The Profane Brigade

A story in parts by: @black_canary02 and @entrebat:

Fog of cool color. Hovering blue mist covers. Hides as it reveals.
	Gun smoke rises now revealing the battlefield. The dead have blank stares.
Shambling readiness awaiting the loud horn-call. Jaws slack. Need to feed.
	Uniformed bodies once festooned in blue or grey crave the taste of red.
Past Appomattox. Tattered uniforms dodder. March no longer heard.
	Generals knew not how the dead rose up to fight. Calling for men's flesh
What call do they hear? All awareness is hunger. Gnawing ache to feed.
	Gabriel's trumpet sounding off in righteous blasts. United, they feast
Flesh torn from live limbs. Screams and sounds of gluttony rends metal-tinged air
	Seals undone, broken. Angels no longer weeping. Reapers fear to tread.
With a great rumble the earth is ripped asunder. Warriors called home.
	Blood calls out to blood. The valley burns in decent. Ash floats on the wind
Falling in the rift, spine-chilling cries fill the air. Quickly extinguished
	The howls of death fade. Once again, the living breathe. Their path ever clear.

Love, Or Something Like It

“What do you mean, you like him?” Victor stopped digging and chucked the shovel out of the hole. It landed on the loamy ground with a soft thud. Sweaty and caked with the ripe smell of rich earth, he pulled himself out from the grave and stared at Mia.

She couldn’t like him. What the fuck did he ever do besides run around and brag about his big dick. Stupid slut of a man-whore that he was. Chris fucking Palmer. Ass-hat.

“Don’t be like that.” Mia twisted in the fog. Victor could sense more than see her bite her lip.

“Like fucking what?” Victor brushed the dirt off of his face.

“Come on, Vic.” Her pleading voice was more of a whine. Victor hated when she pulled that penny-ante shit on him. “You know, he’s just so,” Mia trailed off still twisting around the shovel she was holding.

“Yeah, I fucking know,” Victor began to shake off the grave dirt from his clothes. It was too fertile, too rancorous, too clingy. It was like Mia at times.

“If you’re gonna be like that, I’m not going to help you.” Mia let the shovel drop onto the ground and folded her arms across her chest.

“For Christ’s sake, Mia.” Victor walked over to her and put his grimy hands on her shoulders. He could see the patented pout starting to form on her face. He could smell her scent through the earthy and moist odor that permeated the graveyard. He could feel the tension in her shoulders.

Goddamnit! You can’t like him. You’re supposed to like me!

“That guy is no good Mia,” Victor spoke in a whisper to her. “He’s got a reputation.” He lifted her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “He’s seeing Dawn Cook from Washington High, Jen Cunningham from Lynwood, Sheila House from …”

“Enough, Vic.” She pulled away from him, “Just, enough.” Mia wiped at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoody. Victor could hear a sniffle. He moved towards her again, “No! Let’s just get the body to your dad’s lab.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to come off like that.” Victor grabbed her shovel and tossed it near the other one. “He’s just such an asshole.”

“I know Vic.” Her voice was steady. Mia looked up from underneath the hood and smiled at him as she handed him a crowbar from the duffle bag full of tools near the grave. The dampness of the fog made her hair start to turn curly. Her pale face was like porcelain.

Fuck! How can she like him?

“What does your dad do with them Vic?” She asked as Victor jumped back into the newly dug grave ready to open casket. “It’s always been fun and all seeing what their damage was,” she said obviously indicating the corpses that they got for his father, “but what’s his damage?” this time indicating Victor’s father.

“You know,” Victor shoved the hook end under the seam between the lid and the coffin, “I’m not even sure what his addiction is to these fucking things.” He leaned into the crowbar, using his weight to leverage the lid open.

Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe.

The lid opened with a fog-muffled crack just as a clod of smelly dirt and grass hit him in the face. Victor inhaled to let loose the profanities when the taste of long dead flesh entered his mouth followed by the smell of rot. Somewhere in there was the distinct aroma of the coffin flies. Victor wanted to retch. He could hear Mia giggling above him.

Bitch.

“Sorry Vic,” Mia smiled down on him like a Valkyrie waiting to take him to Valhalla. It was all bright teeth, pale skin and black makeup framed by raven locks. “Besides, you deserved it.”

“No I fucking didn’t!” Victor spat out the bits of dirt that seemed to get into his mouth. Flies buzzed out from the coffin complaining about the rude intrusion of their feeding and breeding ground. Victor swatted at them aimlessly. “Christopher fucking Palmer is an ass-hat and you know it!” He glared up at her. “I don’t even know why you’re friends with him with how he acts.”

“Ugh!” Victor watched he patented eye-roll as she moved out of view. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Uh, no!” Victor worked the lid open. He could hear her setting up the portable winch so the two could lift the body out from the coffin. “Why don’t you break it down for me?”

“God!” The clanking of the metal stand being thrown down filled up the space above Victor. He felt the angry footsteps coming up to the grave. “You are fucking brain dead Victor Ingram!” Victor looked up at her. “You may as well just take, what’s his name?” Mia paused to read the headstone, “Russell Edwin Long’s place after we get him up!”

