Where were they going with this?  How was all of this to unfold?

She stared at the little one, who idlely dug the tip of her maryjane – the one that was hooked around the back of her other ankle – into the plateau on which they all were standing.  They all, Mya laughed in bemusement.  Who…me, the tiny girl, and the teddybear?  And yet…

Mya had the overpowering sense that more than just the two of them – and the teddybear – were present at this place, at this moment.  

The winds picked up, then.  A strange happening, Mya thought.  They – the winds – had been unnoticeably silent for the past few hours.  But now that they had exerted themselves, Mya became aware of what had been their lost voice.  She listened carefully to their liberation as they bore life from themselves.  Somehow, their birthing call made the void of the Origin less and more palpable, less and more tangible.  Less and more factual.  Because what they had brought forth had substance and texture, but also a chill and a wail.   Like a poignant rhapsody that was followed by a trail of echoing sighs.  Or laughter.  Or hums.  Like an extended intake of air and a thrusting exhale of breath that, through the blowing and in the bustle of it all, materialized into a quietly distracting but distinctively weighty Humhaaaa.

Strange, Mya thought.  She looked around the boundaries of the plateau, taking in bits of landscape, but mostly taking in a deepening purple-grey mist.  Still, despite the less than cheery feel of the surroundings, if she didn’t know better, Mya would have sworn that the wind had just smiled.

Mya unconsciously wrapped her arms across her chest.  She clutched her hands along the caps of her shoulders.  She felt a tingling chill run down her spine…but temperature had little to do with it.   She shuddered and absentmindedly stomped her the sole of her boot on the ground…just as the little one dug the tip of her shiny patent leather maryjane into the soil.

The child stood, entirely unchanged by the difference in the air and the eerie howl it had brought forth.  Unchanged…an ironic turn of events, Mya thought, seeing as this little one was, by nature, a shapeshifter.  A changeling.  Mya paused.  She hugged her own body close to herself as she closely studied the child.  No, she thought, this one was more a faerie than a changeling if a choice between the two had to be made.  This one was unique…the polar opposite of indistinguishable.  Mya traced her gaze along the features of the child’s face…a face that held moments of looking remarkably like an innocent version of a Jolie or a Pitt (just for the sake of absurdity, if not celebrity), but in actuality, most consistently bore the most striking resemblance to Mya herself.  Amazing, Mya marvelled.  If I push everything that has happened aside, Mya thought, and simply be with the child, it is as if…I am holding up the mirror to my former self…to years gone by.

“To stories of old,” the little one sang as she twirled her hair like a ribbon around her finger.

Startled, Mya shook her head softly.  No, she whispered directly to herself.  This one was no changeling.  Hardly a stupid, ugly child, as a strict definition of the word ‘changeling’ might suggest.  No imposter either, Mya uttered wordlessly as she stared at the child.

In that moment, the little person waddled forward with awkward, tiny demure steps.  Yet, she held Mya’s gaze with a confidence and an innocence both…and both soothed and comforted her.  …the wisdom of children, Mya couldn’t help but think.  Then she felt tiny, smooth fingers tug gently around Mya’s pinky and palm.  And before Mya knew anything at all, before Mya even drew her next breath, she felt her feet moving under her, and felt the child leading her across the plateau to another place.  Off in the distance, but not too far.  Off under a bit of shelter, though none appeared to be needed.  There were storm clouds in the purple-grey mist, if one preferred to call them clouds, or atmosphere or kinetic renderings of some unknown origin.

…Origin, Mya muttered in silence and immediately her mind flew to Dryst.  Although she felt him still, felt him always, she couldn’t help but wonder where he was…wonder how he was.  He would not stop.  She knew this, and for the first time, she admitted to worrying…only becausee everything was so upsidedown strange in this land with all of the otherworldy, unnatural way of things surging and collecting themselves into massive purple-grey storm clouds.  But no storm.  And no clear way to see through it all.  Yet.

“Where,” Mya breathed the question and knew all of its meaning in one word would not be lost on the child.

The child gently stroked Mya’s palm and wrist.   She somehow both carefully and playfully swung the teddybear from her other hand.  Her shiny maryjanes brought such an infinitely small amount of weight to the ground.  Her eyes, as they looked up into Mya’s, brought such a profoundness of depth without even trying.  Captivated, Mya stared as they walked slowly forward.  And she waited.

The child’s voice was high and melodic when she finally spoke.  And when she did finally speak, all that she said was “To the others.”

“Others?” 

Again with one word, Mya breathed out the question and knew that it had presented all of its size and scope that was implicit in this one-word ask for clarity…that was equally made implicit by Mya’s tone and energy.  It was not that she was nervous, exactly.  It was that she didn’t exactly know what was going to happen next.

“Oh, yes,” the little person said.  Her glowing blonde hair floated in the air; her flower necklace released a soft perfume as it bobbed ever so lightly along the silk ribbon that was gingerly tied to the child’s neck. 

“There are many others here.  Many who can help us.  When the time comes.”  The tiny girl stopped speaking, then, for a moment as she led them through what Mya thought must have been the opening of a cave.  The little one tugged at Mya’s hand and, through the tugging, had urged Mya to lower her body so that she could steer her long and lithe self through the opening with safe passage.   And so Mya did.  And after they had passed through the mouth of the place, Mya saw that they had entered a large room that was tenderly alit with white candles that stood here and there on the floor.  A room that was gently welcoming with comfortable furnishings and pillows strewn about.  A room that was soothingly playing sounds of a spilling wetness from a waterfountain that dripped its crystal liquid like a rippling curtain over the lip of the water basin.  Mya gasped as her senses were abruptly overtaken with the depth of smell and sight of food.  Surpressed internal shouts from her stomach that had been denied the chance to announce how terribly hungry she was suddenly burst into the front of her mind and her mouth gaped open in anticipation of nourishment.  But before she could put food to mouth, Mya caught sight of drink, a sighting that thrust her feet into a run toward a marble table holding a clear, cool, tall pitcher of clear, cool, tall liquid that Mya could only hope was water and not something evil or toxic or deadly as it rushed down past her lips, poured over her tongue and crashed down her throat.

“You could do with a touch of decorum,” a mature and, presumably, worldy voice uttered.  But of what world, Mya wondered as she slowly lowered the pitcher and felt streams of liquid sliding down her chin and falling onto her chest.  She turned and saw wires and switches and metal and cable and pulsing lights and whizzing motors all collected together into cojoined unit, of sorts, until its collective oneness took the form and shape of an adult-sized person.

“Just what has enraptured you so,” the pile of metal and electric currents and chords and boxes and engines clipped with a touch of annoyance.

“Um,” Mya mumbled.  A robot or cyborg (Mya assumed) spoke of rapture, talked with annoyance, pulsed with sarcasm…what a strange, strange creature, Mya thought and continued to stare in silence.

“Oh,” the cyborg said.  “A rocket scientist, I see,” it continued without missing a beat.  Mya stared at this sarcastic being – it simply had to be a robot…it whirled and hummed and looked like it was about to plug into something and, well, rather enjoy doing so, she noted - and decided that she was going mad.  Yes, mad.  As in insane from this all.  A war is coming, she told herself.  Or so her tiny little self had told her, to be more exact about it all.  And for some reason, Mya couldn’t help but believe the little one.  And while she still did believe the little one, how, oh how, she wondered nearly aloud, was a sarcastic, mouthy cyborg going to help if it came to some kind of apocalyptic battle?  Would he talk the enemy to death?  Would he strike them down with words that killed?

If a robot could scowl, this one managed it.  Had he read her thoughts, she panicked to herself?

It sighed and unleashed an electric chord from around its waist, then extended it back only to snap it forward, hurling its metal teeth into the side of her ankle. 

“Hey!” Mya barked, but jumped back against the counter, nearly sending the pitcher of water crashing to the floor.

The little one moused herself over to the cyborg and tenderly placed her hand on it chorded forearm.  “War is coming,” she whispered sadly, “but not here.”

The cyborg lowered its metal head to the child, then whirled its neck and lifted its glowing eyes to gleam upon a panting and alarmed Mya. 

Its voice lowered.  “You would be surprised at how lethal words can be.  Even more lethal sometimes, more lasting sometimes than brute force.”

The little one smiled.  “But it is nice for us to have both.”

And then the cyborg swung a metal arm around.  And the candelight burned more brightly.  And Mya saw that the great hall was filled in the center, in the back and around the edges with a legion of cyborgs and warriors.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 12 total wordcount:  1750 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  19,350.  (…have I mentioned how really *really* seriously hard this is?)  

Iconoclast Rising … 13

 

 ”People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, and redeemed.” ~ Audrey Hepburn 

 

Ch 13 ~ Once Again…and Again

 

Dryst stopped.  He angled his broad shoulders and squared off his frame to face Spence.  He had arrived at a decision, one that had announced itself first in his body; second in his mind; third in his voice.

After a long pause that refused to be dismissed or underestimated by anyone, he said as clearly, as smoothly, and as definitively as humanly possible: 

“Don’t ever put me in a position where I am forced to stop you.” 

He waited, breathing evenly; eyes locked onto Spence’s face, communicating on an entirely different plane but unmistakably relaying exactly the same message. 

“Because if it comes to that,” he said in a low monotone, “I will stop you.”

…

Spence stared but not literally.  His eyes were closed, but not without sight. 

He lay in the bed, breathing steadily.  In fact, he wasn’t simply breathing.  He was slightly snoring, despite the miracle claims of the Anti-Snore pillow that his wife had bought off of some wacky infomercial.  She was addicted to them, those infomercials, he thought with some amused annoyance.  But not a serious annoyance…more of a rolling of the eyes (even when they were closed while he slept).  Infomercials were the one thing – well one of a few because everyone seemed to have an assortment of varying degrees - that grated a bit on his nerves when it came to his wife Candy’s habits.  But if that was the worst of it, well, he couldn’t complain.  And, lord knows, he had his own assortment, as evidenced by a long pattern of sleeplessness on her part.  He knew that she lay awake on and off many a night even if he wasn’t awake to witness it, because he knew that he snored and rather severely.  So, as a last resort one night in her sleeplessness, Candy had clicked on buttons (online ordering) and had selected a size (king) and had identified quantity (two in case of need of a backup) and had selected Massively Super Express Delivery (licketedy-split arrival within two days) and had ordered the Anti-Snore pillow for Spence’s birthday.  He shrugged in his mind.  Rather appropriate, he thought, since breathing sustains life.  Why not a pillow that unobstructs the throat?  Good idea, he thought.  Besides that, if there wasn’t some kind of middle ground with this soon, he half thought she might kill him.  Sleep-deprived people tended to be that way (and he suddenly realized why Candy watched so many infomercials since they were the only entertainment that was broadcasted in the wee hours of the night).  Maybe even he would be that way but he didn’t know about this, because he always slept well, and he always slept deeply.  Trouble was, the Anti-Snore pillow proved to be less the ’miracle in a box’ that Candy had hoped for or that the manufacturer had claimed it would be or that the customer service department could remedy if there were to be a problem.  And there was a problem.  Spence still snored up a storm, sometimes even hearing himself as he slept.  (Not that bad, he thought, as he sawed through another log.) 

…sometimes vaguely hearing the edges of Candy’s desperate inquires to customer service for the Massively Super Deluxe version.  (When will it be released?  Not anytime soon?  Is yesterday soon enough?  Is 40 years ago soon enough?) 

…sometimes experiencing unsettled dreams.

His mouth and lips tasted of smoke, but he hadn’t smoked in 30 years.  He wondered why he would taste the sooty, woody wash of it inside the walls of his cheeks, along the back of his teeth, across the length of his tongue, and even at the top of his throat.  He marvelled that he felt his chest tightening, and for a moment, he considered rolling off of the flat of his back – maybe that would alleviate the constriction, he wondered – but frankly, he was too tired to move, and he wasn’t panicking.  Spence realized long ago that he was in the middle of a dream and snoring to beat it all to heck, and he supposed the routine of it all (his particular cocktail of snoring, sleeping, thinking about rolling over and deciding against it) comforted him somehow.  But, still, he found it mildly strange…he was in body and out of body at the same time, and all the while, he marvelled (marvelling probably in both places, in and out of body, as far as he could tell) at the ability of his fibers to remember the taste and feel and wash of smoke in his being.  

But the weight of it was different.  It was somehow thicker.  It was somehow heavier.  It was somehow drapier.  And the smell of it was different.  It was more like a national park than a forest preserve.  It was more like a torching fireplace than a flaming matchstick.  It was more like a cigar than a cigarette.

“Cigar? Cigarette?”  Halted little wheezings for four beats.  “Cigar?  Cigarette?”

“Cigar,” his father said, smiling out of both sides of his mouth just out of courtesy and nothing more as he tipped the perky Cigarette Girl.  His father wasn’t born in an age with Cigarette Girls, but it was a dream and it was Spence’s dream so logic didn’t matter.  The only thing that mattered was it was Spence’s father who bought the cigar and lit it up, because that was something his father would have done in reality.  And as he lit the nubby end of the rolled tobacco, his father was careful to push away any smoke or any cast-away embers from his clothing or that of his lady.  He was dressed well, Spence’s father…a daper man, not at all slick but cleanly put together.  Tailored.  It was a time when men and women both wore their Sunday best at all times.  It was a time when Sunday best meant something more than sweatpants that were sloppily hanging onto the ground or baggy jeans that were belted around the upper thighs instead of the waist. 

His father, Danny, wore his hat slightly off to the side and his wool coat buttoned closed.  It was winter.  It was cold.  He carried a gloved hand in the bend of his arm.  He softly lay his hand over the cream-colored gloved fingers and tenderly stroked them.  She, Eleanor, Spence’s mother, smiled.   Then Danny took his hand to the cigar and pulled it away from his lips, moving it down to the side of his body, careful to point its fat burning edge away from him and Eleanor.  He exhaled.  He tenderly said, “Come on, babe.”  And Danny and Eleanor strolled down the boulevard that stretched out before them in the bustling downtown of the metropolis.

Now a crisp fall day.  Trees cast their leaves randomly, tossing them about about.  Winds swirl the reds and golds, the yellows and burntout browns into rustling miniature updrafts then release them to tumble down here and there.  They are in the yard.  A big yard.   They are playing catch.  Spence’s dad hauls back effortlessly to gather some velocity then deliberately releases the baseball without too much sting to it.  He smiles while clenching the stub of a cigar between his teeth.  Had fooled the son, for a moment, he thinks, into believing the throw would be more of a rocket, less of an airball.  Spence watches his father grinning through his teeth, cigar smoke whisping around his jaw to the back of his neck.  The father is a tall man, quiet, relaxed, and amused by his son’s sudden tension.  Spence thinks he doesn’t look prepared to be on the receiving end of a freight train.  So Spence hauls his high school arm back, a little gangly but muscled and struggling to master its own strength.  And he lunges forward, whipping his arm around the side of his body until his arm is fully outstretched a few feet in front of where he had been standing before the windup, and he pushes the baseball off of his fingers, sending it flying back to his father like a freight train.  And even though Spence is sure that his old man doesn’t suspect the sheer force of what’s coming, his old man grins.  Because maybe he senses it was coming afterall.  And he catches it.

Spence always thought the hospital would be the last place he would ever want to visit.  And then it turns out that maybe that last place is the nursing home.  He wonders why they never seem to paint the walls the right color in these buildings, why they never seem to be cheerful.  But maybe, he realizes, it’s all just fine and it’s all just Spence not liking the fact, and it is now fact, that he finds himself coming here.  His father has been here (transferred from the hospital after a bad spill and then moved from the hospital to the nursing home) for closing in on a month, now, but Danny has been gone for nearly five years.  Here but gone.  Gone from Spence.  Gone from everything he ever was.  

Spence raises his eyebrows with some fatigue.  He does a mental calculation and figures that his father has been gone probably closer to 10 years, for all they really know.  Alzheimer’s, the long goodbye, is called such for a reason, Spence shakes his head.  Because the person you love sometimes slowly and sometimes rapidly and sometimes erratically slips away.  And then, Spence whispers in his mind…and then…sometimes they return.  If only for a moment.  He stands and listens in memory, hearing his father say in such  quiet desparation, such primal knowing:  ”I’m not the man I use to be…”  

And Spence aches in that moment of his father’s return.  Spence lowers his head to conceal his wet eyes.  Such a hard thing to know, he hushes to himself in his mind.  Such a hard knowing.  But then he finds himself just as quickly moved to a place of some relief - something he never imagined he could say – when his father Danny reverts back even that much deeper into a different personality, when the grips of the disease fully claims him back to its mystery and darkness until it fully takes Danny away.  Maybe he sensed it was coming, afterall, Spence wonders.  Maybe deep down his father knew.  But no matter, Spence thinks, and he begins to  collect his father’s things that lay scattered on the little nightstand and that hung in the little closet that had held his life – or the life of whatever personality had possessed him – during these last days.  Spence is glad that his mother had passed on a few years ago and quickly, too.  Mom was always that way, Spence smiles, tidy, organized, loving in her quietness.   “Dad,” Spence muttered.  “Dear Dad…”   It had hit him like a freight train.  It had run over him for 5 years…probably closer to 10 years, for all Spence really knows.  He lowers his head again, casting his eyes randomly – What does it matter?  It is done – and his eyes land upon a cigar.  Untouched.  Undone.  Spence smiles and begins to sob.

In his mind, Spence lay on his back breathing.  In this place, Spence stood upright thinking.  Dryst was playing for keeps; he could see it in his eyes.  Even through the building dampness and the purple-grey mist that suffocated the forest and that pushed streams of breath from Spence’s nostrils.   What would he have given to have had the power to save his father, he wondered.  It wasn’t that long ago…only one year ago.  He had lost his way and everything that he had as a result.  And so had his father, but with much more finality.  What would Spence have given to have the power to help his father to simply be…in all of the fullness that he was. 

Anything.

He nearly laughed Dryst’s demeanor away, but he knew that the kid would take it the wrong way.  He was of a single mind and he wouldn’t understand.   (Or maybe he would…)

And he marvelled at how very easy it was to take for granted what seemed to be a very simple thing:  Being.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 13 total wordcount:  2040 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  21,390.  

Iconoclast Rising … 14

 

“Should I be trying to discover a shared vision that will foster enrollment rather than compliance?  Or should I modify my conceptual map to focus on organizational complexity?” ~ Dilbert

 

Ch 14 ~ The Legion

 

There were two different types of warriors. 

There was Locomotive Breath.  Mya recognized him/her — s/he — instantly.  As was the case with the two of them, their eyes locked.  S/he was big.  S/he was powerful.  And she needn’t say anything to convey it.   Locomotive held his energy tight and fast in stone silence, her gaze unblinking but without malice.  Mya held herself tightly together…just barely.   She was the first one to blink.

“Sheesh,” she shuddered and dropped her eyes, still shocked to imagine that this being had come from somewhere within her innermost depths.  But, she frowned inside, what real proof did she have of this?  What real proof other than an unyielding knowing, she answered her own question.  There, she admitted it to herself.  She simply had to admit it to herself from time to time.  Pure, unadulterated instinct would have it no other way.   

Mya’s eyes skimmed down the length of the warrior.  She registered a multitude of weaponry on his person:  axes, daggers, knives, bow and arrows, cleavers and swords.   She imagined he could summon any weapon he most needed whenever he most needed it.  S/he nodded slightly in acknowlegement but otherwise didn’t move.  As for Mya, she turned away in intimidation…of herself. 

(How odd, she thought in rattled amazement.  Indeed.  It rather creeped her out when the beast read her thoughts and answered her internal questions.)

The second type of warrior…now, this mammoth person, this looming being was yet another matter still.  This one, Mya hadn’t seen before.  Yet, a sense of knowing managed to overpower her again.  She stared, her lips parted and opened slightly, as this warrior stood next to Locomotive and towered over him like a mountain that reached for the heavens while casting itself protectively over the top of a nearby hill.  This one, this embattled fighter, possessed a far greater masculinity if that was even possible.  This beast, this ferocious champion, radiated an intensity and singularity of focus that rivaled Locomotive’s.  It was breathtaking and beyond Mya’s ability to describe.  But this fighter’s unyielding intent, magnificent and fiercely powerful spirit simply embodied Mya, passed through her and within her, travelled to all parts of her and journeyed deeply into every corner and recess.  With a furrowed brow, a chiseled face, a quiet passion, a burning gaze, this warrior read the winds — communicated on an entirely different plane — she was convinced and penetrated Mya’s primal senses just as easily as Locomotive.  But in a profoundly different and, at the same time, profoundly sameness in the way. 

Absentmindedly, Mya shook her body in tiny, little tremors.  It was as if she were trying to shake off all these developments.  Were these friends here, she wondered.  If friends, what sort of friends?  If not friends, then…?

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and wrapped her fingers around each shoulder.   She seemed to be doing that alot lately.  Well, but it helped her to contain her panick.  She was surrounded by two different types of fury, both of which sat in wait for the unleashing.  So very similar in their essence, so readily distinct in their own right, so single-minded in purpose.  Both stared at her…in a manner that penetrated, but didn’t paralyze with fear.  At least, not with her.  She had a sense enough about them to know she needn’t be afraid of them (even if she found herself battling back and forth with fear).  But she also knew that anyone outside of this room would not be as lucky.  She found herself shuddering again.  Because the entire legion of warriors happened to be staring at her?  Or because the entire legion of fighters consisted of clones whose immediate lineage could be traced back directly to either Locomotive or the Fierce One (as Mya’s subconscious referred to him).  An unending army, born of two origins; existing as one. 

