Nova Mythos ~ Britt & Mora

Under a velvet sky of jet, ablaze with a billion silver stars, a man and a woman sat facing a campfire. Britt scooped a handful of sand and watched it slip through his fingers. The wind played with the sand as it struck the ground, making it dance.
“The sun will be up soon,” he offered.
“Tell me a story,” Mora said, her voice soft as reeds in a stream.
“Once there were four guys in the desert. Four turbulent and troubled individuals. One was named Reason, another named Magic, the third named Poetry, and the last one named Art,” Britt began.
“All men, no women?”
“All right three men and a woman . . . named Art. That’s short for Artilina. They were regents in their own right and owned many things of great beauty and worth, yet they were unhappy. They had come to the desert to forget the future and deny the past. The man called Reason had concluded that he was disconnected from everything else in the universe. Magic had become dark and filled with dark visions of pain, blood and decay. Poetry had become a diseased lover, perverted beyond recognition. Art had become disfigured in a war and could no longer bring herself to think of anything but her own despair.”
“Heavy overtones there . . .”
“I’m making it up as I go along,” Britt replied.
“That’s what frightens me,” Mora said with just the hint of a grin.
“Well they traveled for seven days without incident. On the eighth day they met a young man full in his prime,” Britt said.
“What was he wearing?” Mora asked.
“A loin cloth,” Britt answered.
“You wish . . .”
“Hush a minute, this is my story. Well Magic spoke first saying in a loud voice ‘I am death and life, how do you greet me?’, and the man replied ‘I embrace you.’ Wrathful with the man’s response Magic grew wings and talons and attacked the man. The man ducked and slapped at the thing that attacked him. In the battle the man lost his right eye, but finally he managed a grip on Magic’s throat. He pulled Magic up to his face and looked deep – with his remaining eye – into the eyes of Magic, only to find that there was nothing really there.
Next Poetry came up to him and said ‘I am your lover and your disease, how do you greet me?’, and the man replied ‘I dance with you.’
Poetry began the dance. He rippled and flowed in the sun and the man kept step. Often it seemed that Poetry would outreach the man, but then the man would pull from some inner oceanic soul and keep the step. The two blurred into one form and it was hard to tell one from the other. In time Poetry gave out and fell dead on the sand. The dance had badly hurt the man and he could barely stand.
Art came to the man and looked up at him with fearful eyes ‘How will you greet me?’, she asked. The man did not answer. “Will you not speak to me?” she cried out but the man felt he had no business with Art and so she died in hopeless despair.
Upon seeing their lifeless forms, the man, stricken with guilt, sought to flee. He feared that Reason would exact punishment on him for his part in the demise of Magic, Poetry and Art. He feared that he deserved it.
The man, half hobbling, ran and Reason ran after him. Despite the man’s injuries, they ran for a full day and a full night. Finally, unable to run any farther, the man stopped and turned to face Reason. ‘What have you to fear,’ asked Reason, ‘for I have brought you the things that you will need.’ Reason gave the man a new mechanical eye to replace the one destroyed by Magic. Reason gave the man a new knee joint that worked almost as well as the old one but the man still walked with a noticeable limp. Then Reason gave the man a heart augment device that would keep his blood rich and flowing. This did not keep the man from feeling guilt; but it kept the guilt from killing him.
The man took all these things and set off to wander the world. In fact, he wanders the world even now . . .”
There was a moment’s silence filled with the hissing flicker dance of the fire.
“What’s his name?” Mora asked.
Britt leaned back, his eyes dancing in the flickering fire light. “You tell me,” He said.

A Moment’s Quiet ~ Abigail and the Wind Wolf, part 3

“I am known as Kir H’dar. . .”

He is Talking!
Well he is talking inside her mind

Three days and he is mobile
He has lapped water but refuses to eat

“Where are you from?
Are there other wolves that fly?”

“You are called Abigail of the Seventh People
(His name for humans)
Will you please let me answer one question before asking the next?”


He is curled before a fire
And his grey eyes rest on her
He huffs

“I am from an alternate place
And yes, most things there fly.”

Her mind fills with flocks of rabbit/bird hybrids
Sky dragons that look like tattooed windsocks
And beautiful pups!
She claps her hands in delight

“Why won’t you eat?”

“Nothing here can sustain me
I will need to run the sky soon.”

He locks her eyes
“Thank you gentle one.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“As you wish
But I never undervalue a strong spirit.”

