portrait of a druid of the sea goddess

Indria is inwardly settled, the pickled dimples in her cheeks feather-kissed by a whimsical breeze, her pink smile touched by thankfulness for her life; the honesty of the sun; the waves birthing and dying on the prow of the ship.

She imagines the wind personified as a jolly fat Mawangi man laughing with great gulps and puffs of air, the ship coasting on his sweet/salty breath, the waves rocking the boat to the rhythm of his rolling belly.

Indria gives thanks for the sparkling sea, the silver rainbows of flying fish darting in and out of the churning froth, the grave and sombre albatross that rests briefly on the rail near her elbow, bobbing its head like a censuring finger, cawing long and low and seeming to say ‘now be good, be good now……………’

Indria hands the albatross a fish from her bucket and he is on his way.

She cleans her fishing equipment and scales the remainder of the brace of fish and heads below deck. Soon Indria’s sunshine is smothered by dank feverish shadows that huddle in corners and mop their brows. Down here the ship transforms into a floating coffin, the flames in the wall torches fluttering with seasickness, spewing greasy smoke in involuntary spasms.

The scullery offers what comfort it can, overwhelmed by the robust aromas of various salted meats, earthy root vegetables, dried herbs. Indria nods as she hands the bucket of fresh fish to the head cook. Thankfully the crew are able to pick up fresh fruits and vegetables whenever in port, and tonight they would feast on fried fish in lemon and garlic. She then heads over to the water barrel and whispers the incantation for creating pure water.

Later, when the food would be ready to serve Indria would return, at the cook’s request, and perform the daily ritual of thanks to Gozreh, backed up by a very practical cantrip of water and food purification.

Dinner over, finally in her cot, she cast Light and continued her latest letter to her parents.

Life was good.

Walter Slinky

The streets were dusty, dirty channels funneled between rickety buildings. Big guns, rough men and hard times flourished in the town.

Fights were plenty, suffering was free and most got by by making themselves really small.

The meanest of the alpha males was Walter Slinky. He would spit in your eye, spit on your grave, spit at your baby, and shite all over decency and good values. He was an Irishman who had learned the lessons of life early and found he liked them. He wore a signet ring symbolising a broken rainbow embedded in a pit of mud. A few of the more foolish folks around town had a permanent scar of this on their temples and jaws.

Walter's posse wore coats in shades of forest green. The more crazy minded of them sported a top hat normally only wore by gentlemen of a bygone era. The rest favoured grim expressions.

Truth and Lies - Mallory part 4

'Like I said Mr Treacle for all I know you are Santa Clause, and I don't work for fictional characters. Meet me and tell me your real name and I might be able to deliver you some presents.'


Silence had a conversation with itself over the phone.

'I can't. No wait, alright. But it will have to be tonight. In the meantime good sir, please I implore you to track down the owner of the watch. My friend, I am so worried about her.'

'I need names Mr Treacle. I'm not walking into unknowns.'

'Yes alright, but I have to go now. can we meet at the Lenora cafe at 8:30 tonight?'

'Be there. I'll look for a red cape and a man bellowing 'ho ho ho''.

'Thank you Mr Mallory. Goodbye.'

It looked like it was going to be one of those kind of days. Which means it was pretty much like yesterday, and the day before. Mr Treacle's motivations were as syrupy as his name, but that didn't mean he was a bad guy. Most people learned to give away as little as possible in this dog eat dog town.

The deli that sold my bacon rolls was on the way to the pawn shop where the watch was last seen. Time to line the stomach with a little grease.

One Horsehoe Town

Lacey made smoke signals with his cigar and lay the cards down. Straight flush. No one moved, not even Crooked Ken who was down to his last dime.

Lacey pulled the winnings toward him without taking his eyes off the boys. Baker ruffled his mustachio and rearranged his great belly, a bull walrus about to charge, but in the end backed down.

Lacey’s legs hoisted themselves up. He spared one hand to remove his cigar, ‘Be seeing you, gentlemen’, then with the skill born of plenty of getaways, walked backwards out of the saloon, never taking his eyes off the poker table.

tbc, the remainder of this piece was lost to a blackout.........