Origin, Mya whispered, her lips moving in silence, her lips gliding tenderly in the memory of the air — not not so much the memory of air itself, but the nearness of it to Dryst’s face.  She felt his fingers slip in between hers.  And she looked down in a rush to take every line of his fingers into her vision, into her cells just as she could feel every gentle fiber in his hand awaken her being.  And when Mya’s eyes finally lay sight on the fingers, she saw a tender hand, yes, but one that pulled her mind surprisingly back to the present and revealed itself as belonging to the Little One.

“They will fight when the time comes,” the little blonde girl murmured in a voice that was meant to soothe.  “They will fight.”

~

Mya coughed.  “You know,” she said at last after the fog had lifted from her throat, “all this talk of fighting?”

The Little One raised her round eyes in encouragement, in support.

“Well,” Mya laughed nervously.  “It’s making me…well…a bit…nervous.”

The cyborg spun around, its metal and wired heels throwing off a noiseless stream of fireworks as it did.

“The war has no real meaning to you.  Does it,” the cyborg asked.

Mya shrugged.  “Something about the Believers and the Non,” Mya said slowly and looked at the Little One with a polite smile, as if to soften the implied suggestion that the tiny person’s explanation had offered little if any clarity. 

“I suppose…” Mya thought for a moment, then continued,”it has whatever meaning I put to it.”

The cyborg extended a hand that was mounded up with a pile of metal and wires and gestured for Mya to sit on one of the many seat cushions that were heaped on the floor.  It appeared that the cyborg was about to explain – in not fully, at least further - and it appeared that he wanted Mya to be comfortable while he did so.  A slight smile curled itself in at the corners of Mya’s mouth.  She found herself reevaluating her first impression of him (she had assumed the cyborg to be a male, although she couldn’t really tell through the collection of metal and wires) and in the reevaluation, she seemed to have settled on the notion that the cyborg might well have just a touch of a gentleman in his circuits afterall.

Well, did he ever.  Or the appearance of it.  Having been so transfixed by the warriors, Mya nearly failed to notice the small Cyborg Nation that was also gathered in the room.   This was a very large room, deceptively so.  The many Cyborgs — too many to be counted – had blended back, their grey and dulled metal blurring into the dim light where the candle flickers didn’t reach.  Like the Warriors, the Cyborgs spoke very little, but unlike the Warriors, the Cyborgs weren’t entirely silent.  It wasn’t until Mya fully opened her mind to her surroundings that she then heard the whirling of machinery around her, that she then saw the random arcs of colorful sparks that jettisoned from their motors and curled harmlessly up and under themselves in small, whirlpooling flashes.

Mya assumed they were cleaning their internal mechanisms…or something along those lines.  She didn’t know.  She wasn’t an engineer, or a welder, or an electrician.  But she need not be, because upon closer inspection – Mya jutted her head forward more than a bit – it appeared that many of the Cyborgs gathered there were, well, engaged in, well, an orgy of sorts. 

“Hmm,” was all that Mya could manage to say as she immediately turned the Little One away from the view of the Cyborgs.  But just as she put her hands on the Little One’s shoulders, Mya felt the child’s body transform.  She felt great muscles flex out.  She felt the child’s bone structure increase its mass by a startling order of magnitude.  And then she felt her hands slip down the Little One’s shoulders and the golden hair person gave way to a much taller, wildly grizzlied and darkly ominous presence who was horrendously larger and massively broader than the tiny little creature whose small little voice floated like bubbles on the air.   Locomotive Breath.  Mya lifted her eyes up and saw it was so.  For once, Mya looked at Locomotive in a less abhorrent way…as if sensing a different aspect.  As if sensing the wisdom of the child within.   

She could have sworn she saw Locomotive’s eyelids flinch.   If so, only for mere seconds.  If so, only imperceptively so. 

Locomotive turned her body and his line of sight away from Mya and stood among his fighting breathen.

“The Believers,”  the Cyborg (she needed a name for him) began, “are those who contend that we all are part of a higher order.  No living being separated.  All life connected.  And this higher order — some think of it as God, some think of it as collective consciousness – controls the instincts.  Controls the spirits within each individual.  In totality, controls the very essence of anything we might refer to as life, such that we know of life in our infantile way of knowing it.”

Cy (she had given up trying to invent a name for him) stood passively in front of her.  He waited for questions.  He waited for a reaction or at the very least an argument.  And perhaps he would have received one or the other (or all) much sooner than he did were it not for Mya’s complete fascination with the various chords and prongs that wound themselves around his form and that moved quite lively and independently around his body (as well as the bodies of any of the many nearby Cyborgs) in search of various other bodily parts — his own or others — in which to plug.  Not surprisingly, as Mya watched (gaped, really), a chord and prongs slithered its way up Cy’s thigh and rather suddenly, jacked itself into his loins.  A stream of multicolored sparks flew out between his legs.  A pulsing glow ran up and down his wiring system and circulated itself within the center-most region of his lower-most region.  He stood.  His body seemed to sigh a bit, or creak a tad, or maybe even tremble an immeasurable amount — as far as the naked eye could see — but Mya had the distinct impression that the size of Cy’s very own personal seismic shift was rather subtantial. 

“Uh,” she said meekly.  She felt like she was interrupting.  She looked around and noticed that all the Cyborgs were in the process of jacking into themselves and each other.  And this strange mix of glowing, pulsing, engine-released gusts of “huaaa” filled the space.

“And,” she continued as she scratched her forehead and lowered her face to give them all some sense of privacy, “and what of the Non?”

“The don’t believe in the collective consciousness,” Cy answered unemotionally.  “But they do very well know the power of belief.  They fear this power.  They envy this power.  But perhaps worse,” he paused as the current coarsing through his form caused his foot to flap uncontrollably for a moment.  When it stopped, he continued, “but worse…they crave that power.”

Then suddenly, Cyborg Nation was completely alit, and its light – unified and pulsing – softly filled the room.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 14 total wordcount:  1900 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  23,290.  

Iconoclast Rising … 15

 

“Proposition 8:  While government is not allowed to define religion, it now apparently is allowed to define Love…yet another part of American life the government now owns.” ~ NPR broadcaster

 

Ch 15 ~ Government-owned Love

 

The room fell noiseless. 

All the whirling machinery and arcing sparks suddenly contained themselves in a collective hush.  The Cyborg Collective had silenced itself and rather dramatically so.  Cy’s foot had even stopped flapping.

Mya peeked up to view the mass of computerized machinery that, as she last recalled, was mounded in front of her.  Her head had been nearly resting on the crook of her arm, an arm that she had draped across the top of her bended knee as she sat on the ground with her other leg folded in front of her.  She had half-thought that by tucking her head down she could politely refrain from leering at the orgy that had been unfolding in front of her.  The other half of her thought confessed to finding it a tad bit disconcerting for her to watch prongs thrusting themselves violently into such a multitude of outlets or orifices or, well, places…with some of those places on other cyborgs and some of those thrustings being self-inflicted, not to mention the vast majority being a combination of the two.  But the Cyborn Collective suddenly appeared to be very settled and very hooked up, with a multitude of cyborgs still laying sprawled atop each other, or next to each other, or across each other, or politely in front of or behind each other in one heaping overflow of glowing circuitry.

Cy paused as if listening.  Certainly, that was Mya’s stance as well, although she remained quite seated.  The Fierce One and Locomotive Breath and their breathen stood ever at the ready and stoically paid attention in the background but that was hardly a departure for them. 

“We’ve made a connection,” Cy said at last, the moving cogs and metal wheels behind his eyes serving as the only indication – besides his voice - that the cyborg wasn’t a statue.

“We…” her voice lifted the syllable into a question.

Cy turned his head slightly toward her.  “We are networked,” he said more patiently than he had ever done in past.  “We are online.” 

How odd it was in that moment for Mya to realize that she had witnessed a physical manifestation of information organizing, producing, creating, replicating, and building upon itself to create context.

“Fascinating,” she murmured at the realization that she had a front row seat ’under the hood,’ nearly forgetting to ask Cy what he and his networked nation had discovered.

“We discovered the Internet,” he said passively (while Mya groaned), anticipating the question.  “Such that it is in such a place as this.”

“How so,” she asked, “I mean, how is it…in such a place as this?”

He paused and as he did so, the Collective lifted up as if breathing as one.  The group uniformly shifted together, as if rolling with a wave of bits, as if finding and processing additional information and creating meaning around it, categorizing it, establishing it within a context, generating understanding, giving it room.

“We have located the Non,” he said flatly, with no emotion whatsoever yet still quite clearly conveying the significance of what he had just shared.

With that, the Fierce One and Locomotive Breath, and some of their legion, quietly – unnoticeably so, really –  clenched and unclenched their hands; noiselessly – imperceptively so, really – shifted their weight.

~

Ophania growled within herself, and when she did, her comingled male and female parts contracted together and writhed.  She had heard something deep within the many thoughts that wandered the land of the Origin.  What she had heard had caused her skin to coil and inflame.

Ophania and her clan knew the Origin.  They had come into being here.  They had, in fact, generated this world.  Created by and creator of.  The Clan of Ophania – this loose but highly disciplined gathering of sisters -had haunted this dimension beyond millennium, beyond both Ordinary Time and Extraordinary Time, of which none existed to measure the length of breathing the likes of Ophania or any of them had inhaled or exhaled.  Ophania’s dark spirit was as much a fabric of All things, as was the Origin.  Even as much as was the Bright Light, the thought of which found Ophania gnashing her teeth.  Strange bedfellow, she snarled.  To be born and present at the inception of life with all that it wrought forth.   Including me, she chortled deep within her gut.

How could it not be so, she muttered in thought to herself.   Ophania whispered fluently in the unspoken language.  One of its original creators, she had crafted it and weaved it tightly through all these long ages.  Only she, among all of her tribe, was the Eldest of the Elders.  Only she could hear the unspoken thoughts of all, when even those within her clan could not.  Only she, among all of her sisters, could silence the unspoken thoughts and hurry them away, fully intact, to sift through them later at a time and a place of her choosing.   Only she — Eldest of the Elders, Cocreator of the Origin and Matter, Master of Unspoken Thought and Will — only she had the power to shield her thoughts from prying, listening minds. 

At present, many in the tribe were prying.   Ophania chose to ignore them concentrating instead on the murmurings along the edges of the Origin.  But then one of the tribe brought voice to the growing meddling.  

“What do you see, sister?” one of the clan members hissed.  “What causes you to hesitate in the midst of your own violation,” Cherubia wrangled each syllable out between her lips, and watched Ophania unwind her male and female comingled self…the described “violation” of which Cherubia spoke.  Ophania had not allowed Cherubia or any of the clan access to her unspoken thoughts, but this had not stopped the smarter members of the clan to notice the physical changes in Ophania.  Her comingled parts had paused, gasping, instead of writhing in pleasured ecstacy as they previously had been.

“They are gathering,” Ophania said with a menacing tone.  Her eyes shuttered themselves like a snake’s eyes and reflected an angry purple radiance; her skin and hair undulated in waves of green-red-purple tones still echoing the hue of the land.

“Yes,” Cherubia hissed.  “There are others who trespass our land.  Seraphina and Angelina led a scout of witches to fly over their whereabouts.”

“A woman,” Seraphina coiled her voice.

“And a child,” Angelina joined in.  “Both hidden now.”

“Yes, yes,” Seraphina agreed, “both hidden from view now.”

Cherubia waited for this news to settle before asking, ”Is this the gathering of which Mighty Ophania speaks.”  She withheld more words or gestures for several seconds only to then lower her head and curl a smile under her darkened brow.

Ophania’s tongue flicked in the direction of Cherubia, and when it did, Seraphine and Angelina wheeled away deeper into the tree roots that bowed into the sky.  They were young, for Eternals, but not stupid; they had heard the witch’s challenge of Ophania who clearly had detected a mocking, a ridicule.  Enraged, Ophania was also very pleased.   She snapped a whip across Cherubia’s neck and yanked the witch off of her whisk.  Her hair flew around Cherubia’s face and locked her head into a frightening tight grip.  Then, Ophania’s hair pulled Cherubia’s head forward and pressed the young witch’s ear to Ophania’s mouth.

“Do not try so hard to impress,” Ophania growled threateningly into Cherubia’s ear.  Her hair tightened like a bolt around the sides and back of Cherubia’s skull; her whip squeezed mercilessly around the mottled flesh of Cherubia’s neck.  All in the tribe — those near Ophania and Cherubia who saw and those far away but who heard the accompanying unspoken language — witnessed Ophania’s attack on the lesser witch.

“Your command gives flight to these scouts,” Ophania nodded in the direction of the cowering duo.  “Your energy directs and guides them.”  Ophania twisted the whip deeper.  “But only at my pleasure, dear Cherubia,” Ophania whispered sharply.  “Only at my beck and call.  Do not forget your purpose, or you will suffer more drama of your own making.”

Cherubia trembled and snarled both, even while Ophania roughly pulled the lesser witch under the stare of her burning angry eyes, into the soulless black purple pools of the Eldest of the Elders.  Cherubia shuddered with fear and burned with loathing.  She dared to think that being the Eldest of the Elders made Ophania merely old and, she fumed silently inside, this only made Ophania weak, useless, pitiful.  But what use were silence and internal thoughts around the creator of the unspoken language?  Ophania laughed a piercingly shrill cackle — appropriate for witches, even those in the Origin – as she yanked the whip off of Cherubia’s neck, marking her with gaping wounds that twisted around her mottled, torn flesh.

“You are blinded by yourself, Cherubia,” Ophania continued.  “What Seraphina and Angelina count as only two – a woman, a child – betrays their lack of understanding.  Not surprising from them,” Ophania toyed through her critique.  “They are the youngest of all the clan.  But you, dear Cherubia, you.  How could you not see,” she accused then spat harshly with some disgust, “They are Believers who have crossed over the Threshold into our world.  No mere woman, no simple child could achieve such a thing.”

“But then what of the two men, who bring butterflies into this darkness.  They could achieve such a thing as a woman could not?” Cherubia huffed with disdain toward the Eldest of the Elders as Cherubia wrapped a thick and clawed hand around her neck and mumbled a hurried spell to heal over a wound that stubbornly refused to be healed over.  Her comingled male and female parts visibly fought to be the first to put an invisible salve over the wound.

Ophania paused in reflection and continued to seal her thoughts off away from the prying minds and eyes that hovered on whisks and cojoined with their own forms within the treeroots.  “Mysterious yes,” she finally hissed like cold water that bullied its way over hot metal.  “You forget, dear Cherubia, they have what we seek.   The males.   How you forget that their journey was assisted by us without their even knowing.”  

But Ophania knew it wasn’t entirely by her knowing either.  And what troubled her even more was that she wasn’t entirely sure that the younger of the two men would not have found a way into this world even without the portal.  Something almost greater than the portal seemed to be propelling him.  As for this young woman and child, Ophania considered.  Some same sense of power brought such considerable life to these humans, including these frail females; something incomprehensible compelled them, demanding entry, refusing denial, bursting into life.  

“An incredible will,” Ophania muttered, lost in her thoughts and forgetting that she had uttered the vowels aloud for those who were listening to hear.  And they all were craning to hear.

“This is our desire, sisters,” she allowed herself to continue.  “To seize their will.  To claim it and bend it to ours, to crush it into doing our bidding.  An entire planet below awaits,” Ophania rasped aloud.  “An entire world of mindless, directionless souls.  But instead of capturing them one by one, sucking the will out of each hapless body and twisting and commanding it to our purpose, he,” Ophania narrowed her eyes onto the two men and in particular, landed her gaze somewhere in between them.  “He will give us entry,” she continued, her voice gravelled and sour, each breath biting onto the back of her tongue, “Just as they claimed entry here.  Dear sisters, we will soon have their world.  We will blot their light from the sky.  And the war that began from the Origin of Inception when we were brought forth, when we wreaked havock … that Great War will spread like scoulding fire on all corners of the world below.”

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 15 total wordcount:  2010 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  25,300.  (massively behind gah! but halfway there, yay!)  

Iconoclast Rising … 16

 

“It’s not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.” ~ Sir Edmund Hillary

 

Ch 16 ~ The Way

 

Recent developments in this otherworldly place weighed a bit heavily in the air.  Dryst walked quietly through the upside down woods, carefully avoiding the swaying treetops that circled lazily near their bodies.  The tip of Dryst’s tongue rolled just as lazily between the edge of his teeth.  He grimaced tightly — while the butterfly purred a lulling soothing and every so slight sound along the edge of his ear — at the realization that the woods weren’t the only thing topsy-turvy.    Somehow the butterfly’s nearly silent song comforted, and for this comfort, Dryst was glad.

Things had become strained between the two men.  Not terribly.  But enough.  They had had a bit of a standoff.  They had walked in silence for a good while afterwards.  But, he shrugged in his mind, Dryst had made his intention clear.   And he meant it.

Got it, kid, Spence thought.

So, while this was good, it also brought an imbalance into stark relief…although ironically enough, Dryst felt little relief from it.  There was still much that Spence hadn’t been forthcoming about with Dryst.  And so they continued to walk deeper through the darkness.

Another time, maybe I’ll tell you, kid…another time…maybe.

Time, itself, was quite another matter here.  Time was a concept that Dryst had lost all sense of in this world.  The colors in the atmosphere remained shrouded perpetually in a purple-grey mist; there was no change in light to mark any passage of moments.  Except there was a glow that seeped upward from the forest bed.   There, the galaxy brought a glimmer of stars and light to ooze up from below, but it wasn’t enough, no matter how the sciences would have it , to illuminate the surroundings. 

“Feels more like how Limbo would look, doesn’t it, kid,” Spence said at last.  

“Yeah,” Dryst broke through his own silence and managed a soft chuckle, “yeah.  Like how ‘hanging in the balance’ would look.”

And Spence smirked and nodded his head.  In a way that hinted at a handshake or a truce.  And Dryst nodded in return and accepted.  Quite readily but not at all blindly.  There was more to this man, that much Dryst knew.  He just didn’t know…his thoughts trailed off and he began to gently laugh to himself.  Then, just in the moment that the words were forming in his mind and putting meaning behind Dryst’s amusement, the butterfly lightly sang in his ears, “We don’t yet know what you don’t know.” 

Dryst smiled.  His lips nodded up in agreement then Dryst mentally added, Yet.

“Huh,” Spence muttered.  He had stopped in his tracks and stood with his arms crooked at each elbow to hoist his hands facing upright to the tree roots.  “Snow,” he muttered with tiny surprise.  “Now…who would have thought it,” he said rather casually, “that from purple-grey clouds, we’d have snow.”

But that wasn’t the half of it.  The snow was pink, which wasn’t the other half of it, but it was peculiar enough to mention.  Dryst looked up and felt the softly pink flakes land delicately along his brow and tug themselves snuggly in between his eyelashes.  Just then, the butterfly rippled its wing in a show of happiness that somehow also seemed to be a mix of surprise folded over with a dash of caution.  He lightly trilled a cautiously playful breeze along the tiny hairs of Drysts’s ear.  “Don’t yet know what we don’t yet know,” the butterfly repeated in a musical tone.

Surely part of what the butterly was singing about, Dryst decided, had something to do with the fact that the pink snow fell along a narrow path that ribboned itself around and through the upside down forest.  It was as if the slightly girly shower was pointing the way, laying a path before them.  And it just so happened it was the very path on which Dryst and Spence had found themselves, although they hadn’t had any rhyme or reason as to where they were going.  It just seemed that they needed to enter this world fully if they were going to find Mya, and Dryst was going to, by moving away from the threshold, which pulsed with enough light that Dryst was certain they could find it again when they wanted to return to their world.  And even if it didn’t glow brightly enough – as odd as that seemed considering the fact that it was, afterall a galaxy - somehow Dryst knew that the portal would lead them back here, straight as an arrow.  But that time - whatever the sense of time was in this land – was not now.  Not until Dryst found Mya.

“Look at that,” Spence pointed his head to the edges of the pink storm. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Dryst acknowledged.

“It’s like a beacon, kid,” Spence agreed.  “Maybe a bit too convenient…but it leads somewhere.  We could check into it.  See once what’s ahead.”

Dryst paused, “Sure,” he said after considering. 

“Maybe you’ll find her, kid.”

Dryst nodded, and thought, And maybe you’ll find those shapeshifters, old man.  Then what?

~

The Fierce One and Locomotive, along with their army of cloned replicas, noiselessly collected any random weapons (although virtually none could be found because a warehouse of them was already strapped to their bodies) and began to move to the perimeter of the large room.

Mya’s head twitched from side to side.  She watched the Company of Warriors part their motley ranks like the proverbial Red Sea.  She watched them press the full weight of their bearings into the blackened sides of the cave.  But the startling thing was that when they did this, they appeared to move invisibly through the black mineral.  Some began to lose their form as they penetrated the blackness to enter what Mya could only assume was the edge of the plateau where the little one had led her.  Some stood half in and half out, frozen in place as Mya suddenly said quite loudly and with some alarm, “Wait!  Um, don’t mean to hold things up and all, but, um, what’s the strategy?”