“What was the shadow thing?”

“They are the Wyern.
They feed upon the kindness of your heart.
I am a Tracker
I hunt them.”

“Why didn’t I know it was here?”

“The Wyern was feeding on you
Its kind are adept at such deceptions”

“Are there any others here?”

The balance of the shadows here are natural.”

“Will it come back?”

“It is quite dead. . .
Oh, I see, there could be others
I sense that they are not new to this world
And if one found you
Others might. . .”

“What will I do?
I don’t want to be food”

And he laughs
In as much as a wolf can laugh

“No one does gentle one.
Hmmmmmm I suppose you could track them.”

She stares

“You can see them now.
With a little training
A little fine tuning. . .
Who knows what is possible?”

Personal Mythos

I can not heal this wound
I fought and won
I limp home
Its never like this in the stories
It hurts

I lie down
I am descended into the Darkness
Screaming into the Darkness

At the threshold of this Nightmare
I meet the Dragon big as the World
A thing of Darkness and Myth
A coiling of smoke and a river of razor
Thousands of razor teeth
A hunger that has eaten up all the World
Hunger that has eaten even itself until
only the mouth and the hunger remain

I am there above the abyss
I run but run a men run in dreams
Its coming up behind me and I turn
I raise my weapons
And am cut to bits
I am falling into the abyss as dissociated bits
The Dragon was fragmented in the process of the struggle
and its bits also fall intermingling with bits of me

The bits are sad they have lost control and can never be re-assembled
The bits are in total darkness and there are no longer boundaries of self and other
The bits of dragon are intermingling with the bits of what used to be me
The roots of green things from the World of Light are burrowing down
into this dark place rich with the debris of what used to be me
The root tips that touch the parts of what were formerly me die
I can not nourish them
There are worms burrowing through the muck lining the bottom of the abyss
and when the worms eat the bits of me they choke and die
The worms decompose and become muck and rot
The currents of the waters stir the muck
Stir with torrential songs
And where the songs touch the muck that used to be me they die
I am death incarnate and there is great peace in this silence

Et’Orneina ~ Muse of the Night

Her kiss is the cool of the evening
Her belly arches from horizon to horizon
Tiny fragments of diamond and silver strewn
In constellations of velvet jet flesh

Her kiss does not deny the Day
Nor the many wonders of Light
Her kiss fills my thirsty mouth with moon wines
Her kiss zephyrs my sun drenched brow

I lean into the twilight skyline
She lifts me from my heavy feet
Lifts me over and above the Euclidean house boxes
Where men and women disassemble themselves

I lean into Her dream stream and become all fuzzy
Relinquishing all pretense of control
I release the moment so that I may know it
In her gentle embrace
I touch and become the stuff of Dreams

The injured PSI warrior, A’pollus

The injured PSI warrior, A’pollus
was reclaimed from the lip of the Abyss
but none among the healers can touch his wounds

And so he has come to reside
in the Halls of Remembering and Forgetting
The Catacombs, Archive of our civilization

He is fetal curled amid the racks and casques
Ornate treasure chests and schema scrolls
Curled amid geologic layers of parchment integument
A frail hero buried in history

Fear not
He is still numbered among the living
Though given the suffering of his Living Hell
One might wonder at the intent
Of those who would call such continuance a blessing
See he twitches
And given the nature of his nightmares
Were better he snap erect
and scream till all wind leaves his lungs
For how can there be sense in this kind of anguish

For all its discussion
Tells the body to avoid something
Hit your hand
Hurt your hand
Don’t hit your hand again . . .

But there is pain
Pain that makes no sense
Gut wrenching
Everlasting PAIN

And you have to ask
Where is the wisdom in this?

He turns
Speaks a verse

The Silver Aulos of B’ryDiage

In the undulating moon light
of the turquoise Koi ponds at night
Perchance in the play of shadow and light
the carved statue of B’ryDiage strokes her silver Aulos

What savage promises she whispers
what subtle gestures of charm and allure
He batters his hungry heart against the unyielding stones
dreaming of her knowing kiss

In the undulating moon light
of the turquoise Koi ponds at night
The enchantress sways both lithe and light
passions chanted in the notes of her silver Aulos

Perchance a trick of the play of shadow and light
subtle gestures of charm and delight
He batters his hungry heart against the unyielding stones
dreaming the knowing kiss of the nine strange muses of Regwen