Wasteland, Baby!

No one knew her name and she didn’t volunteer one. A thin red cloth around her throat disarmed as many questions as it provoked. Not that she answered any.

Many born in the wastes know not to ask questions of the Wandering Woman. But some still did— foolishness proves hard to contain and harder yet to stop it’s spread.

“I heard she come from the Wolf Fang— over past Involta Hills,” said a beak nosed boy.

“That’s all garbage— you know the Wanderers don’t come from anywhere,” another boy said emphasizing the last word, “They just appear,” his bloodshot eyes widening for dramatic effect. The ragged gang warmed their dirty mitts around a small brushfire. All peeking in then at the woman that swayed back and forth at the edge of their camp.

Brave enough to wonder aloud— but cowardly or smart enough to not push the issue further. Everyone heard stories of meeting blood slicked Wanderers and the ruins of scavenger camps.

A rising gorge accompanied a keening sound that began in the throat of the dead eyed woman. It raised to her lips before a shriek burst into the wastes.

The camp broke into chaos as the kids scattered. Not all made it beyond the perimeter. Other Wanderers appeared from the ether. They moved in ritual unison as they closed around the remaining kids.

The scavenger misfits fell upon each other for someone to take charge— but heroes didn’t exist in the Wastes. Only the damned.

The brave didn’t exist amongst either the Wanderers or the scavengers. Each responsible for their own share of departed heroes.

The ring closed tighter— the solid bodies of the Wanderers became hazy. An immaterial sheet wrapped around the living.

An alien wail returned to the Wastes— and the former scavengers found themselves consumed by a foul cloud of static. The Wastes fell silent after.

Waiting for the next shriek of a line Wanderer.

Storm Ride

Sitting in the back of a moldy shit fuck taxi I’m listening to the eighties style guitar riff of Cobra Man’s “Bad Feeling” as I relate to the lyrics.

“It’s a bad feeling— a bad feeling,” as I look through the storm wall. Rain slaps down like errant buckets lost from window washers.

The dragon roar of thunder and sizzle of lightning underlines the majestic fuckery of this mornings soujourn to the south.

Visibility levels are sitting at a glasses-less Millhouse.

The track has jumped to “My Life” by Rubblebucket as I look at the drowned rice paddies and road that threatens to shape shift into a river.

“And if you call yourself a rockstar, then la de da da da da!”

Hard charging into the heart of a storm— and chance sees me look to the roadside to spot a misplaced window lying in the reeds.

“Slow Dance II” by Naked Giants has taken over the headphones as the taxi driver weaves between puddles of standing water with marginal success. Less fault with him, more of inevitability of the road and its greedy accumulation of rain.

The slow, heavy guitar chords match a wolf howl blast of vocals as the lead singer implores his baby to stick around— if not for him, then for the mind melting solo that sounds like an Eagle lighting off mortars on the Fourth of July.

The crushing realization of being done wrong— marries with some California beach notes as the song gives way to “Cosmic Cowboy” by Susto.

The rain has slackened— but it’s still strong enough for the driver to keep a tight grip on the steering wheel.

An explosion like god stomping started my day at three a.m.  The witching hour ceding to the storm— no need of eerie shadows and pregnant silence when the sky sounds like it’s being torn apart.

The arrival at the southern tip of the island brings a welcome light of the sun peeking forth from the last of the clouds. On the horizon lies the promise of blue skies and dry hours.

Sour

It wasn’t that he slurred his words, but that he was never taught the proper order— and the whole world suffered for it. A hard man by necessity, you’d be forgiven for believing he chewed on marbles and spit out sculptures. Such was the gravel mess of his speech.

Often the last rites were delivered to a state of confusion. But no amount of broken words could mask the menace that poured off him like river water.

A brute of a man— he wielded subtlety as well as a pig holding a hammer. He didn’t have the means.

The type of man you’d like to call a “sour cunt” but prefer to retain your teeth. Figure he can be mean if you can still chew your dinner. Revenge is overrated. Call me a mirror and I’ll show you a mirror.

Damned Company

“What will you say to the damned? To the legion of weary and wicked? What will you say to those trailing along— to the faint ember of hope in their heart? What will you say?” A ruddy faced woman stared into the throng of faces. “What do you say?” she said pointing at Arkes. Bad move, if she asked me. But no one asks me. Things would go a mite smoother if they did.

