The Binder and the Dark-spawn

Jenelle is sleeping on the couch. I sit in the chair, right beside her head.
Her demon is running back and forth across the back of the couch. It does that a lot when it’s bored.
It is a slither of smoke with oversized paws that conceal nasty little claws. I have seen it for as long as I have known her. It is my small talent/curse.
It’s time I spoke to it directly. The myst that makes me demon-proof is kinda thick and it take a bit of concentration to thin it enough to speak Hesirith. That, and it makes the shielding kinda itchy and cantankerous.
“You. . . on the couch.” It ignores me.
“Shac-akawak-naw wa-tokata. . .” That gets its attention.
My hand is on her arm before it can get back into her. “Sorry, old sport, but no.”
If it dissipates, then problem solved, one less of its kind.
It decides to try attacking me. Bad choice. The shielding holds. They hate it when I laugh at them.
By its actions it has created a relationship with me. I reach through the connection and grab it by the underside. They really hate that.
An hour of really pointless struggle ensues and the dark-spawn starts to run down. It can’t feed on either of us and I’m not letting it out, so its starving.
It whines for a while; threatens for a while more and at length goes silent.
“Now, little pup, I am sure you have heard of Binders. Yeah, it’s like that. I am gonna make a deal. Either you dissipate and leave this plane for all eternity or I bind you to something inanimate and throw it into the ocean.”
It tries to bite my face. I sigh.
“Son this is pointless,” and I find the part of me that does the binding.
The creatures speaks, “Hold thy hand. Lest you in haste bring a misfortune to all concerned.”
“You mean Jenelle?”
“She summoned me and in exchange for the gifts she gives me I provide her with. . . entertainments.”
“About that, I don’t care, leave now or be bound and learn to entertain fish.”
“You insolent human, if you knew of my master. . .”
“I am the Keewah of Sultac, Binder of Nethers and Dark-spawn. I am the Fear-god of your fathers and your master fears me. Stop the rhetoric and decide your fate.”
“She needs me. . .”
“No, she doesn’t.”
And it is gone, choosing dissipation above binding. Eh’.
Jenelle awakes and is dulled by the experience.

Within an hour she has thrown me out of the apartment. The last thing she said to me before throwing her cell phone out the window was, “How can I write now! I needed that inspiration if I’m ever do anything worth a crap. You did this to me, and I hate you! Never come back!”

So, I guess its true, you must be careful when you throw out a demon, that you don’t throw away the best part. . .

A Dragon and a Fire Angel Turn up in a Bar ~ D’l Kyrug

The Silver dragon says
“And so fair fire-angel
what has happened to your wings?”

“They got stuck in the gates
whilst I was trying to escape the forbidden gardens of desire”

“Hon, that has got to hurt
Not unlike the time I got my tail caught
in the tilt-o-whirl of love”

Nodding agreement the fire angel remains silent
swimming deep currents of memory in her thoughts

The Silver Dragon stamps his foot
shouts, “The Service in this place leaves a lot to be desired
Can”t a dragon get a drink in this dump?”

The fire angel turns towards him, eyes lowered
and hands him a silver mug with potent red wine
He looks confused but takes the proffered cup with appropriate reverence
and mumbles something in dragon
“You are One So Rare
most hallowed and revered. . .
When did you start tending bar?”

But out loud he says
“Thank you m”Lady
and may the day of your healing be hastened”
then he breaths fire across the beverage
The vapors spill over
Cause a fog to rise around all the patrons of the place
Most don’t seem to care
and the rest are smart enough to know better

He drinks deep
as only dragons are prone drink

Alive, the Breaking of Day ~ D’l Kyrug

Sunrise
or is it only the fever speaking to my sickened mind?

Sunrise
in tired eyes
and mist covers the lake
as shivers take my body once again

Choirs of angels
chorus of demons
deep harmonics of infrared and razor sharp ultraviolets. . .
Rainbows dance in the coming sun
I am weary
bleary and. . . strangely alive

Hands?
Yes. . .
Legs?
Oh yeah. . .
Let’s just sit here a bit

Darkness
holding on to my back
slipping around behind me
at the speed of dark
leaving its roots in shadows on me

Daybreak pours across the Face of the East
Golden liquid honey
cascading into my face, hands and
soul
Night retreats to the West

Oddly. . .
The cool of the Darkness
adds to the comfort of the Dawning Light

Balance

A glistening, glittering spider’s web touches everything
An array of light and shadow. . .
and somehow beyond understanding
I am alive

Alive!

T’alcydon – Teacher of Metamorphs

T’alcydon is a very clever . . .
Well he’s a dragon at the moment
In this particular pocket ‘verse called Easalin
T’alcydon can be a very clever teacher
a very clever Rukesayer

Mentor/tormentor
of the young Metamorphs
the young Tyros
He has walked the Seven pathways
Has Spoken the one True Tongue
Has known the whip of Light
and the Ice of Darkness

T’alcydon knows
That not all actors are metamorphs
But all metamorphs are actors
Knows that the problem of the metamorph
Is that you never really know
your own True nature
Never really know
if you’re faking
He Knows
That young metamorphs
are the most dangerous

He knows this
And loves them . . .
every one

the Lady Kaila and the Idiot

My hands cold
elbow deep in the mists of a dark winter’s night
under a moon the color of polished silver

She had insinuated herself
into the statuary of the icy garden
Barely perceptible. . .
A pale silvern flame
aflicker in a lustrous wonderland adorned
by the Fae in the service of the Ice Queen

The fresh fallen snow swallowed the echoes
of the whole of the World
and lent a featureless virginity to all things here below the night sky

Her voice comes to me
like someone at a distance
Saying
‘I am innocence reborn
and the dying breath twined around your name. . .’