“Strategy,” Cy asked in a rather non-plussed manner (which led Mya to wonder if non-plussed was somehow associated with the phrase ‘zero sum game’).  But no matter.  Her mind idled on what she perceived to be Cy’s tone and on the trivialities of linguistic basis that she started exploring within that perception because she was, frankly, worried.  The warriors were moving, and they were not exactly a very talkative bunch, so that could only mean…

“The strategy,” Cy said, interrupting her internal ramble, “is to seek and destroy the Non before they seek and destroy us.”

Zero sum game.  Mya sat, her expression non-plussed.  But then she stood and in the standing watched the Cyborg Collective begin to hum and whirl, writhe and groan in an elaborate and deeply personal act of joining and creating new information and new meaning.   As she waited for them to release the new information, she noticed that softly curling fireworks had resumed firing themselves off from within the lions of the cyborg and that Cy’s foot had begun quietly flapping again.  Mya waited until Cy’s foot verily exhaled and relaxed and then asked, “Yes?”

“There is suddenly snow on the Internet,” Cy reported.  “It is somewhere near the location of the Non.”

Snow, Mya’s brain blinked.  “Is that interference?” was all she could manage to think and then manage to ask.

The gears in Cy’s eyes whirled and the cogs spun.  Suddenly the various prongs that had been eagerly jacked into the various orifices of the Collective and of the Individual began to release themselves.  Their connectors were guided back onto their respective owners by the relentless pressure of long, winding chords that writhed tightly along the metal bodies like cascading ribbons.   The Collective sighed one last joined breath before degrouping – or Mya thought more appropriately, before their system disconnected from the Internet – and their engines and motors hummed and whirled as softly and seemingly independently as they had before they had ever plugged in.

“It is snow,” Cy replied to Mya’s question at last.  “But there is something more.  There is a connection made by this snow that leads from one part of the Origin to another.  And two people of your kind walk that path.”

Mya’s pupils burst wide open like a supernova.  It had to be Dryst.  She could feel him in her soul.  He was here.  He had made it here impossibly so, improbably so, wildly crazily so, but he had and she had known it without even hearing confirmation of it.  Her adrenalin coarsed through her body with such force that she found herself panting and acting entirely on instinct, consumed by an energy she could barely control.  She bolted toward Cy — grabbing his metal arm and dragging him forcibly with her as she ran — and gasped wildly, “Tell me everything.  Tell me where he is.  Tell me how I can find him.  Tell me how he is.  Tell me everything, Cy.”

“Cy,” Cy queried his internal database.  “What is a Cy.”

Mya turned and laughed and barked at the same time.  She pushed past the mountains of Warriors that seemed to know nothing of what to do with her except to punch a hole into a new dimension, kidnap her to it, and end up standing and staring over her as if guarding her.  Their weapons clattered as they gave way to her and the Cyborg, but they quickly formed ranks and followed suit.

“You are a Cy.  Your name is Cy,” Mya laughed and snarled deliriously with joy and barked overwhelmingly wrecked with anxiety and the want to know that Dryst was uninjured and unharmed as he somehow wandered through this strange dimension alone.  And then Mya realized  with a jolt — as she felt her form slice into the black wall with Cy in tow and the other members of the Collective rapidly following and the Company of Warriors steadfastedly in lockstep pace — that Cy had said two of your kind walk the path.  Two.  She knew in her heart Dryst was one.  Mya’s mind hyperventilated.  But she had no idea who the other was, and the lack of knowing this generated within her a weighty anxiousness; a gutteral primal understanding of and appreciation for the strategy to seek and destroy the Non before they could seek and destroy Dryst.  

It was still dark, the land blanketed in a purple-grey mist, when Mya and Cy and the Warriors and the Collective spilled out from the sides of the cave.  She saw the snow, and it was shaped like a tunnel.  It was pink; even from a distance she could see the strange hue.  Perhaps it was the purple-grey bending itself into what she normally thought of as white snow and giving it a strange cast.  She didn’t know, and she didn’t care.  She only cared that Dryst was there, following a path…walking through this odd, unnaturally naturally-made tunnel of snow…that looked, from where she stood, like a riverbed trailing and winding from the forest off to some type of mountaineous area in the background.   And he was not alone.

~

Ophania had bullied her whisk up and steered herself out of the tree roots to embark on the flight back to the south.   The call from the mountain had been released in the air.  The signal had been given.  The white tunnel had been lit and remained so.  Ophania half scowled in pleasure at the pink cast that was painted onto the snow by the purple-grey mist.  White was such a troublesome non-color, Ophania muttered.  But no matter.  They were moving.  And so was the Clan of Ophania, even with the rebellious yet now severely scarred Cherubia in formation.  Her wound had healed on the surface, but Ophania knew that it still lay deep within still the younger witch.  How human of her, Ophania muttered in her thoughts.   And that was precisely what she counted on with these travellers…the weakness of their humanity…as she led her Clan back to the south and to the mountains.

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 16 total wordcount:  2030 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  27,330.  (still massively behind gah! but determined…even though this is really really really hard!)  

Iconoclast Rising … 17

 

“Tsuki no kokoro…or ‘mind like the moon’” ~ a Zen phrase 

…speaks to the need for the mind to be clear to illuminate and reflect all conditions surrounding it. 

 

Ch 17 ~ Minds Like the Moon

 

Pink snow lunged from the sky and tunnelled around them, creating a spiralling pathway.  Noise swelled throughout.   

On the flight of each unique snowflake came what started off as a trickle and then ended up becoming a rushing onslaught of every thought process and syllable; every proclamation of love, intention, and feeling; every hope, dream, wish, prayer; every reaction, drama, argument; every laughter, silliness, absurdity, jumbled logic, sequential rigor; every brainfart, fantasy, bad joke, rhetoric, irony, sarcasm; every babble and rant; every reality and perception; every question and so very much much more than Dryst could ever possibly describe.  At first, the words flowed on the current of a few hushed whispers, then a few levelled voices, then several overlapping sentences; then they surged forth from a bullying of vocal chords, then a multitude of languages, then the cries of nations, then the swelling yells of continents; then they burgeoned themselves into an overwhelming cacophonic symphony of thought, utterances, sensations, realizations, contemplations, unknowings, knowings and other emotions and awarenesses for which there were currently no words but for which they existed resolutely in meaning and poured out from the totality of the planet, the galaxy, the universe, the Origin.  

He froze in place listening, feeling every sound reverberate through his mind.  With its wing, the butterfly gently stroked the side of Dryst’s head as if understanding the preposterous enormity of what he was processing, of what was happening…that Dryst and Spence were standing and present within a physical manifestation of the Stream of Consciousness. 

Dryst could actually see gazillions of minds, hear the thoughts, feel the words from every person from every place:  galaxy known and unknown; languages understood and foreign; mode of speech recognized and WTF’d.  Spence turned and watched.  He did not appear to be as effected – in truth, he almost seemed oblivious. 

…Kid, are you…freakin! Amen…proposition oooooooo 69…Tsuki no kokoro…wtfmfftwomg… plehttylborkedwtf …jethroflux…illuminate questions…Christmas everyday…I love you…

Somewhere in the stream, Dryst saw Spence’s thoughts fly by.  Then more voices connected words to each other and they floated and traveled down the pathway with other voices and other words veered their way in and changed structure and context until it all became a puzzled jumble of sounds and more noise and even more mumbled thinking.  

“Kid,” Spence said again, but Dryst didn’t answer.  And so he faced the younger man and watched as Dryst wrestled with the fact that flooding all of his senses was the Source of all Meaning.  Dryst’s breathing labored slightly, and his eyes flared open wide at the absurdity and profundity of what he was saying to himself.  The Source of All Meaning.  He stared at Spence as if the old man would somehow anchor the experience and Dryst heard his own thoughts again — tumbling rapidly forth but somehow not as fragmented as the other sounds – as clearly as if he were saying them outloud.  If Spence heard anything at all, Dryst noticed that he didn’t betray it.  If he did, it couldn’t be of the magnitude that Dryst was experiencing.  He held onto himself internally and forced air into his lungs.  No one could be casual with this.  No one.  Not even a clever, grey fox. 

Spence carefully stepped forward toward Dryst and laid a hand on his shoulder.  The old man seemed to want to steady him.  The younger man slowly placed a foot slightly behind himself, then to the side of himself.  Dryst seemed to want to balance himself.  And just when he thought he had, just when he thought the avalanche of thoughts and sounds had melted together and were sounding nearly uniform like the comfortingly recognizable music of the surf as it randomly crashes against various obstructions from the planet — here and there, willy nilly and despite all that, no matter where it always sounded recognizably the same as crashing surf sounded…just as the Stream of Consciousness had developed into a flow that Dryst was beginning to be able to process and handle, he heard cackling, gravelly thoughts that commanded his viewing.

“They will go through the Source,” Ophania slurred through a growl.  “They are travelling through it now.  They will arrive here.  One has what we seek.”

“You are certain of this.”

“I am.  We have seen it.  I have seen it with my own eyes,”  Ophania edged her voice with insolence.  I do not care to have my judgement doubted.

“Oh be still, Ophania,” the other laughed, “your pride is such a frail flower whose bloom you so wrecklessly cast about.”

“Kid,” Spence interrupted and began slightly shaking the younger man’s shoulder as if to cause him to snap out of a trance.

Dryst knocked the old man’s hand away and waved his own hand briefly as a signal to Spence to let him be.  Spence started to speak again but stopped well short of uttering a word. 

“And have you seen their thoughts in the Source,” the other continued, mockingly.

“No,” Ophania snarled. 

She knows very well that I cannot, yet she taunts.  She knows very well that none of us can…not even her, and still she mocks.  It is the moment of every moment that occurred before our entry into life.  It holds the moment of knowing from every past present and future that has been withheld from all of us for all these eons.  It is the Source of all Meaning for every eon gone and yet to be.  It is not born from me.  It is not born from any of us.  Of course, I cannot read this!  No one can know this.  Not even one such as I who has created the Unspoken Language.

 

Spence had seen the insistence in Dryst’s facial expression.

“Very well, very well,” the other softened her tone as if soothing a child.  “Soon, my Ophania.  Soon.  When they arrive, he shall bring us the key.”

 

Spence got it.

 

“Yes,” Ophania’s voice quaked ever so slightly.

“The key that connects all worlds and all thoughts.  The beginning and the end.  The circle. The spirit.  The will.  The ultimate in power…”

“It will be ours,” Ophania inhaled excitedly.  It will be mine…

“We will control all thought.  Beyond what we have been able to control with the Unspoken Language.”  The other turned to Ophania and bowed her head deeply in acknowledgement.  “What you have created there is held in the highest esteem, of course.  And it is powerful in and of itself indeed, dear Ophania.”

“But it cannot read all thoughts in all worlds.” Ophania begrudingly admitted.

“No…sadly no,” the other agreed.  “It cannot.  Nor can it reach through all dimensions and all beings within a single thought.”

“No,” Ophania gritted her teeth in agreement.  No one knew the limitations of the Unspoken Language better than Ophania, but still, she indulged what felt like a relentless ongoing comparison from the other who, Ophania knew, actively closed her mind off from Ophania…the only one of her kind (“or somewhat of my kind,” Ophania thought with some disdain) that Ophania could not access at will; something Ophania was loathe to admit.  

“When we have what we seek, dear Ophania,” the other continued, “We will bridge that divide.  We will enter the galaxies and we will claim rightful ownership.  We will command all free will, all thought, all knowing, all existence.”

“And seize our power from the Bright Light that has denied us our rightful place since the eve of the origin.”

Dryst rocked and rolled as the words and the thoughts and the snow fell in tumbles around him.  From the left part of the snowy tunnelling pathway, Dryst could have sworn he saw a colorful burst of melodramatic music that appeared to be sounding off a warning from somewhere.  And when he studied the left wall of crystals that cascaded from the sky – the place from where the dramatic music had emitted – Dryst nearly buckled over in laughter.  But that was only in his mind, even though he clearly saw himself doing it as if he actually had.  And that was also before the melodramatic voices pulled his attention back again into the flotsam and jestam of the Stream, which they did powerfully so now.

The other pondered and contemplated the Stream.  It twinkled playfully in the night of the day.  For all the vast and overwhelming power that it contained, it flowed serenely through the evening of the morning, through this land where time seemed to have no sense or reason.  Where little to nothing made any kind of sense.  Because in this land the origin of consciousness, the Source of all Meaning, the Stream was born and gathered itself all up and into itself – as chaotic and random and immense and miniscule and unimaginable as it was…it pulled itself away from the edges of the world but still flowed through every corner of every world in every dimension.  In this land, the Source of Meaning gathered itself into some kind of surprisingly coherent but at the same time excruciatingly complex structure beyond the comprehension or control of any person or any being from any world in any space. 

And yet — the other’s thoughts flew through the stream and into Dryst’s mind with such rapidity that he found it nearly intriguing — the Source is here.   In our land.  In our time of timelessness.  Before the dawn of time.  It has been here for eternity.  Right before us, surrounding us, and still, we have never mastered it.  It has flaunted its power despite our feeble attempts to hide it.  We can cloak it in purple-grey mist and darken it completely with even more intense opaque blackness from the depths of our minds.  Ophania and her clan excel in this regard…but it is always present.  It is always horric in scope.  It is always serene in flow.  It is of perpetuity.  And it has always eluded our conquest.  Until now. 

“We shall have it,” Ophania hissed.  “Soon.”

“Yes,” the other whispered. “Yes…we shall.”  At once, the other’s mind halted to an idle the moved with curiosity within the Stream.  Dryst watched her thoughts glance quizzically near him, as if searching for him or searching around him or searching for something, when at last, the other’s words bumped into a voice that Dryst had felt like he hadn’t heard in more than a million eternities.

“Dryst,” Mya whispered.  “Are you here, Dryst?”  His heart thudded within his chest wall.  She is alive, he nearly screamed in his head.

The Stream fell into an unusual silence that nearly gave him vertigo.  He panicked suddenly, his hands reaching slowly through the snow, his eyes researching every particle, hunting searching wanting to see her words.  Where did her words go?  Where did they all go? Dryst nearly yelled the questions in his mind but he needn’t yell anything because on the heels of his searching, his questions were answered.

“Dryst!” Mya’s thoughts burst joyfully into his mind.  “You are here!  You are here!  With me with you!”   The voice in her thoughts rolled in powerful waves over and through his being.  He felt her words grab ahold of him and tug in desparate overwhelming joy at him.  She felt his relief and joy seize her in his arms and pull her to him.  They each felt an avalanche of emotions and questions heaping all over each other but then with an intensity of will, Mya resolutely held all those thoughts and feelings bounded closely to the two of them and spoke through them and with them in a clear and steady voice.  “Dryst, I see you on the pathway.  In the snow tunnel.  With that man.  I don’t know who he is.  He looks to be one of us.”

“He helped me get here.  Helped me get to you.”

“Dryst,” Mya continued calmly, urgently.  “There will be war here.  And that path leads you to the middle of it…to the Non who want power.”

“The Source,” Dryst mumbled. 

“The war is between the Non and the Believers.  It is a war for the Will.”

Dryst frowned and held Mya’s thoughts as tightly to him as he never had before, and felt Mya embrace his thoughts to her as tightly as she never had before.  And they spoke wordlessly in what seemed to be several eternities but not nearly long enough before Dryst said, “It is my will that we will find each other through all of this.”  “And mine,” Mya said immediately.  “And so we will,” they said together.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 17 total wordcount:  2100 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  29,430.  (still behind gah! and still determined and gah yes this is still really hard, but I am so happy to be doing this, truly…or trying to anyway, smiles)  

Iconoclast Rising … 18

 

“Mizu no kokoro…or ‘mind like water’” ~ a Zen phrase 

…in the face of emergency, a mind that is calm, or like still water, more accurately reflects what it sees.

 

Ch 18 ~ Minds like Water

 

“Kid,” Spence’s voice swam through the stream and reached Dryst’s mind just as Dryst and Mya were holding each other’s thoughts in complete wonderment:  like a precious creation that breathed and promised the fullness of all of its miracle, like a dazzling jewel that sparkled and shone through all of life’s facets.  And in the midst of all of this momumentous happening, Mya and Dryst did the most simple and the most profound of things.  Oh they gazed.  They stood motionless and gazed.  And oh they marvelled and revelled in the incredulity of the fact that they had found each other in this strange world at all where one event after the other event conspired to be stranger than the next event…against all odds and all probability, against all imaginings and all possibility.

Mya thought to catch her breath and breathed in his breath; Dryst thought to catch his breath and breathed in her breath.  Their eyes widened in surprise, held together in delight, smiled together in astonishment.  They each inhaled with amazement, making no sounds at all, as they stood completely dumbfounded, in awe over the fact that they were communicating in this manner…so deeply, so intimately, so instinctively on so many different levels, in so many different ways. 

Unbelievable…yet it is truth, they both thought with utter surprise and somehow at the very same time, a complete and full knowing.  How nearly ridiculous in the minds of most who fool themselves into believing that nothing is unknown beyond that which is known, or that nothing is conceivable beyond that which has already been conceived.    Proof of the incompleteness of such narrow beliefs stood there present in the Stream and there on the plateau.  Because in the face of something too large to be understood in its entirety or to overwhelming to be grasped in its completeness stood Dryst and Mya — amazingly so, stunningly so, and for them both, joyfully so — completely transparent in the Stream of Consciousness with all of each of their individual selves standing completely naked before and with the other.

The world is not flat and neither is the mind.  Neither is existence.  

And they realized that perhaps the majesty of it all was best described in its most pure, most simple of forms:  A smile.  A dance.  Their thoughts swirled and interchanged, merged and joined together in a dance of all ages and all dimensions.  And it was amazing.  And it was timeless.  And it was without boundaries.  And it was known.  Complete and total.  Truth.

Dryst smiled, softly and gently.  Mya smiled, softly and gently, too. 

I see you.  I feel you.  I know you.  Oh so well.  And oh…so very much more…

Their thoughts hovered and gazed and just about chuckled.  And then they did chuckle and giggle (their thoughts and Mya and Dryst, both), and they did so as one. 

High on the plateau overlooking the upside down forest and the rambling, lazy roll of the smaller hills on and about the land, she stood.  Her hand placed gently over her chest as if holding her heart, her eyes transfixed unwaveringly along the stream that lay far in front of her but in which she felt, and knew herself to be so very unequivocally there, Mya stood and stared in amazement at the exact spot where Dryst had paused in his walk through that inconceivable — in that unbelievable, Mya and Dryst both thought, but oh how they both believed, oh how they both knew – tunnel of pink snow that curled and blended and glimmered along the open wilderness of the Origin.  And that carried within it all at once a voice that broadcasted itself a bit more urgently now. 

“Hey…” Spence’s words moved up closer into Dryst’s face, examining and quizzing.   ”…kid…”  His words just about rippled in the stream as if they were trying to break through to the other side…possibly beyond the stream?  possibly into the exact space of some person some place and who is that person and what of that space, Dryst frowned just as suddenly at the rush of thoughts.   “Still with me, kid?” Spence asked again with some amount of force even as he tentatively placed a hand on Dryst’s shoulder with some amount of care and lightly shook his arm.  

Just as…

“You are connected,” Cy’s voice whirled in its monotone fashion through the air.  She knew his twirling, humming eyes were rambling over her, registering the movements of this facial muscle, noting how the lifting of that facial muscle had bested the effects of gravity.  Oh Mya could feel Cy’s mind on her.  And she knew his articulated fingers of metal and wires and engines gingerly lay around her shoulder cap.  She could feel those, too, gently pressing around her arm.

Just as…

I see you, Dryst and Mya said together.  And I see where you are, Mya added in hurried, hushed tones, not entirely sure why she suddenly lowered her thoughts in an effort to make them even smaller in the stream…in an effort to make them invisible to the world and visible only to Dryst and Dryst alone.  She suddenly felt other thoughts awakening around them but not of their own; she suddenly felt other intention emerging into light, but again not of their knowing…at least not fully of her awareness as too much was coming at her in the Stream…but maybe Dryst could know, she wondered, and in response, he frowned at the randomness and currents and rush of the waves as he surfed through them.  But Mya carried a growing sense of foreboding still and questioned why this would suddenly come over her and give her pause, but, come to think of it, she thought…

War is coming, the little golden haired voice sang.  Here here, all around, the butterfly purred.

Just as…

Yes, Dryst agreed, and then, just like Mya, he reduced his thoughts to flow along a single stream that consisted only of their minds while the minds from all over — conceivable and inconceivable, intelligible and unintelligible — tossed and swirled chaotically and randomly…with several thoughts butting up insistently against those of Mya and Dryst, trying to seek them out with great deliberateness.

Just as…

The Other scowled deeply in thought.  Ophania’s mood snarled in unison, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for Ophania.  Still, she felt something more perplexing that usual in the air.  She edged her head out of the open window, and cast her eyes down from the tallest of the library towers that spiked upward and sliced into the sky.  Ophania detested this library.  Oh, the height of its exterior was of no worry to Ophania.  It was the confines of the library interior that caused her jaw to clench.  The room was too big and yet for all its size, conveyed itself in such a claustrophic way as to make an Eternal whail.  Every surface, every appointment was pristine and glossy, clean and shiny, buttoned and zipped and tied with such a neatness and a politeness as to be tantamount to tortureous and enough to set her skin crawling in a rebellious outburst of frothing raging colors.