“What the hell are you going on about now?” Victor kept batting at the flies.

“The fact that there’s this saying floating around and you don’t even have a clue!”

“What saying?”

“Victor Ingram,” she was using a calmer and more confident voice. Victor had never heard it. “A friend is who you call to help you move. A good friend is who you call to help you move a dead body. A very good friend is who you call to dig up a dead body.”

“Huh?” Victor looked up at her again. “So you’re my very good friend. I already knew that.”

“You are dense.” Mia crawled down into the grave and stood next to Victor. “Very. Good. Friend.” Mia punctuated each word with a forceful kiss onto his grimy mouth. “Get it?”

Fuckin-A!

Victor pulled her close and kissed her deeply standing above the body of Russell Edwin Long. The taste was of strawberries.

“Besides Vic,” she said when the two briefly stopped, “Chris Palmer is only good for sex, he’s a total ass-hat.”

Princess

Lindsey was already mad at Kirk. He was supposed to call her about dinner earlier, and as usual, blew her off. She had a feeling that he in the house lost in that damned Halo ODST game again. Ever since he had bought that game, Kirk had been playing it nonstop. There was always just one more level, just one more save point to go. She had really had enough and tonight the XBOX 360 disc was either going into the trash or find itself in several shards. Lindsey thought about it and decided on both choices.

She just didn’t understand why he had to be like that. Lindsey always made time for him and his friends and their interests. It wasn’t as if she didn’t take an interest in his job or family. Just last week she had stopped by to visit Kirk’s mother to take over some brownies on one of her rare night’s off.

Juggling baking brownies between two jobs and having a life with Kirk and having to deal with his friends over all of the time was difficult enough. Trying to manage to get some time with her best friend to loosen up as well as planning the wedding that was in eight months was taking its toll, and now to be blown off again for that video game? She was going to let Kirk have it. It was just inexcusable.

The plan was to have dinner and catch the revival of Shirley Temple’s The Little Princess at the Jackson. Lindsey was still fuming when she slammed on the brake to stop in front of the house. Her Acura lurched on the rocks and dirt that made up the driveway. Kirk’s dilapidated Gallant was already parked, of course. Lindsey threw open the door and killed the engine. She had a thought to slam on the horn just to give Kirk a warning, but a smile crossed her face as she thought of the ecstasy she would feel by ripping the disc out of the console and smashing it against the wall.

She placed her palm on the hood of the red Gallant as she passed it to the front door. It only had the residual warmth that came from being parked in the sunshine. He hadn’t even gone to work!

“Fucker.” Lindsey blew out the word as she clenched her jaw.

Putting the key into the lock of the deadbolt, Lindsey didn’t feel the familiar resistance of the tumblers against her key. The door was unlocked. She could hear the sounds of something loud coming from the upstairs media room. Lindsey threw down her purse and began to stomp up the stairs.

The sounds were loud, but it wasn’t that stupid ODST game. They were words, dialogue.

“I insist that every room be searched.”

“Sara. Sara.”

“Daddy?”

The lines jogged harshly in Lindsey’s memory. They were from The Little Princess. Why would Kirk be watching that movie here when they were supposed to be going to the Jackson to be watching it on the big screen? She kicked the door open with her foot to startle Kirk. The volume was so loud that he couldn’t have possibly heard her coming into the house or even up the stairs.

“Kirk, what the…” Lindsey stopped. The TV and XBOX were off. Kirk was sitting in his NEO Boom chair staring at the black screen with a blank look on his face.

“Daddy? Oh, daddy. I missed you! I found you! I found you! They said you were dead, but I know you weren't. I knew you'd come back. Oh, daddy. Hold me. Hold me close. You won't ever go away again, will you? Will you, Daddy? What's the matter, Daddy? Why don't you talk to me?”

The voice was so loud. Lindsey could almost feel Shirley Temple’s high pitched voice reverberating in her head.

“Sara,” Kirk whispered, slack jawed and bleary-eyed.

“Don't you know me, daddy? I'm Sara. I'm Sara.”

The reverberations of the tiny voice assaulted Lindsey again as she walked into the room and around Kirk and his video game chair. Lindsey stopped when she saw the doll. The antique porcelain-faced doll was sitting in Kirk’s lap.

“Sara. Where is my daughter?” Kirk moaned.

“Kirk, what the hell is going on here?” Lindsey screamed at his near comatose form. He didn’t respond. His look was centered on the dead television.

“I don't believe it. I don't. I don't. My daddy has to go away but he'll return most any day. Any moment I may see my daddy coming back to me.” The doll turned its head and stared at Lindsey, it’s blank gaze intense. “And now you’ve ruined the ending. We shall have to start over!”

Lindsey’s head was spinning. The small eyes tore through her. She couldn’t move or run away. Lindsey couldn’t take her eyes off of the small thing that was being held by her fiancee. The tiny voice echoing loudly in her head, “We shall have to start over!” The small chuckles that came from the doll boomed in Lindsey’s mind.

“Yes, we shall have to start over,” Lindsey said knowing that she couldn’t resist the pull of the demonic doll reaching for Kirk’s hand.