Universal Language

image source: http://www.designswan.com/archives/mysterious-crop-circles.html

Universal Language

The horses danced in formation, circles within circles. All fell back to the sidelines, except for one. He trotted forward, black oil in motion, seal hide translucence reflecting the moon. He circled, and backtracked, and shimmied sideways.

His tracks padded an image. It was a perfect visual representation of pi, a circle mutated to look like a maze, to represent up to pi’s tenth significant digit.

The jungle was forever reclaiming its territory, and the monkeys weeded and plucked the encroaching army of vegetation. When finished, they joined hands and circled the pit, laughing and whooping and calling. Their hands went into the air and grabbed the sky and pulled it left, then right. They bent low and dragged their fingers through the silky dirt, swaying back and forth, before cross-connecting fingers with their fellows and humping their asses onto the ground, scrabbling forward onto their backsides until they touched toes, a circle shaped from primate digits. They sprung perfectly, vertically into the air, catching onto the overhead branches. Their patterns in the dirt mapped the constellation of Orion.

The pair of ostriches dragged the twenty or more palm leaves of water into the trenches by the side of pit. Their leap into the air was magnificent, the perfect ballet partners. They began their mating ritual dance, repeating it in each corner of the pit, feathers puffed, waxed and waned, upright on clawed toes. They completed with a bow to each other before fading into the background. Their toe marks had left drawings in each corner. One was of a humanoid, of a million years before. Protruding jaw, overbearing brow. The others, well, one appeared to be some kind of plant. Another could have been a type of structure. The other could have been a life form. Strangely, all of the drawings could have been representations of seaweed.

The audience, safe in their viewing chambers, observed the performance of the horses, monkeys, ostriches, and let their flippers glow with approval. After all, they were watching living beings that proved that life existed somewhere out in the universe.

Santa calls - Mallory part 3

Continuing on from http://lushcrucible.blogspot.com/2010/09/interesting-times.html

The phone on the office desk was trilling. Mallory resented the need for a phone almost as much as he did answering it.

“Mallory.” He knew his name covered all bases: the name of his detective agency, a name people could blame, or try and pressure, and name that didn’t give a rats.

“Mr Mallory, hello its Mr Treacle.”

Too early in the morning. Then again, trouble never sleeps, it always keeps one eye open for the sucker who isn’t looking over his shoulder.

“Mr Treacle, well it turns out you are a real person and it wasn’t just Santa Clause writing me a letter after all these years.”

“Yes I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you directly, you see, Mr Treacle is not my real name, I am afraid for now I just can’t come forward. I am, well compromised. I don’t feel safe.”

Sinburnt

Image Inspiration from http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2010/09/mag-31.html

Sinburnt

There was silence in her walk. When she turned and stopped to face the window, background noise slunk back into the room, forgiven for its intrusion.

I sat there and rubbed my hands together, feeling the flakes of loose skin fall away. Sinburnt.

Not allowed to hate myself. Not to embrace the cold, still day, to expire.

I did not create myself. Responsible, but.

I walked away, walked out the door, but she was there before me, before I could move.

Time was in schism, breaking moments to reset them.

I hung my head.

I could cut off my hands. Falling to the floor, bloody but inert. Defused. My tools gone, no future mistakes.

The radio in my head crackled to life “you do it to yourself you do, you and no one else.”

The walls erupted with sights. Other people’s. I turned away, but it was everywhere.

The diorama lapped at my feet with its tongue. Puppies were borne, were walked as dogs, were put down in old age. Books were written, and then burned. Civilisations rose and fell. And fell. And fell.

I picked up the paint brush. Broke it in two. My tools destroy this tool.

She handed me another. Her back was to the window now. She shone from without. From within. Her shadow wrote her name on the floor. Fate.

You did not create yourself. You are already forgiven.

I painted her image. It took years. Paintings Fell. And Burned.

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*please note that "you do it to yourself you do, you and no one else" is from the Radiohead song 'Just'.