What is happening, the Other spoke at last.  Her tone clipped.  Her words sharpened.

Just as…

Alarmed, Spence stepped forward.  He was about to take both of Dryst’s shoulders into each hand and shake the kid but good to snap him out of whatever trance had seized him.

And then…

I will come to you, Mya said breathlessly.  I see you.   I will come to you.

And also then…

Stay here with me, the way you are..I will find you…where I see you…Stay, Dryst said urgently.  It’s becoming too dangerous…stay the way you are.  Stay, he said with an almost pleading insistence, as much as Dryst could ever possibly plead but for all of his strength and evenness, for all of his brilliance and wisdom, even without complete immersion into every bit of cosmic consciousness great and small, he knew a danger was gathering and pursuing and nearly upon him.   And after all that he has been through, after all that he had done to completely alter the world to find her, he couldn’t tolerate Mya being put in the line of fire.  He could fight for his life better — with a ferocity of mind and body, and an abandon of reserve and worry, and a primal instinct of unbreakable determination and resolve — knowing that Mya was safe and away from harm. 

I will fi–

And then her thoughts broke off and his thoughts broke off, scattered about — their threads stretching and thinning but holding — by a fierceness of mulling that had bullied its way in.

Dryst exhaled sharply and pulled himself upright, startled and nearly panicked.  Mya gasped and lunged forward down the plateau, down to the lumbering fringes of the rolling hills.  She raced forward headlong, body outstretched, as fast as her legs could speed her; she cut through the air with her lithe form, her torso constricted, her arms and legs pumping tightly, her feet biting into the ground.  She ran blindly into the purple-grey mist, the cyborgs and the warriors silently, stealthily cutting through the atmosphere with her, moving rapidly with a powerful singlemindedness of purpose — unspoken and undenied – that contained a growing alarm.  They ran hot and direct, deep and unstopping, knowing with absolute certainly exactly where she was going.

Dryst knew.  He sensed deep within his soul.  And still he knew that Mya was safe and away from the gathering storm.  He knew.  He sensed deep within himself that the Stream of Consciousness roiled as if from a mounting energy that dragged and pounded forward from the force of an insurmontable tsunami that originated in some massive thought-quake from some epicenter of being.  And even through all of this, Dryst managed to place his hands calmly around Spence’s wrists and slowly lowered his arms down. 

“I’m fine.  I’m fine,” he managed to say, evenly and quietly.

“Kid,” the old man’s voice hushed itself along the snowflakes.  ”kid…” his tone betrayed his disbelief, “what’s happening to you.”

“It’s not me,” Dryst said quietly.  “It’s not what’s happening to me,” he whispered as if he was talking to himself.  He looked straight ahead, along the center of the stream, along the glistening pink snowfall that tumbled more heavily now, more clustered together, more intensely, and with more brilliance.

Slowly, Spence followed Dryst’s eyes.  He turned his body, but he didn’t have to turn at all, because it was true in the opposite direction.  It was true in every direction.  The snow had increased, nearly blizzard like but not quite.  And yet they didn’t freeze in it.  They had never frozen in it.  The only effect that the Stream had…that the snow had – other than its profound effect on Dryst — was that it cast their skin and clothing in a slight pink hue.   But now Spence began to notice for the first time what Dryst had noticed several minutes ago.  The stream was beginning to shed all hues.  The stream was transforming itself into a brilliant light.

“This…shouldn’t…seem…to…be…a…big…deal…” Spence mumbled sluggishly.   His voice was as thick and as heavy as mollasses. 

“Yeah,” Dryst asked more than he said, then added, “I feel as troubled by all of this as you sound to be about it all, old man.”

Dryst and Mya, the warriors and the butterfly, the cyborgs and Spence, the Other and Ophania and her clan all watched — frozen in mind and in time — as a brilliant and pure radiance began to unveil itself from every part of the Stream.   Its brilliance ribboned its way through the Origin and outshone the galaxy on the floorbed of the upside down forest.  And all at once…there was light…and Dryst and Mya…and the warriors and the butterfly…the cyborgs and Spence…the Other and Ophania and her clan…all at once and altogether swallowed a collective gasp as they witnessed the land of the Origin display itself before them.  The redwoods hung magnificiently upside down, their broad branches swaying in the breeze near the floorbed…their roots, dividing and expanding, twisting and twirling themselves into the clouds, shaping and reshaping where and how they knitted themselves into one huge connected organism that was rooted in the skies.  And as the Stream continued to almost cleanse itself, Dryst thought, and the light began to spread, some of them marvelled in fascination and others of them ground their teeth in anguish as the galaxy on the forest bed began lifting itself up and merging its particles with the radiance of the Stream.   The light grew brighter around Dryst and Spence, and absorbed itself evenly and elegantly, rapidly and smoothly throughout the Stream, washing away any greyness or heaviness and sweeping itself down the path on its way to the foothills and the mountain that Dryst could clearly see for the first time stood beyond.  Something had pulled his mind there, something had told him all along to look there…there there there, the butterfly whispered earlier so quietly so lowly Dryst hadn’t even noticed at the time…

He raised his head to the mountain, high above, and with the help of the bright light, Dryst saw the great concrete towers that spiralled out of the mountain top like a jagged and mighty crown and smoked themselves into the endless night…which was rapidly becoming overrun with light. 

For all but Dryst and Mya, the blossomming radiance mezmerized all living beings into place, holding life captive either with extreme pleasure or extreme fear.  But Dryst kept moving his eyes and his mind.  He stepped slowly forward, one foot deliberately in front of the other.  And Mya hurtled even faster down the rolling hills, her pace challenging the stamina and endurance of the warriors, her energy bursting out even louder than the cyborg collective when it was fully jacked into itself and hooked up to the internet. 

They had sensed the fear, Mya and Dryst had.  Eons ago.  What seemed to be eons ago but really was minutes ago.  They had felt its arrival, Mya and Dryst had.  They had felt it unfurl itself slowly at first, imperceptively at first, but at the edges most definitely within the Stream.  They had known it…even before the fear itself had known of its own presence…even before the darkness itself had armed itself with the weapons of uncontrolled anger.

 ”Ophania,” the Other growled.  She swallowed her rage, a rage that contorted her delicately painted face, a rage that spat in the face of her manufactured sense of order.  Her veins throbbed with revulsion at the exposure of her world laying open and bare before all, and she choked on the deliberately proper and controlled voice that she strained within herself to find. 

“Ophania,” the Other repeated again at last.   

The witch’s eyes hissed at the ground.  Ophania’s pupils shuttered rapidly out in the shape of engorged spiders.  Her hair writhed and screamed in knotted fury.  Her skin flared red and purple, coiling over itself from a steaming protesting angst.

“Unleash your worst.”  the Other snarled.

And then…

Just as the brilliance began to ascend and conquer the vestiges of greyness and flatness around Dryst and Spence and began moving forward, down deeper ahead of them on the path, Dryst knew — every bone in his body told him — he would see something.  He would see someone.  He would see his worst fears coming at him down the path.   Emerging out of what had been slowly lifting shadows from the furthest end of the path but had now become a cloak of purple-grey darkness that swept back into the Stream came two images.  They were covered in darkness and unfolded themselves mangled and twisted fashion.   

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 18 total wordcount:  2665 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  32,095.  (still behind gah! and still determined and…yes, I can, smiles.  Yes, we can, smiles.)  

Iconoclast Rising … 26

 

“Imagination is more important than knowledge.” ~ Albert Einstein

 

Ch 26 ~ And the Greatest of them All…Love

 

They made it.

Dryst – with Spence cradled under his arm, dragging him forward with as much speed as possible despite the old man’s sudden lack of physical strength — spotted the way.

They darted quickly into the arching doorway of the great hall and slid quietly into the shadows that had begun to pile onto themselves across the landing.  Immediately ahead outside of the hall, a stairway craned down, awkwardly so, along a narrow tunnel.  It resembled a spiral staircase but it wasn’t as predictable, instead meandering in its curves from left to right, and dipping cleanly straight in some places, only to twist and curl again. 

The two men rambled forward with great haste.  Bloodcurtling screams gashed through the air, their striking bellows punching back the thickening purple-grey mist that persisted and reasserted itself up the stairway, charging into the great hall…exactly the place that Dryst and Spence were fleeing.  The battle raged:  so many voices screaming and boiling over each other that nothing was discernable; so many flashes of electrified light slicing through the air that a blinding glow bounced off of every surface like a strobe.  He didn’t know who had the advantage, couldn’t discern one harsh voice from the other, barely could manage to keep his pupils focused on the perilous stairway, but from Spence’s increasingly lead weight under his arm, Dryst had the unpleasant feeling that Ophania was overpowering the Other.  As if in confirmation, the strands of aura cascading from Spence’s body back into the great hall began to mutate into smoky purple-grey hues. 

It wasn’t the Other in particular who Dryst worried about.

“Leave me, kid,” Spence said with a noticeable amount of effort.  “It’s no use.”

Dryst lifted the old man off of his feet and tucked him even more securely under his arm.  “Sorry, old man,” he grumbled through labored breathing as he carried the man and ran.  “I’m just not hearing that.  Not doing that.” 

“Upstart,”  Spence sputtered and his chest expanded in an effort to chuckle, but instead, his body fell over itself and stumbled into Dryst’s side where Dryst held him steady.

“I’ve gotten used to you, what can I say.  I could’ve done without those other characters of yours back there, but, hey,” the kid grumbled to the rapidly weakening man as casually as possible in between gusts of breath.

An attempt at casual, yes, but he was alarmed.  He had to dig in and mentally will the old man to dig in with him, while they raced down the stairs.  He hoped and prayed Mya was on this path.  A very strong part of him told him that she was. 

He clutched Spence even more stubbornly to his powerful body.  Dryst flung the two of them by leaps over two or three steps at a time on their way down the mountain.  He hoped and prayed he wouldn’t arrive at the end of this flight only to be carrying a dead man walking.  He hoped and prayed that if the Other fell, Spence didn’t fall with her.

“You don’t listen too well — ” Spence’s voice sounded far away “– do you, kid?”

But in fact, he did. And he wasn’t alone.

…

Mya’s ears sniffed at the air.  The Warriors, the Cyborgs, and she had entered the mountain through a giant ear of all things.  At first, she wondered if they were walking up through the inside of a magnificent creature’s head, but she rapidly tucked that bit of wondering near to her when she heard his voice, and sniffed at the air with her own ears.

“He’s here,” she said as powerful emotions surged and flowed into every part of her being, causing her heart to swell and sing, her legs to buckle and quiver, her torso to bend and release; her hands to spread across her thighs for support, her eyes to flood with tears.  She had heard Dryst’s voice and had felt his essense merging with every part of her spirit, overflowing into and melding with every part of her heart and her soul. 

“Oh my god,” she gasped through a trembling voice that shook from overpowering relief, from so very, very much more. 

“He is here,” she whispered just barely enough to create sound waves.  But create them, she did.  And they rippled.  And they flowed.  And they rode — unencumbered and undenied – on the tips of the purple-grey mist.  And they reached Dryst and he heard her and their whispers — tender and elated, passionate and yearning, relieved and screaming for joy – joining the two of them in their minds, in their souls, in the hearts with such utter completeness and total knowing and endless love that her gasp, his whispers, their heartbeats echoed intimately, privately and at once, unmistakably, for all to witness and for all to hear…reaching throughout the pathway on which they both travelled:  she, while she stood surrounded by Warriors and Cyborgs in a giant canal that bent its way up the mountain; he, while he jumped and flew down a passage way that bent its way down the mountain.  And all at once, as they had always been, they were on the same path, one in the same.

The Fierce One saw his own reflection in the wetness pooling within her eyes.  She smiled without words and without description.  Simply, none was needed.  The Fierce One looked into the mirror she held up with her moist eyes.  He revealed a silent, gentle smile.

“Dryst,” she gasped while looking into those firery eyes.  The Fierce One nodded.  “Always together,” he said as tenderly as a feather floating in the air.

 ”Always,” she gasped.

…

“Always,” the butterfly purred softly in his ear, then spread its wings and stroked them soothingly along the side of Dryst’s head while Dryst — just about carrying the old man who was crumbling over himself rapidly — ran with urgency down the steps.

Then. 

After listening to the unfolding in the Origin, in this mountainside where a battle of the will clashed in the top and the Stream of Consciousness flowed through it all, one voice from two places along the same path whispered with a power more compelling than force: 

“They are coming,” the butterly and Mya said.

…

Ophania reared her whisk up wildly and angrily, and her Clan followed suit, riding on the coattails of the victor.

She had flogged and pummelled the Other with merciless strikes.  She had delivered them with whipping and crackling electrical jolts.  She had tossed the Other’s meagerly breathing body through the solid mahogany tables until the Other crashed against the bricks and mortars of the back wall in the great hall.

The surroundings of the great hall slowly began to morph, put into motion by the strengthening will of one, as Ophania overpowered the Other.

The Seat of all Knowledge, Ophania spat in her mind and licked her split tongue across the bruisings she had had to endure from her opponent’s hands before Ophania had bested her.

Finish her, her sisters had goaded Ophania, but Ophania retained a sense of focus:  the portal.  Ophania had regained enough of her mind — laying steadily underneathe her fury — to hear the old man on the stairway begging for release…or that was how Ophania had interrupted Spence’s increasingly weakened state.  At least his Other did not beg, Ophania thought to herself with some disgust.  She commanded her whisk straightlong down the winding stairway to…the young fool, Ophania thought…a human, who insisted upon weighing down his flight with the heavy and broken will of an old man.   

The young one will not leave without her, Ophania calculated in her mind.  And at this rate, he will be with me — she leaned into the shaft of her whisk to accelerate her flight — before he is with her.

…

Mya didn’t have to utter a word.  She stared at the warriors:  one of her being, Locomotive Breath, she knew.  one of Dryst’s being, the Fierce One. 

They were coming.  Ophania and the Clan of Ophania, her sister witches who followed like mindless Zombies. 

And through it all, though she knew they were in pursuit, Mya would not leave without Dryst. 

Her eyes just barely began to pierce out their intended meaning, compelling the Fierce One and Locomotive Breath to punch another hole into the Origin, to surprise time and space in order to bring Mya and Dryst together before Ophania and the Clan reached him…when…all at once the the two warriors and Mya flew into the air.  They surged so rapidly in a whirlwind as to be moving in slow motion.  Their beings transported by a rush of sparkling time and space and thought and place and heart — a rush brought about by a soothingly powerful air, glistening and dancing and that happened to be adorned with the slightest hint of cigar smoke as it flowed up from the Stream.  

In less than the pre-thought of a heart beat, they were together, Dryst and Mya.  The warriors and the butterfly magnificently released their forms, their particles rushing breathlessly home into Mya and Dryst, who blended in an all-encompassing manner through and with each other; enveloping together completely, feeling and knowing the truth and reality of each other together since before the dawn of time…their spirits and souls twining within the stream from that point forward and flowing through their physical hearts and bodies into every now of every moment.  It was as if they were flowers or fireworks that breathtakingly erupted into an endless renewal of unfolding light and color and beauty and life smiling for all the worlds.  And they breathed each other deeply to the shared knowing that was oh so achingly simple and clear and oh so breathtakingly magnificent and huge.   Air and time and space and matter and spirit combined, as if together they were the very fabric of meaning, flying in the air rapidly, swirling through all eternity, gently soaring to the edges of the universes, beyond, and to the core of it all. 

And what of Spence through all of this…he slipped out from under Dryst’s form, which now danced and joined, now mingled and united with Mya.  Spence slipped and floated like a ragdoll, sinking slowly until the energy caught the old man and held him cradled by an all-encompassing light that smiled for all the worlds. 

A breathtaking light that radiated through Mya and Dryst combined.  A brilliant light that connected a parent to a child.  The eternal light of being, of unending love.   

The air comforted.  It smelled like cigars as it swirled around Spence’s nostrils, as it carried him into the heart of the father, Danny, and into the heart of the mother, Eleanor, whose voice quietly murmurred, ”Everything will be alright, honey.”

Her tender smiles floated before his eyes. 

“Love.  Love is all there is.  The greatest of all things.  Love is so very, very much.”

And as she spoke through all dimensions, the Other rose, her hair unwound, her collar undone.  She blossommed into brilliant particles, her aura threading and lacing itself back to Spence, returning light into his eyes, color to his skin, a return of pieces of himself.  At peace and whole.  He sighed and smiled, his heart releasing the grief, replacing it with only…Love.

…

Ophania and the Clan burst into dust, their grains scattering to the corners of time and space and dimension…but never quite escaping all light.  The chase through ages of light and dark, yin-yang, good and not so good.  And all that always truly exists and forever remains:  love.

…

They flew.  Gently, they flew, through the dimension and space, giving way to the whimsy and moods of the morphing house of the tropical desert. 

They spilled out softly onto the patio and landed quietly on the leaf chairs, which pulsated calmly through a serene color sequence.  

Dryst could have sworn the place was now much more abundant and plush and full of life and happiness than it had ever been before…as if it was the first time he had laid eyes on it, even while knowing all along that it was so very much here.  And he could have sworn he heard — somewhere off in the distance — a joyfully less than stellar rendition of Flight of the Bumblebee.”  He grinned at the hearing, but even more deeply, he smiled at the seeing and knowing, at the feeling right in front of him.

They stared at each other, Dryst and Mya, with smiles so wide they thought their faces would split into two. 

After a long while – that felt like mere seconds – of just gazing, after a long while – again seconds – of travelling together with their feelings to the edges of the universes and back, Dryst softly asked, through nearly a chuckle, “Did we end up finding what we were searching for?”

Mya grinned as big as the sun.  “Oh yes,” she said softly, gazing tenderly with him.  “Turns out, we never needed to search in the first place.” 

She paused and chuckled lightly with his joyful laugh. 

“Turns out…it’s always been…”

“…right here,” they whispered to each other.

 

 

National Novel Writing Month (even though Nov 30th has come and gone):  Chapter 26 total wordcount:  2100 (not including this notation).  Final total count:  50,720.

This has been an incredible process.  And I have a great deal to say about it, but I’m, frankly, at a loss for words at this point, laughing.  What I can say, however, is those persons – those rare, extremely talented persons…specifically, D – who actually do National Novel Writing Month from November 1-30th and also work full-time in important positions that carry with them great responsibility and seriousness and who also have families and mulltitude of friends (and so very deservedly so)…I am greatly astonished and greatly humbled by your awesome – truly *awesome awesome* – talents and gifts.  I began this two days before November 1st and I completed the story (such that it is) three days into December.   I don’t have the degree of high-level responsibility to juggle with this, nor do I have the utterly immense reserves of talent and brilliance to bring to this.  D, I am forever, utterly…yes, well you know, smiles.  Speechless.  I have alot more to say about the nanowrimo journey, and I will.  But for now…like…wow…

Iconoclast Rising … 19

 

“What’s our strategic plan?”  “It’s a secret.”  “Are you saying you don’t trust me?”  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that most employee sabotage is done by employees.” ~ Dilbert

 

Ch 19 ~ Intermission II … For Your Consideration

 

Date:  November 21, 2008; Email to:  The Author of this erm Novel, yeah, that’s it; From:  Anonymous; Subject:  For Your Consideration

 

Hiya! 

Well, okay, then, hello.  You don’t know us.  I should be more formal.  Well…but, it’s not entirely accurate that you don’t know us.  Actually, you do…and not just one or two of us.  The whole lot of us.  But, whatever (clears throat, brushes remnants of cookie crumbs off of the keyboard…studies the keyboard more closely and decides to lift it up and shake it upside down over a trash container near the desk)…there!  Better!

Okay, then.  Where was I…what?…(turns to look around the room).  Oh, okay fine…where were “we?”  Excuse me, I stand corrected.  There are, as you may have gathered, quite a few of us in the room.  Gathered, as it were.  Ironically, enough.  I like the play on words there or maybe I’m just at a loss for them as I try to write this note to you about our concerns, and so I’m probably stalling, most likely, but I’m not entirely sure, so…okay (marshalling courage), then, so why are we here, you may wonder.  And, funny you should ask because, we tend to have the same question.  Only not in quite the esoteric fashion of asking that question.  Only not in terms of this email, specifically.  You see we’re rather at a loss…  You’re rambling.  Get on with it.  Oh, indeed, I suppose I am.  (Is there any way to use a different font style for each ”speaker” here?  It might not be entirely clear that I’m not just talking to myself right now.) We should be phone texting…does anyone know why we’re not phone texting.  What?  The 1700 word count?  Gah.  What?  now she’s pushing for a 2500 word count?  What has gotten into her.  Who knows, but get on with it, already.

Okay, so.  The thing is.  This snow tunnel that you’ve constructed.  Now, um.  It just seems odd that you would use snowflakes – pink ones at that – to represent All of Meaning in All of the Universes.  I mean (scratches head)…I mean my thoughts alone (clears throat), well, c’mon (shrugs rather smugly as if whatever he/she/it was going to say is entirely self-evident from just the expression, quite forgetting the limitations of email).  Well, actually (replies to the previous parathentical), the word ‘c’mon’ was the self-evident bit.  Need I say anything more after ‘c’mon’…I think not.   Let me talk…for pity sake we’ll be here all day at this rate.