“Why are they sending so many soldiers, Daddy, if it's only gonna be a little war?” the doll’s voice echoed.

The Dance

A story in parts by: @black_canary02 and @entrebat:

	Blood-born memory Visions, urges -- murderous. The blade, licked clean, shines
Ancient rhythms call. Dancing, pounding sacred ground. Blood sings in response.
	Minds boil. Skin transforms. Mystic signs and portents blaze. Ignored, now found again.
Deeper dark Magicks, from the dawn of time erupt. Come to glowing life.
	Sing to the Ancients! Their price is not just a world. The stars are aligned.
Ancestral voices intone from primitive lobes, shouted to the stars.
	A great eye opens. Hearing what was once silent. Slumber breaks softly.
Grandfather of old reaches toward his grandchildren slowly gaining strength.
	Forgotten ghosts join. The singing can now be seen. Spectral voices rise.
Servants of the dead visible to the living join the danse macabre.
	Drumbeats pounding out. Feet stomping, shuffling, bleeding. The veil slides, weakened.
The dancers tire. Ecstatic energies spent. Spinning slowly down
	One by one, they drop. Life force traded for power. Visible rents form.
As night fades to dawn, they slink away exhausted. Power coursing through.
	Hallowed forces sigh. Mere Magicks were not enough. Portals slammed close.

If Wishes Were Fishes

Michael walked along the now dry extended beach that once was the Port of St. Croix. The stench of baking fish and seaweed filled Michael’s nostrils. The walk under the hot sun had put him in a bad mood.  He knew that there was no one else to blame but himself. The argument still hung in his mind as he fought back another bout of nausea as he rounded another capsized fishing boat.

“Come on babe, it’ll be fun!” Sheila’s voice echoed in his head. She wanted to see the old voodoo man selling trinkets.

“Why?” Michael wanted nothing to do with him. He sat in a handmade brightly colored shanty of a hut that sat along the boardwalk from their ship. It was an obvious tourist trap. Still, Sheila was drawn to the man.

“Ooh!” she cooed. “That’s pretty.”

“Here we go,” Michael rolled his eyes. The bauble was pretty enough to attract the wives in to the honey pot, but Michael really didn’t want to shell out any cash for the pendent. Cracked lips parted to reveal crooked and yellow teeth as the old man smiled up at Michael.

“One wish,” the ancient voice creaked out. “This very special.”

“Bull!”

“Michael!” Sheila slapped his arm in annoyance. “Don’t be rude.” Michael started to pull away from his wife only to be stuck fast. “Apologize.”

“No!” the old man still had the crazy smile on his dark skin. Michael caught Sheila’s stare and knew exactly what kind of grief he was going to be in later. “Fine, I apologize. How much?”

“Three hundred.” Michael frowned, paid the man, and grabbed the pendent.

“I wish that you, this old man, the ocean, the pendent, and just about everything else were all gone!” Michael kicked at baked starfish. “Stupid damn wish.”

In Memoria Tempest Cupido

Owen slammed the bulkhead door shut and spun the wheel to lock it in place. It wouldn’t hold back the poltergeists, but it made him feel safer. In a practiced move, Owen wrapped his hand around the handle of the knife strapped to his leg and jabbed the fingertips of his index and middle finger.

Crimson drops welled up out of the pink flesh. Sharp pangs of pain lunged up through Owen’s fingers through his arm as he pressed the bloodied fingertips onto the dusty metal quickly tracing the ancient Enochian ward onto the door.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” Owen began the incantation slowly, reverently as he formed the sign of the cross over the door. He could already hear the gang of spirits thrumming against the bulkhead door. Based on the reaction from the horde of former crew and past victims, it had been too many years since a live body of any species wandered the halls of the ‘Lustful Storm.’

The cargo hauler was drifting in space. No running lights. No answer to hails. It was a clean salvage. Owen should have known it was a bad sign. When Owen got to the engine room and saw that the Soul-Drive was still not only functional but also running to nearly 100% efficiency, the poltergeists still aboard the cargo hauler began their attack.

Owen ran the length of the ship in what seemed like seconds. The violence followed him. Ancient moldering mattresses and uniforms full of fungus were thrown from the crew quarters into the passageway. Bits of decayed flesh and bone permeated the thin air. Skin flakes hung suspended in the mix as if it were just one frame in a video.

Now, in a storage chamber near the umbilical from his own ship, Owen found himself turned around. He checked the map on the cipher-compass strapped to his wrist and rolled his eyes at the result.

“Perfect.” He was on the starboard side of the ‘Lustful Storm.’ His transport was on the port. A legion of ghosts bent on converting him into fuel was between him and escape. Owen looked at the bulkhead door and frowned.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi, pater. Quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opera,” Owen began the chant, summoning the ancient and powerful magicks that was taught to him before he left the Great Church. Owen could already feel it manifesting through him.

Glowing tendrils began to drift out from Owen, extending through his environmental suit. The light began to glow orange, reflecting the hue of the protective suit that he wore. The poltergeists banged on the door in more force. A small dent appeared on the door.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” Owen beat on his chest three times as he blamed himself for his past sins. He continued on beseeching the Holy Hierarchy, Mary, ever the Virgin, Michael, warrior of Angels, John the Baptist, Peter, Paul and whatever Apostles and Saints had the grace to hear his prayers.