I answer
‘You shame me now for I have ever been hidden in potentiality
I am pages as yet unwritten
parched and dry for want of ink’

She gestures to a hidden horizon beyond the garden wall
‘You shall render me gravely
if I leave you to your poetical devices
Come
Dance with me’
She steps down from her pedestal
Extends her hand

‘I can never write all that I feel
and so I am captured
hated
wasted
Spread across time like a rope of wine’

She stops
Her dark eyes glisten
‘Oh youth I would allow your caress
that I might remember a fever
Remember a night where Nux spread her belly across the vault
from one horizon to the other
And then you were a lad much as you are
pulsating, hot, raw
tormented
But tonight you are all I have’

‘Lady I might not have the heat to melt you
and then what of me?
I will surely disappoint you
and your ire is something of legend. . .
Is there another sport that you might like?’

She took the whole of the sky into her arms
‘All the world is here in this moment
and the darkness of the skies
is the silence that falls between Lovers
The silence between heartbeats
There is madness in the way of Lovers
Dissolve into my passion
Into the alchemy of my soft touch
and you shall be transformed
Transmuted into a more eternal art’

‘I could never endure the light of morning
I am
and always was a shadow
hiding from the fingers of the coming dawn’

I have displeased her

She is the breadth of a hair from my face
‘Release me from my winter heart my darling
Torture is being this near and yet so far away
You were ever my Love
We are etched in stone and starlight
You have but to take my hand. . .’

Her hand seeks to brush back my hair
causing it to turn white and brittle
I lean away
‘Where does the cold come from?
Whence the Sun, the moon and the Stars
The wind
the sea
me?
I can not embrace you
I do not belong to even myself. . .’

Her look is savage
her look is despair
her face turns to marble even as I watch
and something eternal leaves her

She says
‘Forgive me
I longed to see the sunlight in your eyes
to touch the moonlight in your hair
I desired one last kiss of starlight falling from your love-filled mouth’

She turns

She turns and she is gone

The Kingdom of Trump

by William C. Burns, Jr.

In the kingdom of Trump there lives a king who is never wrong.
Perhaps some clarification of terms would be best here at the start. To say that the king lives is one of those facts that are true, but only barely. Oh, the king was a brave young hero in his day. He ascended from the fields of Sport and gathered the Kingdom of Trump like a meteor in reverse, a rock hurled from the bosom of the Earth by titanic forces, a challenge flung at the Moon. It is a matter of record that when he spoke his eyes blazed with some mysterious animal magnetism and people were transfixed. They say it was the breath of Spring incarnate to hear him. That you would look into his face and know that he had traveled from far distant places just to speak to you personally.
However that was long ago, a very long time ago. Oh, the man still stands, still moves about the grounds, still speaks. But there is not one who believes that the man’s soul is still contained within the ambulatory husk. Perhaps you think me too severe and perhaps you are correct. I offer only that which I have personally observed and surmised. I have always sought Truth above all else and if speaking the Truth as I know it brands me as the curmudgeon of this place, then so label me and let’s move on.
It is more accurate to say that the man, while not alive, is simply undead. There is considerable reckoning about the deals that he must have struck to attain so much in so short a time, but these deals are always negotiated far from public view, so there can be no record of them. I wasn’t there, so it is hard for me to speculate what is fiction and what is fact.
Further clarification of terms, to say the king is never wrong, is not to say that he is often right. Over the course of time he exiled and destroyed any who might not enthusiastically agree with his every whim. Which on the surface of it would seem to lead to a world that is more sane and secure, but as is often the case in this Universe the obvious is often not the case.
All through Trump there runs a deep disquieting fear of mistake. There is no adventure, there is no progress, only one source of new ideas was allowed and any sprout or burgeon that tries to poke though the concrete floor of the world is immediately sequestered or cut away in its tender stage.
Perhaps the funniest thing was the way everyone in the world tries to pretend that it is a democratic and enlightened place, not unlike moles trying to convince each other that they were in fact flying mammals living interesting and challenging lives in a sky wide with promise and untroubled by clouds.
Anyone who ventures a discouraging utterance is reprimanded in haste, lest the trees and stones hear. Continued discourse always brings heated demands for repentance, lest the offender be branded (quite literally branded with a hot iron) ‘not a team player’.
This does not mean that there exists no protocol for curmudgeonsious exchanges, there is. One simply has to follow the unwritten rules for such things. Any complaints about any thing are only mentioned quietly, in a hermetically sealed room, at the stroke if midnight, in the middle of February.

Miria – Songs of the Sea Witch

She is not of this place
Sea foundling
Cast upon this shore by some petty god

And who can name her gods
Who can fathom the gods that would cast such a one
on the shoreline of this far and foreign place
Who can say why she never speaks
or wear colors that other women . . . wear
Why she never submits
Who can say . . .

Oh she is lovely
In the way icebergs are lovely
and mostly hidden . . .
She is lovely
But her stare dispirits all the young men
All save one
One also not of this place
One named T’Alcydene
One who no longer lives
here . . .