Hello, this is me.  For the sake of identification, just call me “Anonymous 2.”  We are writing to you today because:

a) we are not really keen on the idea of using a snowflake tunnel to represent the highest order of thinking that we know of.  The implications of using a snowflake run the risk of suggesting that you think – or through extension, that “we” think – that higher order thinking is flakey.  And we do not think it is, although we are fairly convinced at this point that your thinking might be and we respectfully submit exhibit A ”Snowflake Tunnel as Collective Consciousness” as proof, or certainly something for you to consider.  Well put…but rather mean, I must say.  Well??  (Shrugs shoulders and bugs eyes.)

b) you keep talking about this war thing, and, quite frankly, it is freaking many of us out.  Is this the effect of the Bush years?  Is everything a Terror Alert?  I’m surprised, quite honestly, that you haven’t used any type of color coding system, although the purple-grey mist and the pink snowflakes and the color changing skins and all certainly do flirt around those edges a bit.

c) the warriors never speak…and I can speak most directly to this because I have been elected to represent the group, athough I prefer that you refer to me as Anonymous 2.  But how could you really know which warrior I am.  You created only two varieties, and they all look alike.  (Raises an accusatory eyebrow.)   A legion of warriors that are clones of themselves, never speak, have no names.  Rather lazy, wouldn’t you say?  What you may not be aware of – and what I would like to now make you aware of – is that we do, as fictional characters have rights afforded to us by our dues-paying membership status in the Fictional Characters Guild.  That is to say that as minor characters – although I certainly never think of myself in those terms – but, be that as it may, as minor characters the FCG stipulates that all minor characters have a minimum of 100 lines of dialogue.  Frankly, this is atrociously insulting if you ask me.  But until the rules are changed, there you have it:  100 lines of dialogue.  (Peers closely into the monitor.)  And even with this dinky amount, you’re not scratching anywhere near the surface.  In fact, I would hazard a guess that your hand isn’t even on the correct surface, no offense.  A bit cold there…ouch, that hurt.

d) Um, yeah.  Where is this story going? 

On behalf of the members of the FCG, heretofore and henceforth known as “Anonymous,” we thank you in advance for your time and attention, and for your prompt consideration of these matters.  Sincerely,

…

Date:  November 21, 2008; Email to:  Dues-Paying Members of the Fictional Characters Guild; From:  The Author; Subject:  Re-For Your Consideration

Dear Dues-Paying Members of the Fictional Characters Guild,

Thank you very kindly for your…inquiry.  I have read your note with interest.  I believe I may understand some, if not all, of your concerns.  But I would like to clarify (perhaps remind) that this novel is my first attempt at committing to writing something every day over a 30 day period.  I admit, I missed a day or two here or there, but I have done what I’ve needed to in order to make up for any backsliding.  The point being, well, there isn’t really time to develop and connect the story and the characters any more fully than I have attempted to do throughout this month.  Oh, to be sure, I am certain others far more talented than I can, and do, achieve a more cogent, thoughtful, threaded piece.  And one day perhaps I will achieve this…at least one time; that would be so wonderful.  But, as for the here and now, I have to say that I am thrilled to have hung in there.  I actually anticipate seeing the work reach a 50,000 total by month’s end, which is only a mere nine days away.  This is a feat that, truthfully, at the beginning of it all – I wasn’t entire sure I could do.  I hope you share my enthusiasm for what really is our shared achievement!  All best, The Author

…

Date:  November 21, 2008; Email to:  The Author of (clears throat) The Novel In Question; From:  Anonymous (aka The Distinguished Dues-Paying Members of the Fictional Characters Guild); Subject:  Re-Re-For Your Consideration

Dear Author,

Perhaps we did not express our concerns as clearly as we would have liked.   We, as characters, don’t really have a sense as to time or place in this (refrains from clearing throat yet again) story.  And we find some of the literay devices you use, creative licenses you take, to be, well, um, if not questionable, can we just say convenient, yes.  Good choice, precisely that.   Not to mention you have built up to a climax oh any number of times already and we fear that you will not have what it takes to, how to put this delicately, to take us all over the edge and spank our bottoms like the very naughty characters that we are and certainly that we so expect for you to do after having toyed with us and teased us to exhaustion.  Speaking of exhaustion…do none of us ever sleep?  While I am loathe to recite directly from the Fictional Characters Guild, (I really had hoped that we could do away with such strident formalities) there are rules pertaining to number of work hours, breaks, biobreaks, food, water, sex.  Sex, sex!  Yes!  Ask about the sex!  What kind of novel has little to no sex in it?  Well there is the matter of the Clan and the Collective…but there seems to be a very strong technical aspect to their variety of sex, particularly with the Collective.  I’m not quite sure that it’s sex at all.  Have you ever had sparks flying out of your ass before? (Glares around in an effort to silence the ground; crosses eyes slightly and shakes head in an attempt to commandeer focus.) 

Um, yes.  (Blushes profusely.  Makes no attempt to refrain from clearing throat, and makes no attempt whatsoever to answer any questions related to sparks flying out the ass.)  I trust this sums the matter up a bit more clearly.  And we wait (as ever, rolls eyes for emphasis) to receive some clarity from you on these issues. 

Yet again, on behalf of the members of the FCG, heretofore and henceforth known as “Anonymous,” we thank you in advance for your continued time and attention and for what we trust will now be a more complete consideration and associated response to the concerns voiced and brought before you. (Resists the urge to italicize and bold several words in this general area)   Sincerely,  (Equally, resists the urge to put quotation marks around the word “Sincerely”…just like that there.)

…

Date:  November 21, 2008; Email to:  Anonymous (coughs) (aka The “Distinguished” Dues-Paying Members of the Fictional Characters Guild); ; From:  The Author; Subject:  Re-For Your Consideration

Dear Anonymouse (coughs) otherwise known as the “Distinguished” Dues-Paying Members of the Fictional Characters Guild,

My, my, my.  How kind of you.  I think I understand your meaning a bit better now.  Perhaps if you had truly wanted me to understand your concerns you would have contracted my services to have me write them out for you.  There’s no shame in hiring the services of a ghostwriter.  We all have our strengths, and yours appear to be as characters, which by all accounts from what I’m seeing in this email exchange, is quite accurate.  You are quite the character.  But let’s put that aside, shall we, and perhaps be a bit more constructive?  I do realize that there has been a great deal of action, if you will, from the very beginning (although it is quite interesting for me to notice that you would appear to be hungering for a more and different type of action).  And I do share some concern that with all of this punching through different worlds and dimensions I may have popped the cork a bit too early, to put it indelicately.  But beyond the pace that is dictated by National Novel Writing Month, there was also something else I was trying to accomplish.  I’m sure this may bore you to tears, but one of my sisters is an avid reader and claims to be able to tell a woman author from a male author based upon their writing style.  Jeanette claims that female authors take an inordinate amount of time developing and getting to action; whereas she finds that male authors write in a very fast-paced, action-oriented style.  Of course this is nothing more than her opinion, but it is something that has always stuck in the back of my mind after hearing her voice it.   And if I think about it, what I’ve probably done is a bit of both:  take an inordinate amount of time describing things and leap into action.  That said, I understand this concern.  I do see the reason behind the concern.  I’ve thought it myself.  I ask that you just bear with me and trust.  We’ll do it together.  As for the other matters, perhaps next year I will be in a stronger position to think about your biological functions.  (I must admit I was wholly unaware of the Fictional Characters Guild or any of its requirements.)  Seeing as we’ve nearly completed this first attempt together at laying out a story for National Novel Writing Month and we’ve all invested so terribly much in this, let’s agree to finishing out the next nine days without being hindered by Guild requirements, which I would have to spend precious time reading (that we don’t have) to make myself knowledgeable about the Guild’s requirements in any respect.  I am confident we can arrive at an agreement on this one point and continue this effort through to the 50,000 word mark.  Hopefully, The Author

…

Date:  November 21, 2008; Email to:  The “Author” (clears throat) of The Novel In Question; From:  Anonymous (aka The Downtrodden Yet Distinguished Dues-Paying Members of the Fictional Characters Guild); Subject:  Re-Re-Re-For Your Consideration

Dear “Author,”

Ironically enough, it would seem we have a failure to communicate.  How entirely bizarre that is for the author and their characters to be at an impasse.  Well…you might want to speak for yourself.  Okay, for a few of you warrior types and maybe the cyborg types too.  But not all of the characters are at an impasse.  Really.  A couple of us are quite positive about the direction of things.  (And is it really so much an impasse between the characters and the author as it is a wrestling with how best to unfold the storyline?  Particularly, now that there are only nine days left!)   Yes, well (furrowing brow), I feel it only fair to warn you that if you should fail to remedy the concerns we have raised in a satisfactory manner, my colleagues and I may have no other choice but to boycott the rest of this story.  Um, not all of us care to take such a drastic position.  – I  could have been a contender.  I could have had a shot at a significant part in the last Harry Potter book had I not been stewing about whle she ruminated on this storyline.  (Waves a hand to silence the chatter.)  Without us (looks smugly into the email textbox), you have no story.  And so yes, consider this tantamount to a character strike.  Should that occur, our next communique will consist of an email with oddly shaped newspaper letter cutouts cut and pasted into the body of the email.  You get the message.  Quite Determinedly, The Anonymous No More Mr. Nice Warrior-Cyborg-Witch-Other-Whathaveyou

 

…

 

Date:  November 21, 2008; Email to:  No More Mr. Nice Warrior-Cyborg-Witch-Other-Whathave you From:  The Author aka Slightly Miffed ; Subject:  Re-Re-Re-Re-For Your Consideration

You’ve got to be joking.  Right?  So this is the way you would have it?  Ransom?  I’ve heard of wrestling with the writing process, but even you would have to admit that this goes more than quite a bit beyond the pale.  Surely, you’re joking.

…

Date:  November 21, 2008; Email to:  The Slightly Daft One, “Author” of the Novel in Question; From:  Anonymous (aka We Mean Business); Subject:  Re-Re-Re-Re-Re-For Your Consideration

Not in the least.  And you betcha.  And, erm, before you go pointing a finger, maybe you should think about what you just did here to meet your 2,500 word quota for the day, hmmm?  Struggling, hmmmm?  Let’s hope you can wrestle this out in nine more days.  We hate to state the obvious but…who needs who here, hmmm?

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 19 total wordcount:  2550 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  34,645.  (chanting a mantra:  Yes, we can, smiles.  Yes, we can, smiles.  Yes, we can, smiles.)  

Iconoclast Rising … 20

 

“Mizu no kokoro…or ‘mind like water’” ~ a Zen phrase 

…in the face of emergency, a mind that is calm, or like still water, more accurately reflects what it sees.

 

Ch 20 ~ The Unknowable

 

The two forms had arrived out of an energy that was muffled in smoke and wisped around itself until at last their bodies began to materialize.   Their shapes were barely recognizable.  They seemed to take forever to outline themselves.

Dryst watched with some apprehension.  As the forms echoed around themselves, he wondered at this strange happening in the stream…although he was certain that if anyone could read his expression, they would see his wonderings plainly in his eyes.  But not Spence, no.  He was caged within his own space, his own mind, hooded and concealed from view.  His focus too trapped by what was heading toward them for him to have noticed how Dryst’s brow repeatedly knitted itself together. 

“Something tells me,” Spence managed to offer without changing his focus on the happening in front of them, “we’re not going to like this, kid.”

Dryst slowly rode his eyes up each wall of the stream as the smoke churned itself into some type of context before them.  He wanted to know what was happening around him while he still had the luxury of looking about his surroundings.  Something told him he wouldn’t have that luxury for long. 

“Yeah,” he replied in a slow and measured tone, “I have the same feeling.” 

Darkness was sweeping in.  Silently.  Unabashedly.  Fully.  The brilliant light of the stream was slowly being muddied away by a pinkness that would have been comforting and pure (as pink generally is), had it not been for Dryst’s knowledge that the color was being created by the purple-grey mist:  a heaviness that had rolled itself suddenly back across the Origin and that was in the process of absorbing any clarity of light that had emerged just minutes before.  Dryst returned his eyes to the smokey figures, who were no longer coiling and twisting as if ambivalent about form.  Shape had overtaken them.   The smoke and the dust had settled, and there they stood.  Only a few feet away from Dryst and Spence.

A man, of size and of presence, stood before them.  He was tall and fit, his shoulders squared back, his stance casual yet somehow also readied.  He had a glint in his eyes, a baseball in his hand, and a cigar clenched loosely between his teeth.  He nearly winked a smile to his son, who was now a much older man (probably as old or even older than the father himself), and as he did, the corners of the father’s eyes traced rivers of lines from the edge of a knowing grin…one that gently held Spence, in someway, frozen in place.  His chest — Spence’s chest — was the only part of his body that still had the wits to move.  Necessity aside, his breath could not be stopped.  In fact, his breath could not be controlled.  His chest rose and fell rapidly, as if Spence had had the wind knocked out of him from running too hard and running too fast or from trying to throw a baseball too hard and trying to throw it too fast with all of his might yet without any kind of real strength to put meaning with it, to put power over it, to put control around it.

Dryst heard – but just barely heard - Spence release a quiet sigh that brought with it no small amount of uncertainty.  Almost like a teenager who, in a moment of weakness (he would say) or in a moment of truth (the parents would say) could dare to admit to himself (much less others) that he might not actually know everything afterall.  

Dryst didn’t know why the cigar-smoking man had shocked Spence, but Dryst knew that Spence had been shocked and still was.  Funny, Dryst allowed himself a casual thought in this less than casual moment, Spence wasn’t alone in that regard.  Because there she stood.  Directly in front of him.  With her golden and white hair.  With her tall and lithe frame…a most pleasingly slender and graceful build.  Clad from shoulders to ankles in a creme colored body suit.  There she was…looking at Dryst with eyes as big as saucers, with eyes that cried for some help and rationality, that begged for a return to some sense of normalcy…something along the lines of what they had known before all of this madness had unfolded…something along the lines of anything other than being held captive in this strange and increasingly troubling place.  Surely, there must be that, her eyes pleaded.

His heart pounded within his chest wall.  His eyes locked onto hers.

“Dryst,” her mind called out to him…but with not as much presence in her voice as she had had just moments before.  (And he flinched momentarily at this.)   With not as much certainty in herself.  And he winced inside — somehow this tore at him – but he managed to furrow his brow together because it was the only action that presently kept his emotions from bursting out from his mind.  And yet one thought, Dryst was thankful this one thought, had kept shouting itself out from his brain. 

Something…isn’t…right.

He closed his mind and pulled it forcibly away from a mounting panick, but his kept his eyes continually locked on hers, where she stood motionless before him.  Two big round pools that he should know but that now drew themselves flat and lifeless and still.  Yet, he saw energy within her — not much, but enough to give him hope — as she tentatively reached a hand in front of her torso and began to extend it out to him.  But, then she stopped as if not knowing, and his chest tightened with upset and his mind countered the emotions by rapidly asserting itself over his feelings, to direct him to purpose and logic, to urge him to search for rationality or answers within the stream because…oh be damned with that, he growled inside, something isn’t right, dammit!  

And he pulled his mind back to search for what he knew to be true within his very core.

He opened his spirit wide and bared it before the rushing onslaught of thoughts and memories, of beliefs and dreams, of every point of consciousness from every being that had ever lived and who, from the living, willingly, instinctively, undeniably mapped its course out along every path of life’s journey.  He looked for answers while he looked with a burning penetration into the big round eyes that he had seen all of his life, that he had seen in every one of his lives, that he had known before they had even met and yet…eyes, in this precise moment and in this exact place, that he wasn’t entirely sure he knew at all. 

He swallowed hard and felt a cough push its way out of his lungs.  The butterfly — which had been silent and had made itself nearly invisible all this time – curled its feet a bit more resolutely around the tip of Dryst’s ear.  Dryst felt the creature – even though it was too light and inconspicuous to be felt — for the first time in what seemed like ages.  In silence, Dryst sighed a breath of gratitude; somehow this renewed awareness of the butterfly’s presence had the effect of steadying Dryst’s nerves.  Somehow he knew he would the butterfly would remind him…of what he already knew.

The creature purred softly.  Dryst clenched a fist and raised it to his mouth to smother a cough that idled its way up from his lungs and through his throat.  What is happening, he asked nearly out loud, nearly covered with irritation at this surprising other irritation that insisted upon rising up out of him.  And, then, as if in reply to his question, Dryst tasted the heavy cloud of cigar smoke that draped itself suddenly within his mouth.  He saw the answer floating along the smoke as he coughed out of his lung and it floated by like the memory that it was…like the memory that lingered in all eternity within the Stream. 

He saw Spence as a young man.  The young teenager, who looked nothing at all like the old man that Dryst knew of Spence, and thought of him, to be now.  And yet, for all the display of awkward youth, Dryst realized whose awkward youth it had belonged to…perhaps in some ways still belonged to, Dryst wondered.  Tall, gangly shouldered, but clumsy with his size.  Unsure of many things in life but never letting anyone see him sweat.  Somehow believing he could conceal any uncertainties he may hold about life even from those who had brought him into this world.  Oh, it was Spence, whistling with a pretense for ease; behaving like he was busy smelling his own potency.  The laugh was too loud.  The smile was too quick.  The witty retort was incomplete.  The words were not fully thought through.  The timing was forced. 

And yet there he was, pretending he had journeyed all paths, those travelled; those untouched both.  Like he had stepped into his own legs as fully and as wisely as the old man that Spence saw standing a few feet away…as one of them effortlessly tossed the baseball to the other while the other one clumsily played at hurling the baseball with enough force to…to what…to topple the old man…to knock him off the hill…but not really, no…not permanently no…just to nudge him a little over to the side there so that Spence could stand with him now…yes now, not later I am a man as much as he is at the top of the hill with…his father.   Dryst watched them throw the ball, saw the warm expressions on their faces, felt the genuine bond between them — strong and deep no matter how the son challenged his role as son and bridled to push it into manhood, while the father watched in quiet amusement with — yes — even a sense of pride, knowing that within this small challenge, his son had journeyed himself to a milestone…his son was undergoing a ritual of sorts that has played itself out from the beginning and would to the end…

Dryst felt the story unfold, this singular episode in time and place.  The young son; the older man.  He raised his head to view the present moment while he relived a moment in Spence’s past.  He wondered why this scene would cause him trepidation, why seeing the father here now — smiling in control of himself and in command of the knowledge about what his son was going through — why this would have been delivered to the three of them — Dryst, the butterfly, and Spence — from a rushing and heavy dark mist shrouded in foreboding.  He wondered why, as his gaze drifted back to the eyes of the soul he had known throughout all thought, his sense of what was coming down this path had been so terribly terribly off.  This must be Mya, he thought to himself. 

“Dryst,” her voice called to him as if she was winded from running too hard and running too fast.  And he looked at the tall, lithe woman who so uncannyingly mirrored the form and appearance of someone he held so vitally dearly, and he saw the woman before him with the golden white hair and the eerie lack of expression on her face, and he felt her hesitancy and awkwardness…her lack of certainty about many things in life that if she were truly Mya she would know without effort, that she would know without having to think about anything.  He saw in her vapid pools a pretense for ease and watched her tiny efforts to convince herself that she could conceal this fradulence from those who had punched through another dimension, who had altered time and space and matter and mind to find her here, to bring her back alive and full of life back to him.  

He felt an anger surging inside of himself as he stared at this pretender, who reached out again to him, trying to tap into this powerful emotion and change into powerful confusion.  And Dryst found himself reaching desparately forward but instead of reacting to what Dryst knew had to be a shapeshifter, he grabbed Spence’s arm to pull the old man back.  But instead of going back, Dryst felt Spence clasping his hands tightly around Dryst’s arm as he pulled them both forward into the smiling swirling mist of cigar smoke, and two strangers…

And they vanished.

“Dryst!”  Mya’s voice — and her body and the Cyborgs and the Warriors — continued to bully themselves over the rolling hills and push their way through the barrier of smoke that had clouded the Stream.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 20 total wordcount:  2160 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  36,805.  (chanting a mantra:  Yes, we can.  Yes, we can.  Yes, we can.  Smiles…gah!  But smiling!)  

AU V Fashion Show, Nov 29th, 12 PM SLT, Shengri La Hope

 

 AU V Fashion … Late Fall Fashion Show

 

AU V Late Fall Fashion Premiere

                       
You are cordially invited to attend the Late Fall AU V 08 Fashion Premiere
       
Saturday, November 29th, at 12pm slt
                                    
12 pieces, 1 beautiful show and social

Skins Sponsored by AOHARU

Hosted by The Fashion Research Institute, Inc., in beautiful Shengri La Hope

http://slurl.com/secondlife/Shengri%20La%20Hope/51/161/49

 

About the Designer: 

Jare Capalini

(Invited into the Shengri La Vintage Marketplace on October 24, 2008)

My Rez date was March 2nd,2007.  My Fashion line is labeled “AU V” and the type of fashion I want for my label is Couture and Avant Gaurde. My vision is to create beauty that no one else has and harness something that people have only scraped the surface of, and dig deeper into it. My Inspiration for all my clothing is the seasons. To me my favorite image in the whole world is Japan in the winter. To see modern Tokyo a high fashion and hugely electronic city, and put a large blanket of snow on it, it’s gorgous. I hope my line shows people a type of look that they haven’t ever seen, and to bring them to a place more like a fantasy that they didn’t know the loved.