More violent rage came from the other side of the bulkhead as the ghosts reacted to Owen’s words. The wheel in the middle of the door began to budge. One of the poltergeists seemed to remember how to operate the simple machinery instead of assaulting it through blind rage.

“Inclina, Domine, aurem tuam ad preces nostras, quibus misericordiam tuam supplices deprecamur. Ut animam famuli tu,” Owen halted slightly. The blessing was to call the names of the souls affected and trapped here. The Lord’s Blessing was strong enough, but Owen struggled. The prayer required a name.

“Tempest Cupido,” Owen translated the name of the ship in an attempt to address all of the souls aboard, “quam de hoc saeculo migrare jussisti; in pacis ac lucis regione constituas, et Sanctorum tuorum jubeas esse consortem. Per Dominum Nostrum Jesum Christum Filium Tuum, Qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus. Amen.”

The tendrils of power flowing out through Owen launched in all directions, touching all of the restless and violent spirits aboard. Owen could feel their pain and anger. He could smell the fresh meat on his bones. He could almost taste the fear ebbing from his sweat.

Owen saw the slaves in the engine room of the ‘Lustful Storm’ chained to the Soul Drive that powered the ship. He saw their throats cut supplying the necromantic lubrication for the machine to push through the folds of space-time. He saw the drive push through the barriers of the membranes to forge new pocket dimensions where the now useless flesh of the slaves would be deposited as their souls were sucked into the holding chamber. He heard the screams of the damned souls that were put into a mechanical hell that provided no relief.

“In those days I heard a voice from heaven, saying to me, ‘Write, Blessed are the dead , who die for the Lord. From henceforth now,’ saith the Spirit, ‘they may rest from their labors and their works do follow them.’” Owen dropped to his knees and began to scribble on the deck with the blood flowing from his fingertips. The names of the poor souls who were used for the soul of the ship rushed into his mind. Sweat freely flowed from Owen’s forehead as the mass of names assaulted his brain from the ether.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis.” Owen granted them peace. Another wave of energy flowed out through him and permeated the ship. The screams of the poltergeists echoed in response.

The blessing was working. Owen could feel the ghosts begin to accept the peace and grace of what should have followed their death. Their power was being reduced. Lights flickered as the Soul Drive made a noise that reverberated throughout the ship.

“Absolve, Domine, animas omnium fidelium defunctorum ab omni vinculo delictorum. Et gratia tua illis succurrente, mereantur evadere judicium ultionis. Et lucis aeternae beatitudine perfrui.”

Owen collapsed the deck as one last surge of light ran from his body.  It was finally done.

“A-fuckin-men.”

Ignis Fatuus

The feeling of déjà vu struck Nick as the smell of fuel washed over him.

It wasn’t just fuel though. There was oil, scorched plastic, and burning rubber. The watch chimed out bringing Nick out of his olfactory glamour. It was 3 AM outside of Happy, Texas.

Nick pulled over. He hadn’t had a vision that strong in years. White knuckles gripped the steering wheel. Ragged breaths came all too rapidly. He tried to remember the training. ‘In through nose, out through mouth.’ It was pretty useless.

Engine running, radio silent, Nick summoned the will to pry himself out of the car. Interstate 27 was clear, but the overwhelming scent of the car wreck wrapped itself around him as he stepped foot on the asphalt. Crumbling, he let the vision come.

The faces of the first responders were grey and fuzzy. Reflective tape was glowing on their vests. Flashing lights strobed out into the darkness. The heat from the burning fire made Nick want to run. The foul taste of fuel, car fluids, and rubber seemed to coat Nick’s tongue.

In an eye-blink, Nick was back on I-27, clear of debris. There was no raging inferno. There was no activity, only him and the old Accord that had been with him for too long. Nick backed away from the car, eyes widening.

“No,” he shook his head as his feet became tied up in each other. The massive noise came from an engine brake from down the straight towards Amarillo. Nick turned, raised his hand to the oncoming headlights. Nick saw the dust rise up from the road as the tanker truck careened rolling onto its side.

The lights were so bright.

---

The feeling of déjà vu struck Nick as the smell of fuel washed over him...

Tinkered

Peter Ullman looked at the sign that arched over the footpath. The bold and gaily colored letters spelled out “Madame Destiny’s Dark Circus and Traveling Sideshow” in a peculiar but legible font. It was painted to look like wood, but it was metal. Peter smiled up at the faded purple and bright crimson color. It was too long since he had been to a circus.

The Big Top was at the end of the pathway and was lit up with spotlights. To the right of the Midway was where the thrill rides were set up. A mild coaster was set up for the younger children called the “Ghost Coaster.” Some of the rest of the rides were knock-offs of other rides that Peter had seen all over the country. The “Danse Macabre” was sort of a modified tea-cup ride. The bumper cars were themed after the old Mother Goose  Rhyme, “Hickory Dickory Dock.”

Further back were the rides that seemed to bring the more daring towards the back of the carnival. The “Scream-O-Rama” put the riders up against a round wall and held them fast with centrifugal force. The spinning ride then pivoted upwards and dropped the floor out from under the thrill seekers. It was a white-knuckle grip for sure!

Along the left, were the barkers calling out to everyone that “Seeing is believing, friends!” or “Step right up!” Promises of conjoined twins of all species were spelled out along the walls of the enclosed stages. A hypnotism show was starting in a few minutes, according to a promising young man passing out flyers on the Midway.

Peter had to look twice at the young man. He had a familiar look to him. Sandy blond hair topped his head along with a fez that was skewed to the left of his ear. Cake makeup made his face a wash of white with exaggerated freckles. A blue diamond over his right eye seemed to bring the character together.

There was something about him though. Peter couldn’t quite place his finger on it. He took the blue piece of paper as the youth smiled up at him. Mass hypnotism and other magician’s tricks were outlined. Peter knew it was to get the easy marks into an enclosed space. It was all about distraction and misdirection.

Still holding the flyer in his hand, Peter heard the music from a squeeze-box over the din of the crowd and the barkers. Playing the squeeze-box and dancing thought the crowd was a striking woman clad in a what looked like work boots, striped leggings, and a skirt that seamed to be composed of random rags. The ruffled shirt and corset she wore accented her waste and arms as she pumped the squeeze-box. Her oval face was dusted with glitter and framed with pink hair. A silk top hat was affixed on her head with a pink hat band that matched her hair. A pair of brass goggles with dark lenses

She held a grace about her that Peter hadn’t seen. It was mesmerizing. She had either had lessons in dance, or was naturally gifted. Despite the boots, she was able to bound  and spin with ease. Wrapped around her right wrist was a leash attached to a similarly dressed Capuchin monkey with greying fur.

The crowd soon gave the woman room on the Midway as a circle formed around her. The monkey squeaked and squawked as it mimicked her movements. It held out the tiny matching top hat to the crowd and collected the coins and bills that the crowd threw to it.

Peter was surprised when he found his cheeks hurting from his grinning at the pair. The Capuchin pulled at the leash and guided the woman towards Peter. Her green eyes had flecks of gold that matched the glitter on her face. Black lines outlined her eyes both above and below, making them pop.

The pink-haired squeeze-box player smiled briefly at Peter and whirled around towards others in the crowd. The monkey followed collecting the money that was offered and screeching in thanks. Peter was transfixed.

As the pair came around for a second pass, the monkey crawled up Peter’s leg and stopped on his shoulder. Tiny hands grabbed Peter’s face and brought both he and the monkey both eye to eye.

Small brown brown eyes peered deeply into Peter’s own as if pondering something. From within an impossibly tiny pocket, the monkey brought out a piece of paper and waved it in front of Peter’s eyes.

“Okay, okay.” Peter chuckled at the monkey and took the note. Peter looked to the monkey’s master and saw her smiling. With a quick tug on the leash, both she and the Capuchin were gone from the circle and lost in the Midway crowd.

Peter found himself still smiling as the crowd dissipated. Long after the music faded from the squeeze-box and the din of the barkers returned, Peter remembered the note in his hand.

“Love to live in lover’s knots but live to love in why’s and why-nots? Passion need not be brief as passion’s told, but meet me in haystacks, sans briefs, if passions are bold.”

It was signed, “Tinker,” with a mark on the corner in the shape of pink lips where she kissed the note. Peter could feel the pressure in his chest build as his heart started to beat faster.

Peter made his way past the big top and towards the bails of hay and straw that were used to line the animal cages and sideshow stalls. In fever, Peter raced around the bails and stacks looking for Tinker.

“There you are,” came a voice that seemed to crawl under Peter’s flesh. Peter let out a sound that he didn’t recognize immediately. It was raw and guttural. He needed her. “My pet.”

Tinker reached out and slid her hand on Peter’s cheek. Day-old stubble brushed against calloused fingertips and painted nails. Tinker’s hand seemed to encompass his face, holding it gently, safely. He was lost within her.

“Shall we dance, my pet?” Tinker smiled down to Peter. Peter screeched in happiness as Tinker put on his leash and top hat.

Mr. Fogg and Mr. Glass

The mist was soft and grey. It seemed to hug the ground. More than a lover’s embrace, the mist clung to the moistness of the loam as if it were feeding. It happened often when the leaves started to change and the nights began to become something more than what they were. The substance of the air was deeper. The chill of the night was penetrating. The darkness, seemed to be increasingly more velvet and stark. Even at this twilight as dawn was coming into being, the atmosphere carried something more than what it did before. It was full of expectation.

Hidden trees stood in slight contrast of the mist. The muddled shadows that were made seemed to only increase the melancholy bleeding from the mist as the slowness of dawn came. If one were able to communicate with the trees, they would have warned in whispers to run and keep away from the mist. They had seen it before when they were younger and more supple. A breeze stirred high in the branches causing a gentle rain of crimson leaves to fall too slowly through the mist. If they could have, the trees would have closed themselves off in their winter bark to hide.