   

Iconoclast Rising … 21

  

Ch 21 ~ The Vanishing

 

She had run until her lungs were screaming.  She had called to him until her mind exploded.  Her thoughts were everything and nothing.  She wasn’t within herself.   Desparation and fear had pushed her outside of herself.  Something wasn’t right. 

And then something was terribly terribly wrong in the Stream.

She collapsed and tumbled, her feet flying out from under her.  She rolled harshly down the jagged hillside…her body abused by its upcroppings; her limbs flailing at the ground. 

Her hands — nails spread, fingers hooked — clawed and raked at the air.  Her feet — toes gripped, arches flexed — thrashed and kicked against the ground.  Her breath rushed in and out; short and harsh; rapid and shocked.  Purple-grey mist swam in her lungs, polluting them.  She hacked on the air, violently ramming her chest walls around the heavy mist to expel it out of herself.

Her voice broke away from her body.  She felt it yelling and throwing itself at the Stream – inconceivably far ahead of herself…completely outside of and beyond her throat, miles ahead of her own body that was crumbling wildly down the rolling hills.  Her voice had completely removed itself from her mind — which had been pushed to the back by her instincts – and had affixed itself entirely to her core.  Her screams hurtled through the land, rushing forward with abandon to the place where Mya had last known Dryst to be.

But he was nowhere to be found.  Blood pounded in her ears.  She could feel his vanishing literally into thin air, and she trembled uncontrollably.  Her knees scraped over the ground like a razor; her palms and elbows cutting into the dirt like shovels.  In her now near-hysteria, her limbs overtook themselves and lost all coordination.  Gravity yanked her bodyweight flat onto the soil until at last she thudded into the ground and buried her face in the dirt.  When she lifted her head to look up, panting and gasping and nearly hyperventilating still, long trails of tears cut great swaths through the dirt that had plastered itself to her cheeks.  

“Oh my god…oh my god…” was all Mya could say, whimpering, moaning over and over again.  “Oh my god…”

She lowered her head and clawed her hands into the topsoil and growled savagely, “No!”

She pushed the ground away — her lithe form, dirtied bodysuit, sooted golden blonde hair catapulting into the air — and landed herself squarely onto the balls of her feet and completely into her center of gravity.  Her shoulders and arms swung back; her head and jaw snapped around.  Her eyes burned into the eyes of Locomotive Breath and the Fierce One.

“You,” she barked without even trying.  Her chest heaved angrily.  “You.”

The warriors turned, the entire legion of warriors cast their gaze heavy and hardened toward her, but Locotive Breath and the Fierce One — the originators, this Adam and Eve — knew they were the two she sought.  Her eyes burned from one set of warrior eyes to the other, ignoring the multiple sets of eyes in the legion that surrounded them.  The two warriors narrowed their minds.  They focused only on her words, which came strongly, deeply, clearly, and emphatically.

“You punched a hole into this world.  You brought me here.  You dragged Dryst here,” her voice labored under an internal energy that would have no other outcome but the one to which it has affixed its purpose.

Her jaw crushed itself under an upset that spurred her will to nearly explode out of her being.  Her eyes blasted a heat that would have made any man cower in fear, and for the first time since the beginning of the Event, Mya’s ferocity in attitude and determination caused her to appear as if she had been not only born into the Legion of Warriors but had led them…had even given rise to them.

“You will burst through time and space – now — and get me into that Stream.”

And it happened in the blink of an eye.  The Fierce One approached her first, but just barely, and grabbed her around the waist before lifting her like a feather.  But it didn’t matter who began the motion because within the next breath, Locomotive Breath had her equally within his grasp, yet somehow Mya wasn’t at all torn into two.  Somehow everything — all time, matter, space…all intention, thought, belief…all desire, emotion, logic — merged into a completeness.   The rolling hills, the land, the Stream in the distance, the upside down redwoods, the galaxy…the warriors, the collective, Mya; all spilled themselves out into a massive blur:  arms and legs and weaponry that for the first time were hushed into a silence from the immense blur of movement; circuitry, gadgetry, whirling engines, chords and cables that had twined themselves tightly into a collective heap like a jumbled string of Christmas lights. 

“We are coming,” a little voice rose softly through the purple-grey mist.

Flashes of particles rose and pushed out in great cascading arcs in the sky, and all at once before she could even stop to think or wonder, before she could even realize that she had just completed her demand for them to punch a hole within the Origin, all at once life and surroundings reformed around themselves into the context and shapes that Mya had all known but the only difference now was that Mya, the legion of Warriors, the Cyborg Collectives all found themselves standing in the exact spot within the Stream of Consciousness where Dryst and Spence had planted their feet just minutes before.

“We are here,” the little voice sang and lofted like bubbles dancing and curling in the breeze.  Mya gasped silently.  She lifted her head, bending her neck a long way back, to look into the eyes of the Fierce One; to turn her gaze and lower her head just a bit to look into the eyes of Locomotive Breath. They exchanged some unspoken thoughts, some unspoken meanings.  And for a brief moment in those few seconds, Mya’s eyes grimaced with no small amount of gratitude to them. 

“We are here,” Locomotive said in a voice that rumbled.  “They are further down,” the Fierce One said in a voice that wrapped itself around Mya’s heart.  She snapped her head back to the more massive, more formidable warrior while she regained her own footing on the topsoil.  He gazed intensely with Mya and said no words…but she had heard something.  Even now…even within the gaze, which she kept her eyes and concentration locked into…she had heard something.

Whispers travelled through the Stream.  They hinted and teased around her ears.  She couldn’t quite pick out their sounds.  She couldn’t quite pick out their nature.  Was this place haunted, she thought in a moment and a chill pricked at her skin.  At last, she loosened her gaze from the warrior and scanned the area around them.  Light pink falling snow…a tunnel of sparkling gentle candy, floating like bubbles dancing in the breeze.  Why would this place had caused such panic, such alarm, she wondered, her body turning softly around to take in all paths — the stream behind them, the stream before them, the encasing walls on either side…were they paths?  Were they not?  Somehow, Mya thought, they must be, as she scanned the walls made up of pink gentle snowfall.  Somehow, the warriors had entered here, and brought this small army with them. 

“War is coming.” 

Mya heard the cotton-candy voice of the little girl.  Her voice bubbled past in the whispers and tickled along Mya’s arm and hand, as if urging her forward.  As if choosing a direction.  Forward…ever forward, the words played in Mya’s mind.  In this dimension, at this place, for this reason – her heart held Dryst deeply within – forward, she whispered wordlessly in the air.  She placed her feet lightly on the ground, one in front of the other, but turned to find the Cyborg.

“Cy,” she nodded her head in as far of a sweep as she could to indicate Cy and the entire Cyborg Collective.  “You need to hook up.  Quickly.  You need to tell me where Dryst is.”

His eyes whirled and cord released themselves from somewhere within his innards.

“Can you — ” again her head swept over the Collective — “can you manage to jack in (she didn’t even try to put this more delicately) while we walk?”

The cyborgs silently moved together in a line that stretched into each side of the Stream’s walls.  Cords and wires slithered rapidly and found their sweet spots automatically throughout the Cyborg chain, while other fiber optics from each Cyborg craned from the side of their bodies and feathered along the pink-falling snow that made up the walls of the Stream.

“All I know at this point,” Mya nearly whispered, “is there won’t be any turning back.  Forward.  This direction.”  She nodded her forehead to the path in front of them and then briefly looked next to her and caught the eyes of the Fierce One.  He tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement.  She nodded her head slightly in return.

Mya brought her attention back again to the other side and watched the Cyborgs moving through the whispers of all the universes in all of creation.  At that moment as she watched in silence, she found her own individual whisper asking, “What is this place?”  It was as if she had thrown her voice.  It was as if she was having an out of body experience, hearing her voice travelling toward her instead of from her.  But in any case, the question remained and hung in the air.  She looked at it and upon reflection, thought she was right in the asking.  And then she muttered quietly to herself, “What is this place?” fully not expecting to receive an answer.  But she did.

“It is,” Cy said methodically with absolute finality as if no further explanation needed to be offered.  Ironically enough, this amused Mya to a point of humor mixed with fatigue.  She allowed herself a moment to raise an eyebrow lazily in the cyborg’s direction.

“Please don’t tell me ‘it is what it is’…if you must answer, just please don’t give me that as an answer.”  She paused.  As they all moved forward, her gaze rotated back to the path in front of them.  She fretted with some nervousness (one that she hoped she had concealed) about where this snowy path was leading them.  She tried not to think it too loudly, but somehow she knew that her thoughts — that all thoughts — would come travelling through the Stream.  Or maybe this particular one already had and maybe no one had noticed.

The cyborg smiled, as much as a collection of heaping metal and wires and engines could smile.  He tried again, “It exists,” then added quickly before Mya could growl in protest, “it is the Stream of Consciousness.”

Her eyelids popped open like the lid of a music box.  She waved her hand — palm open, fingers spread — in tiny little waves. She shook her head in the same way, believing that she had completely misunderstood what Cy had just said, at the very least, or believing his motherboard was fried.

“It is a great deal to absorb,” the robot said undeterred, as if understanding her reaction.

Seconds went by that seemed like a round of minutes before Mya spoke again.

“Okay, Cy,” she said decisively while she pushed some whispers that had floated around her hand gently back toward him, “Let’s explore just what you mean by that another time.  (She wasn’t kidding around.)   ‘Cause right now, Cy?”  She shook her head in tiny little tremors, her eyes bugging out.  “Right now?  I’m not listening to that.  Right now?  Can’t handle that.”

Whispers swirled gently around her in a rising and lowering path that looked like an etch-a-sketch drawing but was three dimensional and vibrated softly around her body…indeed, around every form in the Stream.

“Okay,” Mya relented, her hand still gently pushing whispers and thoughts beyond her in front of her…just to give her mind space to handle the place, to process some level of acceptance over the fact that she existed in the Stream of Consciousness…some physical place, some tangible repository, some looking glass.  Not to deny, not to discount…just to give her mind space.  

“Okay,” she said to the robot, “I won’t argue it.  I just –”

“Few can read this phenomenon,” Cy continued, as Mya fell silent, absorbing the sounds and words and energy that flowed through the Stream.

“Can you,” she stammered, relinquishing the space to deal with it because she knew she didn’t have the luxury of time to compartmentalize it and look at it later. 

“Can you,” she said again.  It was more an insistence, less a question.  “Because if you can,” she continued, her voice steadying itself out as they continued to move forward down the path in the pink snow of the Stream that trickled itself through the purple-grey mist of the Origin, “If you can…there’s only one thing I want to know from all of life’s thoughts.”

Suddenly, all of the cyborgs were briefly alit with a softly pulsing light.  Their engines whirled and blended with the gentle whispers and floating thoughts in the Stream.  The warriors, like sentries, refused betrayal of any awareness of what was happening around them.  Still, Mya was certain that all the happenings were being registered by the Fierce One and Locomotive Breath, the Adam and the Eve and all of their clan.

And maybe, Mya allowed herself the ludicrous reaction of pondering other’s reactions, maybe they were really just accustomed to seeing all of these absurdly incredible things, she thought to herself.

“Yes, they are.  They are quite used to it,” Cy answered without being asked.  Then answered again without being prompted, “Everything is known here.  Everything is knowable in the Stream.”

“Okay, then,” she said, as she looked up and down the robot’s form and saw the lights burring and erupting in tiny little bursts through his machined form.  “Then, if you don’t mind, please tell me what I want to know.  And, do me a favor,” Mya said with hushed urgency “dim your lights down if not all the way off.  Now would be good.  Don’t ask me why on that.  I just feel it.” 

There were whispers born of the Origin in this Stream, Mya realized.   Swirling and bullying, choking and harrassing, pulling and thrawting life’s goodness and bright energy.  There were thoughts and desires, questions and intentions, all manner of events and cunning…bad and good here.  Acted upon and waiting to be acted upon.  Bad and good…both here and — she frowned in her mind.  What could be good in this place, Mya asked herself.   And the sense of urgency overcame her spirit even more greatly than it had before.  If this was the Stream and everything in creation flowed through here, then all the dualities of life flowed through this one place as well.  Good and bad.

“He is in the mountain.  In a room.  There are others.”

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 21 total wordcount:  2515 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  39,320.  (chanting a mantra:  oh gosh this will be one massive push to the 30th and the 50K!)  

Iconoclast Rising … 22

 

“‘Since I am just a piece of code, I would be on very thin ice to speculate,’ the Librarian says.”  (Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson)

 

Ch 22 ~ High on Mountain Tops

 

This was the bad that she had sensed.  Others are with Dryst.  

She walked silently, thinking through this bit of verification that Cy had just provided.  Even with what should have been the comfort of additional knowledge, she found herself no less worried.   Dryst is still here, she sighed uncontrollably within her bones and soul, feeling such overwhelming relief from knowing where he was that tears began to pool again in her eyes and trickled softly down her cheeks.  As she walked, she casually lowered her head and lifted her fingers to her face.  In a moment, in a heartbeat, truly within her heart, she felt his hand along her cheeks, tenderly wiping the tears away.  A gasp floated softly up from her lungs and past her lips.   She held her hand along her face, as if holding her fingers along his.  She looked up, fully expecting to see him standing oh so near, right next to her, hardly any space between them…and indeed, she saw him fully, even though in this moment, in this space, he was somewhere at the top of the mountain that lay further down some miles ahead, where the Stream hugged itself lazily around its base.

Mya smiled softly for a moment.  She held to him tightly in her heart and her mind as she refocused her attention back to what the Cyborg had said. 

Who were these others, she wondered, believing full well that they weren’t the sort that one would call friend.

“Do I need to ask for more detail,” Mya said to the robot at last.  The warriors grunted silently in quiet appreciation of her increased directness, as the Cyborgs moved their fiber optics in a craning, exploratory manner along the sheer pink snowfall that served as the wall of the Stream.  Mya could see that there was some kind of invisible barrier along which the fiber optic cables spread.  The fabric tickled itself back under the cable featherings but remained firm even if unseen.  Somehow the walls provided an actual build, an actual context for all of life’s meaning.  Order in the ultimate of disorder…the yin-yang of existence.  Somehow simply being.  Mya resisted the urge to mutter “it is what it is.”  How she hated that expression (but in all honesty, disliked not the phrase itself, only the overuse of it).   And yet, she pondered as she stared at the tickled wall that rippled under the touch of the cyborg’s cables, this higher order of meaning.   It attached itself to and was defined by all of existence.  How else to describe the magnitude of power in its ultimate simplicity.  It is what it is…it exists.  It is here.  And so are we.  And along this path, so is Dryst.

“He is with the Non,” Cy said, nearly hesitating to complete the sentence.   For the first time, the warriors  turned their heads with a heaviness and looked upon the cyborgs with a grimness that unsettled.  This was troubling news, Mya realized, even to the most hardened and battle-tested of the lot of them.  She swallowed, not knowing the extent of what it meant to be with the Non but knowing if nothing else… 

The war, the little girl whispered closely, with some urgency that looped around the edges of her innocent voice.  And when Mya turned to find the source of that sugared voice, she looked into the hardened eyes of Locomotive Breath.  Somehow she anticipated seeing a teddy bear dangling around the warrior’s waist, right along side his battleworn weapons that were sharpened less for cruelty, more for finality.

“And I’m suppose to know what to do,” Mya asked matterly of factly as her eyes met those of Locomotive.

Locomotive snarled momentarily, shielding the little one who also inhabited his being, Mya knew, away from the intensity of the conversation.  Still she allowed herself to marvel at how odd it was that this shapeshifter could retain a form of its choosing yet still dip in and out of shifting voices, vocal tones, speech patterns.  Her mind journeyed back to the Event, to the day that seemed forever ago when all of this was set into motion, when Locomotive Breath came out of nowhere and hauled her off to this world.  Her memory sauntered back to when she had heard him speak and had heard what she had believed genuinely to be her own voice.  Since then, she had come to regard this creature as of her…as, in fact, her.  But how could he be, she now said with what amounted to little relief (a fact that inandof itself also surprised her).  He shifted voices, she realized now.  He shifted shapes, even into the shape of a little girl who resembled Mya as a child (no doubt a capture of her memory)…even into eyes that resembled the same energy of Mya’s spirit (no doubt a skillful duplication).  Magic she thought, and born of the capabilities inherent in his genetic makeup…it is what it is.

“How many of you are in there,” she asked with some weariness and gestured toward his large body that cut through the air like a razor-shape knife.

“Only those who serve a purpose.”

“And is that many?”

“You see them all around us.  They walk with us.”

Mya glanced back through the Legion.  She nodded in silence.  “All from you,” she said, a statement of the obvious.  The many warriors, they were clones either of Locomotive or of the Fierce One.

“All from one,” he said.

She nodded again, believing now that the entire Legion — Locomotive and the more formidable Fierce One –  along with the little one were all the same being:  the creature that had hauled her off in the first place.  Locomotive, the Adam and the Eve. 

But the Fierce One, Mya hesitated and chewed at something that she couldn’t quite penetrate until her mind trailed off.

If the quantity of the warriors was designed to meet some type of situation, Mya realized that their sheer number was an overwhelming indication that what lay upon the road ahead was wildly dangerous.  And, of course, it was, Mya knew.  But she would not stop until she found Dryst.  This she knew more than anything else, even with the full realization that the obstacles ahead, she told herself somberly, were insanely dangerous.

“What of their intentions.”  

Locomotive’s voice suddenly rumbled through her thoughts.  He directed his questions to the Cyborg, in what Mya realized amounted to the very first time that the two races (she thought for lack of a better label) had interacted.  Evenso, Mya had the very real sense that these two groups of entities — warriors and machinery – knew each other very well. 

I wonder, she thought to herself, is the Cyborg Collective from the same being that had produced the legion of warriors and the child?  Are they all from Locomotive, and is Locomotive really the originator?  Something gnawed at her with this, but before she could sink that thought into the depths of her mind, the cyborg spoke.

“The Clan of Ophania.  It is a witches clan.  It is a clan made up of Eternals,” Cyborg answered Locomotive, who grunted in acknowledgement, encouraging the robot to continue his explanations and descriptions.  “The one you seek…Dryst…he and his fellow traveller — “

“The man,” Mya interrupted.  “The man Dryst said had brought him here to me.”

“Yes,” Cy continued.  “They are being held as prisoners of a sort in the mountains –”

“Prisoners!  Is Dryst alright?  Is he harmed?  Is he injured?  Are they okay –”

“Yes –”

“Yes?  What!  Yes to what?!”

“Yes, they are unharmed.  Dryst is unharmed.  He is alright,” the robot continued in a deliberate monotone that was meant to calm the rejoined excitement that was percolating throughout Mya’s system and spilling over into the pathway. 

“Do me a favor,” Cy continued, speaking casually to her.  “Put a dimmer on all of that energy over there, would you.  Now would be good.  You’re lighting up like a Christmas tree.”  He nearly winked at her, as much as a mounding pile of metal and circuits and engines could wink, and his eyeballs spun ridiculously within his skull for a few seconds. 

“Huh?” 

The toe cap of her boot stumbled over the ankle of her other leg, all of which normally would have caused her to go tumbling like a slinky on steps, but with the help of one of Cy’s electrical chords that had swung out to catch her around her waist before she had fallen, she had managed to regain her balance.   The humorous cyborg had returned and his return had thrown her off balance.  A cyborg of quiet wit.  But he was right.  She had to keep herself in check and not announce their presence in the Stream…in case…in case anyone else was listening.  Someone, Mya thought, who dwelled in the mountain tops.  The clan of witches, she murmurred with a shudder.

“And what of this place in the mountains.  What of their intentions.  What is happening.  What is their plan,” the Fierce One fired off the questions with a deep tone, one that shifted and turned the words over slowly and deliberately as if his voice were coiling around an immense expanse of unseen power that lay hidden deep within himself…unseen or not, a power that was entirely unmistakable. 

Mya startled at the sound of his speaking and nearly tripped herself up again but somehow she caught herself.  She stared at the Fierce One and rather rudely, at that.  She watched as his gaze seared through the Stream, and she imagined his mind probably identified each and every snowflake that fell within his sight.  She couldn’t take her eyes off of this brooding, hulking power and the intensity of his presence, but even without the huge distraction of his size, power, and bearing, Mya couldn’t help but stare because yet again, she had heard something.  In his eyes, in his voice.  In his very breath, in his bearing.  She had heard something.

“Yes,” Cy said, knowing that the warrior would suffer no humor or fools at this moment…if ever.  “The way will not be easy.  They are high in the mountain tops.  They are in a room, seated.”

Her lips parted softly, her mind filled with rushed imaginings of the room that Dryst and the man found themselves in.  Seated.  She imagined in a chair.  She hoped comfortably.  She couldn’t allow her mind to think of any other possible way for Dryst to be seated, no, no.  She placed him in a beautiful room, in a finely upholstered, heavily cushioned chair –

“The Non are seated,” Cy corrected as if reading her thoughts, and in fact, he was to some degree.  “Some, not all of them are seated,” he refined his meaning even further.  “And,” his voice smiled momentarily, “some are, indeed, seated comfortably in finely upholstered, heavily cushioned chairs.”