From the copse of trees the mist crept into the fields below. The wild grasses and flowers cringed. The small and simple beauty of the normally lively plants that were used to swaying in the breeze and reaching for the sunlight was corrupted. They were awash in the thickness of that morning mist. They seemed to gasp for breath and wilt as the smoky tendrils moved to lower ground.

Nightly birds and beasts silenced themselves in instinct more than fear. The pregnancy of the mist was more powerful than what they had ever sensed before. The stillness took over as the creeping mist grew, filling the void between the wilted plants and the overhanging blackened sky.

If the eternal burning stars could, they would look away. Such was their curse though to stand witness. It is their own cosmic cycle that brought everything to bear to allow  the madness to creep through the world again. They too were powerless against the ravages of time and destiny. As they moved in astrological scale, locks turned and gates were opened.

Muted at first from the pale mist, gay colors swirled. Pinks and blues formed into visions of sugared webs. Gilded nightmares taking the color of cotton candy and stretched taffy. These were the first to appear. Shades of crimson and chartreuse seemed to stretch into being from purposeful fingers of mist to form tented shapes.

A rumble of wagons could be heard, dull against the increasing strength of the mist. Chains and squeaking wood complained echoing from some impossible distance. The air seemed to sizzle as the dawn finally broke over the trees far atop the hill. Other noises coalesced along with images.

Black and grey shadows took form as the sparkle of starshine faded into pale blue skies. The chill, once reserved for nightly feelings permeated the now occupied field. A mundane looking pathway formed between gaily colored tents and rough-hewn barker stands. A antique ticketing booth stood at the head of the path. A great tent in red and yellow stripes was at the end. Strong men and beasts were grunting and growling as the final pole was put into place.

A short but portly man stood facing the camp. His silk coat and pants, black and shiny, seemed to absorb all the light around him. The top hat he wore brought his height to all of five feet. His fat face split in a smile that revealed a maw filled with sharp pointy teeth made for tearing flesh. Delicate eyebrows framed his wide eyes. A hooked nose stood out from his face.

In the distance, walking from the big top was a tall man in similar dress. His silks also seemed to hold all the blackness of night without release of starlight. A red cravat brought color to his pale face. His own smile was mellow and morbid at the same time. The man’s height seemed to be exaggerated by his incredibly thin frame. Long cheekbones brought his face into a pointed oval. Thick eyebrows outlined dark eyes. The monocle he wore flashed in the new dawn.


“Mr. Glass,” the portly man called out from the head of the path near the ticketing booth. He raised his hands in the air in greeting.

“Mr. Fogg,” the tall man called back to his friend raising his own arms into the air. “It seems that we have been freed once more.”

“Indeed, Mr. Glass,” Fogg chuckled, his jowls and wattle shaking with the effort. “The time is right once more.” Fogg removed his top hat and embraced the tall and slender frame of Glass as tehy came together. Glass seemed to almost double over as he leaned down to hold Fogg.

“Yes,” Glass sniffed the air and seemed to peer trough the dawn and dissipating mist into the unseen forces that aligned to bring them both back. “The time is right.”

For a time, they stood in silence, Fogg and Glass. They were content in just being in the world. The air stirred around them, wafting over the wilted grass and stirring up the scent of loamy death and rebirth. In the distance, atop the hill, the trees shivered and dropped more leaves from their branches.

The last of mist faded from around Fogg and Glass manifesting into bright white spats that covered their shoes and black lacquered walking sticks that manifested into their hands. Fogg’s somewhat shorter and crowned with a brass crow’s head. Glass’ own topped with a prismatic quartz ball.

“Mr. Fogg,” Glass’ voice drew power and command, “We are going to need bills to post. We need to get the men to work printing them and prepare a wagon for distribution.”

“Yes, Mr. Glass,” Fogg chuckled again, his wattle flapping. “It is time to get to work.”

Rites of Vengeance

Poetry based on keywords from @PoemCrawl.

My demons
Serving a master that is not my own
Crawling through
A dark devotion collecting my soul

Magic held
Moved to hold me fast in hypnotic trance
My soul bound
In movements of a kept secret in blood

September
Wisdom should have led me towards success
October
Ambition brought me to sacrifice though

Cants ringing
Around drawn circles and flickering flame
Held me strong
Bound, a mere thing for the summoning rite

Bone and flesh
Soft white covered in a dark crimson stain
Harsh breathing
Sounding off against ancient words and song

Beastly eyes
Piercing through the veil of what is and was
Gruesome maw
Starving in long-tailed demonic hunger

Heated blood
Born of exsanguination, flame, and blade
Bold hatred
"Vengeance will be mine," quoth I in low breath

Flame rising
Blazing in power, mirroring evil
Darkness moves
Seeping into my mortally frail mind

Tenderness
Cooling my fever, soothing knotted wounds
Lowered chants
A sweet delicacy to strange echoes

Madness reigns!
Nothing left of me I exist to serve
Evil smiles
My humanity in lamentation

An Empty Stage

We were there once, at the center of the universe. We performed on stage for all the world to see. The lot of us were young and powerful. We were charming and lively. We were the chameleons, changing to what the world expected of us.

Now though, our troupe has scattered. Love, once given freely is now horded. Camaraderie that was once unbeatable has been left broken and bleeding backstage. Power, once shared is now forgotten and put into phylacteries for display on shelves.

The memories put away and left to collect dust. It is obvious that our bond is one of those memories. Best forgotten, I suppose rather than cultured and put into use. I know that deep within your Cabinet of Curiosity, I exist as a mere trinket that you fondle on lonely nights. Other than that, I am a relic of days past.

Still, I would believe that even in our advanced years, you would not have forgotten our magick. I cannot blame you though, it was I who left the stage so many years ago. It was I that did not come back. I left you there to hold the limelight and the crowd.

I was dying, you see. I was in a decaying orbit around you. I was the shadow to your light. I always walked behind a step and off to the right a bit. You seemed to lead and I followed.

Well, that’s what I saw — what I felt.

I was the nobody to your somebody. I was just another body in the chorus line. I was never the star. I was not the headliner. I suppose I could have been happy with that too if there were enough crumbs being spilled my way.

But I made that fall in disgrace too, I suppose.

We appeared ordinary and mundane. We were anything but. We were the Lords of the Universe. The Princes of Time and Space. There were none that could stand in our way. Other than those who were there before us. In retrospect, I can see those fledgling souls behind us as well as those magnificent beasts ahead. We were on the middle path then.

I would not have guessed I would have to hold my own spotlight and carry the show. I’ve not talent for that it seems. I was apparently born unto the role of assistant, of chorus rather than talent.

Some of us are destined for greatness. Not me though. My duty was one of support. Mine was to make the talent look good. I was the clown, the buffoon. I was the fat jester to your lean kingly role. I was the idiot on stage for us all.

No one thought to see what was inside of me. No one thought to ask if I was comfortable in my place. I never thought to ask either. It was just the thing for me to do.

Now, all these years have been mostly empty because I still played the part of chorus when I was to be in the spotlight. I could not be my own star because I was never used to playing that part. Mine was of harmony and backup.

I had no entourage to support me and I was not skilled enough to put a starring role together. So, here I am, trying to fill my own skin and play my own part.

Alone.

Provenance

Our part of the cavern was dark and well away from the group as a whole. The firelight was lost in the darkness that reached down from the ceiling. I could only see the slight glint in her eyes that let me know she was looking at me. They drew me in as her confident voice, soft and absorbed by the cave, asked me for a tale of my homeworld.

“Xaoc was the first thing. There was nothing before him. He was a raging chasm churning with all of the energy of the cosmos. Within the folds and rents in time and space, he seethed like a terrifying but powerful child. Xaoc was angry, hungry, frightened, and alone. He was a mere shade of what he was to become.”

“As an unshaped mass, jumbled beyond recognition, Xaoc could not ascertain what was right or wrong within the new voidspace he occupied. There was nothing he could observe beyond the yawning gap that was his great self. His was an energy and body born of pure cosmic power. The wont and scope of Xaoc could not be contained.”

“The unstoppable Xaoc spilled over out of the chasm of his self and roiled into and out of voidspace. He was sheer might manifested in the jumble of all elements. He was the shapeless taking form. His birth from the nothingness of all could only be reflected in the great rage that he was feeling.”

“It was here that the wilds of warpspace were born. They still storm and writhe with that remembered pain of birth. They still heave with that unhappiness and solitude. They still scream in Xaoc’s great name.”

“In the void, Epeboc was spat out of the mass that was Xaoc. Epeboc’s darkness soothed the great beast and cooled his temperament. The tears he cried pooled within voidspace and Nus was born from the coagulation and freezing of this primordial liquid.”

“Bits of power were scattered from Xaoc and this thrashing fit of being born. These too cooled and coalesced into what would be known as Taia, Taptapoc, and Epuuc or the Land, the Abyss, and Love.”

“This is how my homeworld started. This is how everything started. We all exist in a fine line between what is voidspace and what is warpspace. Without Xaoc, we would be nothing more than an insignificant burp of soulless energy moving within the cosmos. Without Epeboc and Nus, we would know only the boiling of the stars.”

“Without Taia, we would not know the lands of planets orbiting the stars. We wouldn’t understand her gifts that she brought. We wouldn’t understand the soul of voidspace.”

“Without Taptapoc, we would not understand our own journeys through the void to get to the warp. We wouldn’t know what to fear in either the light or the darkness. We wouldn’t know that we were safe as he held the keys and chains of the beasts set to destroy us.”

“And, without Epuuc, I wouldn’t know you.”

2. The Touch of Epuuc

Blind Urges

No mirror can reflect what is bound by love.

We are mere blindfolded phantoms yearning for warmth.

Intent

A once mirrored love, shattered and broken.

A mere phantom of what could have been.

Now murderous.

Masqued

I saw her there at the masquerade in shimmering black in a pale sequined mask. It was her eyes that captivated me more than anything else. She moved smoothly across the floor as gentlemen, one after another came to her and humbly asked for her card. Sometimes she obliged, other times, she politely informed the poor soul that she was otherwise engaged.