“Why do I feel suddenly quite naked.  Oh so very naked here, right here wading through the stream of every thought and idea ever had and yet to be realized,” Mya muttered under her breath and turned away from the robots, gazing down the path that feathered along the upside down redwoods on the one side, the rolling lumbering hills on the other side.

“We know your thoughts even without the Stream,” the little one, through Locomotive, said.  “We always did.”

“And the other thoughts?” Mya chewed the question out while motioning toward the Cyborgs who were tabbed into the Stream.  “How is it that some can read the Stream at all?”

“Only parts,” answered the little one, through Locomotive, “and only as a Collective, sourcing out specific parts.”  The little one’s voice paused, then continued “There is order in disorder,” she sang, “and…there are the rare two who–”

Mya shook her head and gestured at Locomotive to stop speaking.  She frowned at last, chastising herself for her panic and for allowing her mind to divert itself to analyzing this strange fellowship that she had found herself in.  She abruptly interrupted her own thoughts and quickly said to them all, “We’ll table that for another time.  And there will be another time.  But for now –”

“But for now…it is the thoughts of the Non that we need to know.  We are getting nearer.”  Mya felt the Fierce One’s words forcibly command the mindset back to a shared purpose, allowing room for the cyborg to continue.

“What of Dryst,” Mya whispered urgently.

“He is standing in a large room that is filled with books.  The room is in the outer most tower that juts out near the top of the mountain.”  Cy paused briefly, looking up.  “There,” he said as he pointed to the tower beyond the tallest heights of the purple-grey mist.  Mya narrowed her eyes and stretched her vision beyond the falling snow and the transparent surround of the Stream.  Her vision broke through the heavy mist that lulled about the Origin; her eyes climbed the outer most slope of the mountainside until they landed on one of many towers that lorded over the tangled roots of the upsidedown forest and that pierced into the day-night sky.

“Dryst,” her lips uttered silently, her mouth moving tenderly.  Her pace quickened, spurring the collective and the legion to lengthen their strides.

“Dryst and the man stand before a gathering of sort,” Cy continued.  “Not quite a tribunal but it is some ritual of interrogation.”

“Interrogation,” Mya gasped wordlessly, her eyes widening, her stride lengthening even more.

“A stand off of sorts,” Cy clarified, then added, “but they will not stop until they have what they want, this Clan of Ophania.  For now, they are relaxed and confident.  Some are seated.  Some are perched on whisks.  Many are surveying from the tower tops, casting their gaze far and wide.  Searching the Stream.”

The warriors growled menacingly.  “For us,” Mya stated the obvious under her breath.

The Cyborg nodded.  “For us,” he repeated. 

The group of robots and warriors moved more rapidly now, their volume and energy carried forward and driven as much by Mya’s will as by their own accord; at a much faster clip without any exertion on her part. 

“But,” he hesitated.

“But…” she asked, encouraging him to speak.

He paused…”they believe victory to be theirs.  Just within their grasp.  Dryst holds the key…the portal.”

“The portal,” Mya asked completely befuddled.  “What key?  What portal?” 

“The key,” the Fierce One explained, “for the Non to control all free will.  To bend minds to their purpose.  To strip you and all of your kind of yours.  To strip all of every  kind of their own.”

“The key,” Locomotive continued, “the metal scrap you held within you very hands, that had cut into your fingers.  It is the key.  It is the portal.  It allows anyone who holds it to bend it to their will — be it of a benevolent or a malicious intent  –  to control the very Stream of Consciousness.”

Her chin fell to her chest.  She knew it.  She felt it crash along her collarbone, and while all of this made even less sense than everything that had happened since the Event with this strange fellowship in this strange land, Mya jerked her will over her mind and locked her confusion and panic away into a nicely appointed, comfortable room that could have no other effect on her confusion but to settle it down and nuture it into quietness.  She needed to think.  She had no time to freak out. 

“They will mount an assault.  They know we are in pursuit.  They read our words and thoughts in the hillside.  They followed our penetration of the Stream.  They know we are in pursuit.”

“And they make ready,” the Fierce One said through clenched jaw.

The Cyborg Collective nodded.  “They make ready,” Cy confirmed. 

“What are their numbers,” the warrior pressed on.

“Equal to ours,” the robot responded.

“What is their force.”

“Witches against warriors,” Cy answered flatly.  “Zombies against cyborgs.”

“I doubt it will be quite that neat,” Locomotive grunted with a tinge of sarcasm, and clenched his hand around the handle of his largest blade.

“There,” Mya panted, realizing they were running together as a group, flowing collectively by the force of a rhythmic pace.  “We are turning the bend…just ahead…”

“Just ahead,” the warriors growled quietly and lazered their eyes to the shape that blossommed just ahead in the surround of the Stream.

“The Canal,” the robot said.  “Just ahead of us, at the end of the stream, the Canal.  Move with care when we reach it. The most treacherous nature of the journey begins there.”

If she didn’t know any better, Mya had thought she had heard fear in the robot’s voice.

“Most treacherous…” she repeated words the robot had just said before her own voice trailed off.  The group moved quickly but silently for a few seconds, the cyborgs groping and methodically travelling along the falling snow, hooking into various parts of the invisible encasement in which the Stream flowed.

“What of the Canal,” Mya asked when at last she had found her voice again.

“It is the entrance we seek.  Into the mountain.  Filled with watchful ears and listening eyes.”

“The Clan?” Mya guessed in a voice that suddenly felt and sounded very small, as small as the sugared bubblegum sing-song of the little one.

 

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 22 total wordcount:  2920 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  42,240.  (chanting a mantra:  oh gosh this will be one massive push to the 30th and the 50K!)  

Iconoclast Rising … 23

 

Revisited:  “‘Since I am just a piece of code, I would be on very thin ice to speculate,’ the Librarian says.”  (Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson)

 

Ch 23 ~ The Seat of All Knowledge

 

She had the sense that night had fallen, although she couldn’t be certain and she couldn’t tell you what day it was.  The dear woman (yes, and at this point, she thought of herself that way) had no sense of time whatsoever.  But the purple-grey mist seemed to be gaining momentum, Mya noticed, as she, the Cyborg Collective, and the Legion of Warriors began to turn the bend in the Stream. 

A bend in the Stream of Consciousness…how ironic in some ways, Mya thought.  If only for a moment, she allowed herself to wonder about the non-linear shape of meaning…at this place, at this time within the Stream.  There was something noteworthy about this curve in Knowledge…something of some significance, but she decided rather quickly, perhaps it was just life’s larger way, its gentle reminder to all to expect the unexpected.  To realize there was a level of unknowable beyond reach.     

Her mind fell back to the present and to the silence.  The group had travelled far through the Stream, for what must have been a long time.  They travelled quietly, with not even their footfalls belying their passage and not even their thoughts conveying their presence.  In fact, they had agreed earlier to limit words and thoughts as much as possible as they approached the Canal.  It was out of necessity.  The Mountaintops — with Dryst held prisoner within — were drawing closer, and so too drawing closer, then, was the Clan of Ophania.  A chill ran down Mya’s spine as her mind lingered on these witches yet unseen, zombies yet unleashed, and some other presence yet undiscovered.

But for now, still safely within the Stream and not quite yet upon the Canal, Mya allowed herself to ruminate on a previous conversation.

“The Clan of Ophania,” Mya had muttered to anyone who was listening; thankfully, she had thought, not many could listen to the totality within the Stream except for the two…who the little child had briefly mentioned but with not nearly enough explanation.  But they were not terribly far away from the Canal and a greater urgency pulled at her. 

“What type of spells do these witches cast,” Mya continued, “What are their powers?”

“They are shapeshifters…if they choose to be,” Locomotive answered with an edge in his low, almost sullen voice.

“Like you, then…”

“No,” he replied quickly.  “Nothing like any of us.”  He gestured with his head to either side of himself to indicate the Fierce One, the legion of Warriors, and, Mya was certain, the little child…possibly even the Cyborg Collective.

“Nothing like you, either,” Cy added, speaking to Mya, then continued because he knew she had too many questions for the little bit of time they had while they had secured themselves away within the safety of the arms of the Stream. 

“The Clan of Ophania is a group of Eternals.  They would say that their line had been born at the beginning of time, but they would be wrong to make this claim.”

The warriors grunted in quiet agreement.

“The Dawn of Time brought forth with it only the Eternal Lightness of Being,” Cy continued.  “The Eternal Lightness of Being precedes the Clan of Ophania no matter how much the Clan of Ophania detests this…and detest it they do.  They stew in hatred of the Eternal Lightness of Being.  They have seethed with their venom for eons on end…since nearly the dawn of time.  And since that time, all those eons ago, the Clan’s sole desire — you could go so far as to say its only reason for existing — is to destroy the Eternals — the true Eternals — and claim ownership, yield authority over all creation.” 

Cy turned his metal head and cast a twirling glance upon Mya. 

“In very personal terms,” he continued, “the Clan lusts for the power to control your very thoughts, your very will, leaving you nothing more than an empty shell — with no choice, no knowledge, no mind of your own, no belief in yourself or in anything at all – to serve their evil purposes.  Their lust for power and total control knows no bounds.  They are never satistifed.  They will tell you what to think, what to believe, how to act, how to behave, what to feel.  They will twist your mind and demolish your will to fill it only with their desires, however terrible and destructive they may be.”  The robot paused, then added, “And they will be.” 

He turned his head back to the path and returned his gaze to the trail in front of them.  Alarmingly so for a robot, he then whispered, “The Clan of Ophania…the witches are nearly able to do this.  They have tried through the ages.  One by one stripping others of their will.  But now.  Now they will be able to mutilate all creation in the blink of an eye.  Dryst has what they seek.  He holds the last piece to the puzzle.”

“The portal…the key,” she mouthed nearly silently.

The robot nodded.  “When they possess the portal, the witches will possess complete dominance over the entire body of the Eternals for all time.”

It was as if his words echoed in her mind, yet he had stopped speaking.  But his words played on, even when the robot’s silence was filled with the gentle sound of the softly falling snow, followed on its heels with the sound of Locomotive Breath’s quietly seething voice. 

“They will have their way with all of Consciousness for all eternity.” 

Mya grimaced from a crushing repulsion that surged forth from her gut at the idea of an unending universal mind fuck.  And while her stomach swayed and heaved against itself, she saw out of the corner of her eye the cyborg gesturing slowly around himself, the Collective, the Legion, and Mya.  The cyborg nodded his head carefully from side to side, casting his senses on their surroundings and surveying the pathway and the translucent walls of the Stream. 

“We walk,” he finally said with an awe-filled respect, “through a living, breathing entity, Mya.  This Stream –” he held his arms open “– is very much alive.  It is very much a living being.  It is the inner core of the entity known as the Eternal Lightness of Being.  From which the Stream of Consciousness was created.  From which was born all of life, all of creation…even a heaping mound of metal such as myself,” he said evenly and looked at her again. 

Her mind folded over onto itself from what the robot had just said.  She tried desparately to process the fact that she was stepping lightly across and through the inside of a living entity.   But she couldn’t conceive of such a thing.  Should she say hello, she thought in near hysteria…should she introduce herself, but then she realized she was already completely known.  There was nothing the Stream, the Eternal Being did not know of her.  In any direction.  In any dimension.  In any time. 

So she ran to the more immediate, more tangible information that should could hold onto and that happened to be her sudden realization that the cyborg, in describing himself as a mounding heap of metal, had read her thoughts.  Mya steadied her mind by obsessing over this triviality, which, in the not too distant past might have troubled her, but in the here and now as she stepped across the insides of a living being that was born with the Dawn of Time, the fact of Cy’s mental eavesdropping was nothing more than trivial.  Still it comforted Mya to grab ahold of it, trivial or not.  And hold on she did, realizing that the cyborg had accessed probably more of her imagings than she even knew while they dwelled inside this…Being.  The robot waved her concern away and said, “Not everything, no.  But even without knowing all of your thoughts, I am honest about who and what I am.  I am all metal and circuitry, engines and cables, indeed.”

“But the Lightness of Being…” her voice trailed off.  Incomprehensible.

“The Lightness of Being,” the robot gently picked up her thought and completed it, “It is all.  It is all meaning.  It is all free will.  You are connected into it at all times.  We all are, but we do not know the fullness of it.  Perhaps the better statement is, the Eternal Being is fully connected into each of us at all times.”

Mya frowned and nearly laughed both at the same time.  How can this be…what on earth, she thought but then remembered that was another planet somewhere else in some other universe.  What in the heavens, she thought but then as she looked around the foresaken Origin whose only bright spot was the breathing entity through which they all walked and from which Dryst had been abducted and through which would lead her back to Dryst again but first lead them all into a Battle of the Ages between Eternals, Mya could hardly think of this land as heaven.  What the hell, she thought abruptly and then just as abruptly, she snapped her head to focus on the robot and asked, “Are we walking through God?”

“If that is what you choose to believe.”

“While you still have the choice to believe anything by your own accord,” the Fierce One grumbled unpleasantly and Mya snapped her focus back to his direction — because something about his presence, something about his voice, something about him called to her, pulled at her, commanded her – before rounding her vision back to the path in front of them.  Too much to think of.   Too much to understand all at once. 

“If God is all thought, all will flowing through the Stream, good and bad, then, yes, you could call this entity God.  But if God as you believe the Being to be is only good, you will have to find another contextual relationship or adopt the one I gave you:  The Eternal Lightness of Being, through which all thought, all will, all creations flow.  …the Clan of Ophania flows through the Stream with us.  Even now.”

The warriors growled; Mya bristled; the Cyborg continued.

“But the Clan has no power over the Eternal Lightness any more than you or I.  They flow with all creation here.  They are of no more significance here.  They are of no less signficance here.”

“They cannot control all thought here,” Locomotive Breath added.  “They cannot hear all musings.  Not here.”

“True, true,” Cy nodded in agreement.  “Not here.  But they are searching within the Stream.  And they know we are here in pursuit.  They heard our thoughts in the hills.”

“But,” Mya interrupted, “you just said they can’t know all thoughts.”

“No,” Cy confirmed, “they can’t…at least not in the Stream.”

“But outside of the Stream, it is different,” the Fierce One said through a clenched jaw.  “Some in the Clan have the power to speak the Unspoken Language.”

“To hear thoughts,” the cyborg clarified.  “This is true primarily among themselves.”

“But the Clan Queen is fluent in that ability,” the Fierce One added.  “She created the Unspoken Language.  Her powers to see thoughts reach beyond the Clan. 

“For that reason, we must be silent in mind when we approach,” Locomotive said.

“When we enter the Canal,” the Cyborg said, “We must close off our minds and our thoughts.”

The Fierce One studied the group, watching Mya most closely.  Her eyes were open but not pulled back in terror.  Yet, he could see her breath shortening.  She must not let fear overtake her, he thought with a grimness in his mind.  If she does, all be lost.

“We should now…close off our minds now,” he said.  “The Canal approaches.”

Mya looked up then, in the memory of these earlier words, just as she looked up now.  She saw the opening of the Canal, to the right, jogging along the bend in the Stream.  And as they approached even closer, and she turned her thoughts off but only watched what was happening without registering any meaning to what she saw, she cast her eyes upon the edge of the Canal.  It rode the full height of the wall in the Stream.  It curved in delicate lines of an oval shape that flowered and coiled in itself.  It pulled the pink snow increasingly into the purple-grey mist that began to dominate at the Canal’s center-most point.  And as Mya moved closer to the Canal, nearly fully within its lip, she realized why it was called a Canal. 

They were entering into the mountain through a giant ear.

 

 

 National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 23 total wordcount:  2130 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  44,370.  (gah…won’t make 50K by the 30th but I’m finishing this nonetheless.)  

Iconoclast Rising … 24

Revisited:  “‘Since I am just a piece of code, I would be on very thin ice to speculate,’ the Librarian says.”  (Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson)

 

Ch 24 ~ The Librarian

 

“You should have a seat,” the Other said softly.  She managed a smile.  It seemed nearly genuine.  Dryst didn’t trust it.

“Please,” she insisted.  “Truly, there’s no need to do away with all sense of manners.  What good would that serve.”

His surpressed chuckle had the effect of slightly rocking his shoulders.  He managed a half-smile, and it was completely genuine.

“Funny you should talk about ‘good,’” he said through the corner of his mouth since the vast majority of his teeth were clenched on top of each other.

She tilted her head.  Her eyes danced.

“This surprises you.”

The butterfly on his ear had folded its wings tightly together and slid them underneathe a layer of Dryst’s hair.  He was nearly invisible, but Dryst knew the beautiful creature was still there.  Watching eyes…listening silently, the butterfly said in a voice so low that only Dryst could hear it.  And Dryst did the same thing — have watching eyes…listen to things said and unsaid — just as he knew his many captors were doing right now with him and Spence.  

Dryst nodded slowly to the person in front of him.  He locked his stare onto her without missing a beat of anything happening around him.  A large, open room, with five-story high walls, ornate moldings, stained glass windows, and slithering treeroots mangled together to serve as the ceiling.  There were rows of leather-bound books and plush seating and reading areas scattered about.  Finely carved mahogany tables and tastefully elaborate yet polite light fixtures rounded out the appointments and harkoned back to another time and another place, creating an atmosphere that lulled one to believe in its gentleness, refinement…that threw one’s memories back to the idea of a gentlemen’s den, or a smoking lounge.  

Except for the witches, Dryst thought and studied them carefully.  Somehow they didn’t fit in with this picture.  Several perched themselves from under flowing robes that whipped in the wind inside the balcony in the tower.  They peered over the ledge in watch and in wait, Dryst knew, with their heads buffetted by long, gnarly twisting and lofting strands.  Others stood or hovered with a smugness, as if bored, on either side of the great expanse of room, the center in which the two men found themselves standing.  

The Other’s movement, quiet though it was, nudged into his assessment of the place.  She walked casually, cutting a path from behind the writing table around to the front of it.  She leaned her nicely formed shape onto its edge and straddled her hands on either side of the desk.

“Surprise me…yeah,” he replied slowly, still surveying the room.  “It must have been when you shifted out of the form of the man and –”   He stopped abruptly.  How he hated what these creatures had done.   Spence shifted in his feet at this moment, as if awakening from a deep slumber.   He had been unusually quiet, Dryst noticed. 

“And?” she said with amused inquisitiveness, knowing full well what he would say, but poking more at the embers of hatred that were erupting within him.  Anger is good, Ophania spoke silently to the Other.  How ironic, the Other replied and smirked with some amount of cruelty that was glazed over with the pretense of decorum.

His eyes snarled as much as any pair of eyes could snarl.  They bore into this woman, standing overly confident, punishing the desktop with her tight ass.  Her clothing — pencil skirt, jacket, vest, blouse with a high buttoned collar that wound itself around her neck more like a tourniquet — severely wrapped around her form…a form that in any other circumstance any man other than Dryst might have found pleasing but in this circumstance with her grating and oppressive personality no man would find the least bit attractive.  He looked down the length of her stockings to her black patent leather shoes that looked as if they had just been pulled out off of the store shelf and out of the shop box.  He was grateful her skirt was too tight to allow the shoes to reflect up.  He didn’t want to see it because he couldn’t believe, even in this short amount of time, that this was a woman.

“Nice shoes,” he snarled as much as his eyes had snarled earlier.

She leaned further back onto the desk and sighed a smile, then patiently coaxed an answer to her previously stated question by repeating it again with an even more pleasant tone, as if in an attempt to placate him but that was hardly what she was up to.   And they both knew it.

“And…” she repeated with slow and sugared deliberateness.

“And the woman,” he said at last, looking directly into her eyes but protecting Mya’s name within his heart and refusing to toss it out into the open in this place.  He wouldn’t tarnish it so in this vile mountain with these unnatural and evil beings who played at civility but intended only destruction.  At least the witches were transparent, he thought, but this one…his mind scowled at the Other.

“Kid…don’t get into a conversation here.  It’s of no use.”  Spence hadn’t moved, except for shifting his weight slightly, as if readying his center of gravity for something yet to come.  But even in his speaking, he hadn’t moved, instead keeping his focus straight ahead on the tightly wound person at the front of the room.

She smiled a bit more, and it seemed a bit more pleasured.   Tight ass, she read the expression on Dryst’s face but this was no unnatural act.  Anyone could plainly see what he thought of her.  She laughed inside before sliding her vision back to the younger man.

“She, the woman of whom you speak, was…oh, how shall I put this,” — she paused with some amount of dramatic flare — “delicious to plunge into.”   Dryst clenched his forehead with his eyebrows.

“Do you know what a priviledge it must have been for her?  To be consumed by the likes of me?”

 ”She is not consumed by you,” he growled menacingly.  “Whoever the hell you think you are.”

“Oh?  Oh, right.  Perhaps true.”  The Other said casually, then with her mind pushed a reading chair into the back of his legs and again with her mind, shoved him down into it.  She liked standing over him.  She didn’t much like his defiant attitude.  Ophania and her sisters turned their heads lazily to gaze upon him as he sat in the center of the Library.

“And it’s not who I think I am…it’s quite a matter of who I, in fact, am,” the Other sneered ever so slightly, briefly cracking through the veneer of politeness that had coated each of her words. 