Still, the vision of her haunted me. It was as if an inky shadow was swirling across the hall, waltzing into frenzy whilst commanding the room. The surroundings seem to dim around her. She was the sole light amidst Belgian crystal chandeliers. Such was her charisma.

The quartet, high above the floor, seemed to take their cue from her. The strings vibrated at her command. The tenor and pace seemed to match her movements. When she spun the rhythm matched. As she bounced through her flourish, strings sighed.

I watched her from various places in the hall. Her eyes often locked with mine in a not-so-subtle contest. I could almost feel her energy from across the floor. As she changed partners, so did I. We were becoming entangled through some spiritual connection.

Each of us dancing with others, but with each other at the same time, yet only the two of us knew. All else faded as the evening wore on. The yaw and pitch of the strings let us sail in matched pairs in tighter circles. I could feel the energy building between us.

The scent of her perfume drifted towards me as we passed each other back to back. It was of orange blossoms and musk. I saw her lips turn upwards as we both managed a sideways glance. I could only wonder what lay behind the mask.

Her eyes were mesmerizing. Her smile was coy and blissful. Her cheekbones were high and her nose thin. Her creamy face formed a perfect oval. Still, she was partnered with someone else and by all means untouchable.

Long silken gloves crawled along her arms from her fingertips to above her elbows. They held impeccable form as she glided around with her partner. I would even suggest they might have been dainty.

The lace collar she wore around her neck held a cameo that hung down on her chest above the suggestion of a plunging neckline. It bounced slightly as she turned and moved along with the music coming from the quartet.

Oh, to be that cameo, to touch that tender skin.

I envied that piece of jewelry to be able to be so close to her. At once I understood Shakespeare’s balcony scene. I knew the reason why fair Romeo did not crawl up the trellis and take Juliet. I found myself eager to orbit this mysterious beauty.

My eyes couldn’t help but watch her as my own partner looked away to observe the others on the floor. There, near the entrance was the consort to the Tsar of Russia. Along the wall, aloof as ever, was one of the minor ministers to Queen Christina of Sweden. Other dignitaries stood, wine in hand marveling at us who were on the dance floor. In her arms though, Gabriel Bethlen, Hungarian Prince of Transylvania.

His full beard and distinguished nose could not be hidden from behind the mask that he wore. I held my breath when I saw the mercenary king hoping that no one would notice that I discovered him through his disguise. A sidelong glance between my beauty and I told me that she knew of my secret knowledge.

Hurriedly, I guided my partner away from the couple. Somehow, she maneuvered herself and Bethlen towards us. I turned immediately away blessing the quickened pace of the music. The jangle of the strings allowed me to move surreptitiously, yet overtly away from my former lusting interest and her murderous king.

Soon, to my dismay and fear, I felt the hand on my shoulder. It was firm and sure. I looked up and saw the bearded face part in a wicked smile. I had no choice but to trade partners. There we were together, I and my goddess in pitch-colored silk and lace. Her eyes brought me in and we took each other in tune to the music echoing down from above.

The orange scent of her filled my nostrils. The touch of her hand sent chills down my arm. My heart seemed to beat in time with her bouncing cameo that was tapping out a sublime rhythm. Moments ago I would have been happy to have been lost in my proximity to her.

Now, knowing the Blood Prince was in attendance, I could only think of the standing army of mercenaries and how Bethlen was destroying the Peace of Vienna as well as the Habsburg alliances. I could only guess at the true reason for his presence.

Were his mercenaries in the city? Was he planning another attack? Was he pushing to expand his territory? My mind reeled with the possibilities.

I was caught now. She held me tightly as I led us in a slow circle around the edge of the dance floor. She cocked her head as shook it slightly. There was to be no escape from her clutch. Silken hands held my body strong. Hypnotic eyes brought me closer.

She leaned up to me and brought lips to my ear. I could barely contain myself as the strong scent of orange and musk filled me. I could almost taste her intent. My hands trembled in hers.

“You were not to find out, my darling.” Her words were sweet and thickly accented. She sounded like Romani but held herself as royalty. Competing impulses crashed like waves over my mind. I wanted to bring her closer to breathe her in, yet I knew that she would be my end if I stayed.

I felt the pinprick too late in my arm. Her eyes locked into mine and conveyed the lust I so wanted to be near. As my feet shuffled against the beat, I felt her take the lead and guide me off of the dance floor. She sat me down in an overstuffed chair and brought my hand to her face.

My heartbeat slowed. I couldn’t feel my arm anymore. Still she stayed with me. The only vision left in my mind was her face and her lovely sequined mask hiding an assassin’s guise.

Serendipity

The morning breaks with your scent mingled with coffee. Darkness fades with your sleepy smile. It is more than pheromones. It is more that caffeine.

It is the moment that all is right and all the suffering I've been through washes away. It is the sudden realization there is no past or future.

There is only now.

A Fleeting Moment

I saw her there out of the corner of my eye. A mere mote of dust shaped into a ghost.

Silent.

Slow.

Sentient.

Turning, she glanced at me as if to ask if I were coming along. What choice did I have, really?