“She is the Other, the Keeper of Knowledge,” Ophania hissed.  “And you should regard her as such.”

“Yeah?” he managed to sound casual, not knowing why he had been forced into a seated position and Spence had not.   “Looks like a librarian to me,” he continued.

Ophania glared but the Other laughed quietly.  “Oh yes,” she said through her chuckles, “I suppose that is one way of thinking of me.  Another way to think of me is the way that Mya now knows of me.”  And with the mention of her name, Dryst’s muscles contracted, his body flinched from an overwhelming urge to lunge at the laughing Other and strangle her.

Oooooooo…good, good, the Other said with a great deal of self satisfaction.  He believes her to be defiled…or possibly worse, Ophania said.  You can read this to be so, the Other asked.  No no, Ophania, relunctantly admitted, but his reaction is telling.  The Other dismissed the witch’s commentary, displeased that Ophania could not hear Dryst’s mind, but equally displeased and loathe to admit that she herself as the Keeper of Knowledge could not hear Dryst’s mind either.   He was unusually obstinate and proving to be difficult to penetrate, the Other thought to herself with a high degree of annoyance that she refused to convey.  It was a blessing, the Other thought with some distaste, that Ophania could not hear her mind, as well.  The witch would have been at her throat eons ago if she had heard weakness in any second of any moment.  And in this moment, within this second, as she studied Dryst, the Other realized he was anything but weak…which enraged her silently inside and threatened her, both.

“Perhaps,” the Other said as she slid her backside forward and lifted her weight off of the edge of the writing table, “Perhaps…Mya…” (she paused to study Dryst’s reaction, which he cleverly concealed even deeper, she noted) “perhaps she is not yet consumed by me.  Not totally yet.  But you must know, young man, that each time I possess her being, I am taking parts of her will.  And eventually,” the Other continued in a methodical fashion, “eventually, I will consume all of her.”

“The girl is weakening,” Ophania lied, slurring the words as if her tongue was that of a snake.

“You see?”  It is already begun.” 

And with that, Dryst thrust his body upright, bullying the chair back from under his arms and sending it flying across the hall to careen into a reading table.  He lunged forward toward the Other, who smiled with a quizzical pleasure as she sat back down on the edge of the table, waiting for him to throw his anger upon her.  Ophania and her sisters hissed in excited anticipation, their eyes and skin coiling and bleeding over itself with rapid color changes.  Then, all at once when he was in the full heat of his fury and his anger had nearly descended upon the Other, Dryst stopped completely in his tracks, panting angrily and wide eyed a mere inches in front of the Other who snarled at him.

“Do it!  You can’t stand that I have taken her from you…do it!”

Listen silently, the butterfly suddenly purred into his ear, listen deeply.

And Dryst had heard.  His mind had opened in a fleeting instant and Mya’s voice had rushed forth, filling his lungs with the sweet sounds of her calling his name.  She was here.  She was whole and complete, inside the mountain, making her way in a throng of people, he thought, through what looked to be a passage way of some strange shape.  He squinted as if trying to see her location more clearly and when he did, he held her face within his eyes and gently touched into every part of her soul and knew, so completely knew the trueness of her, the trueness of them…and that this power hungry Other or Librarian or ultra bodysnatcher who stood before him was lying through her teeth completely.  

Dryst pulled back.  He bared his immense distrust and dislike of the Other with his eyes, with his breath, with his stance.  But he held himself back.

“You can save her.  You can save, Mya.”

It was Spence’s voice, now, coming in low and for the first time in what seemed ages, coming in calm and relaxed.

“Strike the Other down,” Spence urged the younger man.  “And save the girl.”

“What?” Dryst’s voice skipped out from his throat carried on the winds of confusion.  He stared at the old man, who stood with his face in between theirs.  He spoke in hurried tones but was far too relaxed in this setting, Dryst realized.  And the Other merely gazed at Spence, in amusement not with any degree of threatening or commanding…almost with a knowing.

“I should have finished you off completely,” he said looking past the glasses of the Other and into her eyes.  She laughed a taunting but gentle laugh.  Too gentle, Dryst knew.  Too familiar. 

“You could have saved your father,” the Other rolled her words out like a poisoned honey, “But you didn’t have it in you, did you, dear Spence…”

“What…” Dryst’s mouth moved slowly, jarred by the closeness, almost tenderness shared between Spence and this Witch.  “You know this witch,” he finally said, feeling suddenly like the floor had completely fallen out from underneathe him.

Spence rolled his gaze away from the Other and looked into Dryst’s face.

“She’s not a Witch, Kid,” he said, “You’re right…she’s a Librarian.  She knows everything.  And, yeah, I know her.”

“He came here to kill me,” the Other said.  “Can you imagine.  What a courtship.”

“For my father,” Spence said with some amount of remorse.  “To save him.”

“Yes, yes,” the Other patted the old man’s arm tenderly.  “A terrible disease.  The cigar smoking couldn’t have helped any with avoiding the finality of it all.  But,” she smiled grimly and returned her gaze upon Dryst, “your friend, here…my lover…”  Dryst’s eyes jumped out of their sockets momentairly before he could retrieve them.  Ophania cackled; the Other continued, ”You see, now, yes?  My lover…who brought you here so easily, so readily to me.  He couldn’t quite do it, when he was here not too very long ago.  You see, young man, the portal claims its owner.  And for reasons I will never understand –”

“It is of the twisted sickness in the Eternal Light,” Ophania spat.

“Hush, Ophania, hush,” the Other reprimanded mildly, then continued, “The portal rejected Spence when he came here to kill me…but of course, silly thing, he wouldn’t truly kill me.  He would have been killed in the act, and I…I would have gained all of his energy, including the key.  And he thought it worked the other way…that if he had killed me, he would have had all of the power of the universes and somehow would have saved his father.  A noble thought,” she said, mockingly, then squared her intention directly onto Dryst.

“The portal seems to have claimed you and your Mya as its owners.  The fool of a being seems to have entrusted two mere mortals with all of the magnitude of all of life’s knowledge and all of life’s creation.”  She nearly choked on her words, finding them so replusive to say.

Listen, the butterfly urged him, calling deeply to his core.  Dryst found his hand by his side, tingling with an energy from his pocket where the portal was kept secure and safe, but suddenly alert and readied for something, but what exactly Dryst wasn’t sure.  And while he listened to the Other drone on in her self-indulgent explanation, he shuttled his anger and surprise away and felt such a huge disappointment and near sadness for the man that Spence had been to the man that Spence had allowed himself to become.

“Well,” Spence said with no small amount of sarcasm, “since you let the cat completely out of the bag, the kid’s not going to kill you, now.”

“No,” the Other considered, “I expect not.  Not that impulsive and reckless, eh?”

“Not nearly,” Dryst growled in a low tone.

Spence chuckled mildly but with a tinge of sadness.  “No…no.  Can’t say that he is…even if he did punch through dimensions to save the love of his life.  Not at all unsimilar to what brought me here myself.”

“Oh so true,” the Other slurred through her response, “except the love of your life wasn’t capable of punching through dimensions to save you.  But that hasn’t stopped Mya from punching through our dimension to slip into the center of the Stream itself to save the love of her life.”

“Touching really,” Ophania snarled, “very quaint, I’m sure.”  And her sisters cackled and chortled with mocking laughter.

“But fear not, loyal Spence,” the Other said calmly, as she straightened herself up and adjusted her overly buttoned, tightly wound self, all the while eyeing Dryst as if sizing him up.  And all the while Spence nodded his head in small movements, his eyebrow lifted, his eyes heavy as if to say Kid, I’m sorry…it can’t be helped.

Dryst heard Spence’s thoughts and smiled with some pain.  “Yeah…”

“If,” the Other interrupted, “if he won’t willingly allow me to consume him – because that would be what you would be doing, blindly giving up your will and the portal, then we will remove it from him by force.”

“This is all a little bit too over the top, isn’t this?” Dryst asked and he wasn’t kidding, before adding “Sorry old man, witch, Librarian…it can’t be helped.”

 

 

 National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 24 total wordcount:  2700 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  47,070.  

Iconoclast Rising … 25

 

Ch 25 ~ The Way

 

“Try losing someone, kid, before you go thinking anything is over the top,” Spence said with a mildness that was completely contrary to his current state of mind.

“What do you imagine you’ll do?  What’s left?” Dryst asked.

“He didn’t mention,” the Other asked.  “He didn’t tell you along the way?  Why, he intends to change the course of time and of events.  Ironic, really.  My intention as well.  Just for a different purpose.”

“Spence,” Dryst whispered, ignoring the posturings of the Queen Witch, Librarian, the Seat of all Knowledge or whatever she/he/it was (Dryst was never entirely convinced the being itself had a gender to begin with).   He realized he should have been more afraid of her than he was at this point, but now that Dryst knew Mya was alive somewhere in the mountain (even though he was greatly distressed by the fact that she was in the mountain and worse, in danger’s way looking for him…but somehow he knew that she was safe), he sensed an energy about the Other that he found less fear-inducing and more perplexing. 

She seemed to feel a need to be right and in control at every turn…just because?   Dryst detected a false note of bravado.

“Let him rest,” he softly said, turning to the old man.

The two men looked at each other.  For once, the old man looked, well, truly old, more ancient than dangerous under the current circumstances.  But the most odd of all things was that Dryst had noticed something in the room that he hadn’t noticed before.  An aura threaded itself between Spence and the Other.  Connecting them, Dryst wondered, or existing for some other reason.  Was she a shapeshifter, a body snatcher, a control freak, an Eternal bent upon absolute power and control over all of life?  Or was she more directly knowable, not quite as mysterious, not quite as over-the-top while still being mysterious only in an entirely different way. 

Was she, in truth, an extension of Spence?

Dryst tended not to read into things, but it was staring him straight on, and in this case, she happened to have her hair pulled back in the tightest bun he had ever seen, yanking her eyes into slits that tugged themselves away from her face.  With hair like that who needs botox, he thought, but more stubbornly continued to chase after the puzzle:  was she an overly-amplified physical manifestation of Spence’s feelings surrounding the loss of his father?

The expression in Spence’s weary eyes clearly said yes. 

Dryst’s broad chest heaved just a bit, stemming from relief, worry, astonishment?  He didn’t know.  All that he suddenly knew was that this entire Event appeared to be all about the old man’s grief and his willingness, or not, to believe in the goodness that still remained in life.

Much more, the butterfly purred seemingly out of nowhere. 

Dryst heard the creature but glossed quickly over his words, teasing out answers instead to questions of Why are we here, why May, why me?

All about so much more, the butterfly persisted, its voice bubbling up into a gentle song that only Dryst could hear.  Hear Dryst did, knowing that the meaning behind those words would make itself known when it was meant to be known.

“The Clan of Ophania?  Also you?”

Spence shrugged.  “I’m not entirely sure of any of this, but if that’s how you want to see it, then yeah, kid.  Not exactly one of my better sides.  They have a bit of road rage in them.”

Dryst nodded, and the Clan of Ophania and the Other and Spence quietly closed circle around him.  But really, Dryst knew, it was mainly Spence — it was only Spence — claiming ground, putting all of this in motion.

“The Stream is real, kid,” Spence said smoothly, his weariness battling on and off of his face.  Dryst could see deep gashes around the old man’s eyes from the strain of wanting so badly to have the power to undo the past.  How long had he carried this burden around with him?

“When I first came across the Stream, I held the key,” he continued, and cast his focus around Dryst’s pocket, apparently knowing where the portal lay safely tucked away on his person. 

“It brought me this far.  Surprising as that was.  And then even more surprisingly, it seemed to release these parts of my energy.”  He tilted his head in the direction of the Other, who stood by studying her fingernails and smoothing every last tight strand that wrapped around her head.  “Funny,” he laughed in quiet amusement to himself, “how some of my thoughts look when they’re personified.   The good, the bad, the all.”  He motioned his head, then, in a broader sweep to indicate the Clan.

“Like I said…not too sure about them, but, hell, in this place? It wouldn’t surprise me.  Besides, they seem to know me too well.”

“Perhaps you’ve said enough,” the Other interrupted, behaving in a slightly more aggitated manner, and Ophania snorted loosely, watching the Other with keen interest…watching her even more closely than she had been watching Dryst.  Dryst thought the Other’s bun might pop or her collar snap open from the unease she suddenly seemed to be battling.  The Other and Ophania seemed to be at some kind of opposition for the first time since Dryst had encountered them.

The air grew thick with tension with no sound except for the tree roots in the sky coiling around each other and spreading against the backdrop of the purple-grey sky.

Between snarls from Ophania to the Other and back again, Spence wearily eyed the younger man.  Oblivious to the two Eternals – or whatever they were…the two strands of his thoughts – Spence narrowed his voice and said, “What’s it gonna be, kid.”

“Not what you would have it be, Spence,” Dryst said with tenderness.  “You won’t have the key by way of my free will.  And you won’t have it by way of force either.”  He paused, while secretly marshalling his adrenalin and readying his muscles.  Something was about to erupt.  He didn’t know what or how or where.  But even if it didn’t, Dryst was getting Mya and they were going to get away from Spence’s ill-intention.

“The girl is weakening,” Ophania suddenly hissed, looking squarely at the Other, making it abundantly clear that the ‘girl’ she was referring to – perhaps all along, Dryst realized – was Spence’s Other.

“You don’t really want this,” Dryst said in urgent tones, winding his voice between the sparkling energy that began to build from Ophania to the Other.  They were locked into some kind of battle, oblivious to Dryst and even, by all appearances, even Spence. 

She cannot hold.  Her will has usurped my authority for all this time, but she cannot hold.  Ophania muttered in her mind, not caring if the Other could hear the witch’s thoughts because the witch knew it to be true that the Other wavered.

Spence wavered.  He seemed increasingly worn.  Dryst studied him carefully, following the threads of the aura that reached across between the two, hearing the threads bristle from strain.

“Spence,” Dryst called his name urgently.  The old man hunched over against the desk, caught in the middle of indecision.  He looked at the kid from under his eyebrows, and when their eyes made contact, Dryst whispered, “Give up the ghost.”

At that moment, the Clan of Ophania slithered their focus upon the co-mingled genders of Ophania and the tightly wound Other.  All in the room seemed to be oblivious to the two men.

“You never belonged here,” Ophania growled between here teeth and seared her gaze between the Other’s eyes.

A slightly forced cackle broke into the middle of the room.  The Other adjusted her hair and clawed at the buttons that looped her collar so mercilessly around her neck.  “And you,” the Other said, with a show of balance and a display of unsteadiness that equalled the impasse Spence found himself at within his own mind, “You are but a wisp of thought brought to life not by your own doing but by all of life’s creation, the very place you seek to deny.”

The edges of the collar of his worn jacket chafed at Spence’s throat.  His fingers pulled listlessly at the fabric to open up a passage, to air his insides out, to breathe.

“You made it this far,” Dryst said to the old man, as he moved rapidly toward him and grabbed him around the back of his arm, pulling Spence — weary and heavy as if overloaded with burden — to his feet…away from the desk, away from the unfolding clash between parts of himself, or between only one part of himself against some other essence (the Clan and Ophania) that had emerged from the Stream at the same time when the Other had been released from Spence’s mind and become manifest.

Dryst ran with Spence, dragging him and nearly carrying him, as fast and as he force his powerful body to physically haul them off.  His words ricocheted out of his lungs when, under his breath, Dryst said, “And you’ll make it back with us too.

Humhaaa, Ophania exalted, “enough words!” and she lunged forward into a raging battle with the Other.

 

National Novel Writing Month (even though Nov 30th has come and gone):  Chapter 25 total wordcount:  1550 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  48,620.  

University of Kentucky SL Art

Before I write a post about NaNoWriMo, I wanted to dwell a bit on the visual.   But before that, I just have to say that even though I don’t have 1600 words to write today, I’m still very much conditioned into pressing the “write new post” tab, whether or not the words are there to write.   I suppose I could write about the strategy session today at work, which, by the end, resulted in a complete mishmash of terms…but that would just make me want to go sell pencils or paint a wall, or do anything else that is obviously tangible.  (Like visiting SL builds and practicing picture taking.)   But come to think of it, writing a novel can be very much like strategy…you have to envision it all. Sometimes even before the words are on the page.   Oh hey, check this out…the Write or Die writing tool…now *that* little gizmo would have driven me right over the edge, particularly the feature of erasing characters when the writer stops writing.   (Uh…oh my god?)

 

So where was I?  Oh yes, the visual.   Several days ago, dear friend H turned me on to this incredible outfit that she had worn during the AU V fashion show; well, I ran out and snapped it up because the outfit is really a piece of creative expression more than anything else.  So feeling like a walking piece of art, I decided to explore the grid after trekking through fashion blogs and Peace on Earth locations in search of new designers, possible contenders for the Shengri La Vintage Marketplace.  Like everyone, one of the things I have always loved about SL is immersing myself in wonderful SL builds and experiencing the extensive creativity inworld.   Some builds, I visit on a regular basis…to watch as they change subtlely or greatly, but either way to feel as if it’s a new discovery each time.  Along the way, I try my hand at improving (ideally), but more truthfully, practicing (in actuality) my camera skills.  Here are some of the pictures from the AM Radio build for the U of Kentucky.  (By the way, the umbrellas in the picture swirl and blow along the road…it’s a wonderful dance to watch.   And the tree in the air reminded me of the upside down tree in my novel…although this build didn’t provide the inspiration.  The inspiration for the upside down redwood forest came from a little Japanese shop inworld, that had an upside down tree in the center of its shop, smiles.  It is so very cool.)

(Oooo…am struggling through this new WordPress dashboard, which somehow ate the photo captions after plopping the photos in the wrong spot on this post.  Suffice to say, the first two photos are of the Radio build by AM Radio, I think (am not sure) also for the U of Kentucky.)

Beneathe the Tree - AM Radio build for the U of Kentucky

 

Beneathe the Tree/Umbrellas - AM Radio build for the U of Kentucky

eneathe the Tree (Umbrellas) - AM Radio build for the U of Kentucky

Reflexive Architecture

…by Keystone Bouchard at 2nd Live

Reflexive Architecture at 2nd Live is a fun and fascinating architectural structure that interacts with you as you move throughout the build.  (Utterly reminiscent of something my very very dear and uber talented friend would envision and could create.)  Last night, we explored every aspect of the building, which isn’t large…but what it lacks in size, it more than makes up for in clean complexity, surprise, and imagination. 

Reflexive Architecture

It was difficult for me to capture the wonderful interplay between structure and beings (in fact I arrived early to try to do just that)…most likely because that interplay is something begging to be experienced in order to appreciate fully.  (And, no doubt, also because I’m still endeavoring to improve my picture taking skills.  Still takes me forever to set up a composition, so the “aliveness” of the building made the ready-aim-snap process even more challenging.)

Reflexive Architecture: In a stream of thought, the builder's rationale behind the build

Perhaps one of the most fun parts is the area where you walk into (and through) the description of the build.  The words literally stream by — and through and over and under — all around you, immersing you in a consciousness of thought (specifically, the builder’s thought process).   Talk about not having a loss for words…there they are, all around, smiles. 

Reflexive Architecture: In a stream of thought, the builder's rationale behind the build

But do go and wade through the building.  Along with the river of words, we found surprising corners of interaction — motion and sound and light and thought — that responded to our presence and movement.  (Check out the NPIRL post on this build, a blog that, like so very many, I feast upon for news of incredible places.)

Reflexive Architecture: In a stream of thought, the builder's rationale behind the build

Happy Holidays, Happy Life

You know…it really is a wonderful life. 

I wish I had something profound to say, but I don’t.  It’s more a deep feeling that I have.   But I can articulate enough to share what we all know…that this season is a beautiful reminder to celebrate the gift of this shared experience, to marvel at all the things, great and small, that bring us wonder and joy and, most importantly, to cherish and love those who journey together with us.

Warmest wishes for the happiest of holidays, for a continued celebration – in this season and always – of all of life’s gifts.  

Thank you.

 

 

The sketch of the forest animals is my rendition of a Lynn Bywaters illustration.  The photos in the video are from the Shengri La, Oubilette, and Wintermute sims, all in SecondLife(tm).  Pssst, Wintermute stays open only until December 25th, and both Shengri La and Oubilette sims appear to be thawing after the holidays, so hurry to see them all.  They are all gorgeous.

P.S.  One of these days, maybe I’ll learn enough in Photoshop to be able to create a card, smiles.

The New Year…Light, Life, Love

I was inworld today, this new year’s eve, spending a great deal of time simply thinking about the year.   In many ways, 2008 has been a year like no other.  It brought with it just about everything imaginable (and unimagined) from both ends of the spectrum…things that were exceedingly difficult (without going into detail, even traumatic in terms of RL tragedies; you’ll just have to trust me on this, as I’m not one to go into specifics on the internet even though there’s nothing wrong with doing so).  But mostly, I focus on those happenings and persons who far, far exceed the miraculous…the rare and amazing persons who share with me the beautiful, incredible gifts of themselves.  For them and to them, I am beyond grateful, beyond moved, beyond joyful.   You know who you are.  And you know why.  And you know words fail.  And still…I thank you.

In the midst of what really amounted to a day of deep reflection (even while I poked around looking at tattoos and other apparel not normally in my closet),  I absentmindedly clicked through a number of group notices of parties and events.  One of them caught my attention.