“Go fuck yourself” Arkes snarled. “I didn’t damn them— but I’ll be a ready judge if you point that finger at me one more time.” The crowd tensed as the woman struggled to contain her bafflement followed by her own fury.

Those ruddy cheeks turned into a harpy’s mask as she spat at Arkes. Once again, a bad move. Once again, a bloody disaster. Arkes surged through the crowd to grab the women’s finger and snapped it back. She screamed like a stuck hog as he went to work on her knees. Two quick kicks to her fragile caps and the would-be prognosticator laid in the churned mud. Everyone took several steps back from the pair. None daring to get within reach of that temperamental monster.

Should have waited until the crowd thinned a little, I thought. But decisive action and waiting weren’t playmates in Arkes’ world— something I regretted every half month.

***

The years spill out like grain from loose bags. Seconds lost to minutes lost to days. If you don’t stop to count them— you don’t realize the value of what’s slipping away. Time. More precious than gold and infinitely harder to find or make. It’s what I would come to rue from my association with Arkes. The time I had lost for it and the blood gained. A paltry trade— but the only available to a begotten son of Vajllen Red Star.

Forest

Hearing words I couldn’t divine, I turned to the wind.

Their notes were musical— the rise and fall of a flute, rather than the heavy drag of our own language. The mud stuck clomping we call speech.

This— this was heaven turned into sound.

With a hush over the forest— it was gone.

Dark Company

It appears what I am doing and what I want to be doing are whispering sweet nothings to each other from a distance. Thus as it ever once in the company of wizards & bravos.

It’s a poor lot in life to be marked for being able to occasionally talk sense into dangerous men.

They are not fond of guidance— and often command firm grips on pointy objects. But we must do what we must. Fate doesn’t discriminate in its humor.”

Some of these men you can only tell the truth to. Others, none at all. And the most dangerous of all— the discerning and temperamental.

Those are the ones that laugh like a tinkling summer spring and attack like addled badgers. They are the cowards playing kings— and anyone who doesn’t bow will suffer.

Everyone wants a fantastical introduction to their life story— not here. I’m not going to peddle hopes and dreams— nor will I bore you with the horrors of the average man or implausibility of dragons.

No— I’m here to tell you of the unseen and seldom heard.

I’m writing this record to let the world know within the shadows— the world that major players in crowns & capes remain unaware.

***

“Looking all the world like an indomitable fuck. I’m gonna split you sideways like a fresh whore,” the man said spitting in Arkes’ face. Bad move.

The next moment Arkes had swept the man’s feet and had him on his knees. Arkes’ shield hands gripped his head like a priest giving benediction— only his thumbs rested over the eyes. He pushed.

Blood & foul jelly erupted as the man screamed. I’d heard beaten dogs shriek softer.

Arkes removed his thumbs with a flick and left the man lying on the floor.

“Say one thing for the shit- that whore suggestion sounds good to me,” he said with a sleepy grin. The half-giant patted me on the shoulder and ambled out of the inn. Low murmurs filled the crowded room— but none dared get close. Arkes does that to people— makes them nervous. The eye thing too.

Three days Arkes and I had been on the road from Karcan to Invelnis. Neither place mattered— but it feels nice to write down. As if this account will ever be read by those more fortunate than I. Fortune and failed courtiers don’t keep close company.

Roses of the Ocean

So the mysteries of the deep shall remain— in sight of man, yet unattainable. Never was a greater lust carried within the heart than that of unfulfilled adventure.

The salt soaked breeze leapt into the sails and the galleon pulled away from the shoals. The young man attending the prow kept his eyes on the island that begin to dwindle behind them. Nothing could be done. They had opened a door not meant for opening— and with it— the ocean stayed quiet no more.

Flower

Cobweb bouquets lined the banisters. The orange rug underfoot smelled of spilled liquor. A musty sweetness to the forgotten house. Like old gingerbread homes or lost bags of Halloween candy.

A current of sound tore through the sky as jagged lines of light rappelled from the heavens. A whip crack to the soul, Ernest thought. Weather like this wasn’t to be taken likely. Even for the Lords of the End.

It wasn’t the first time wrapping up a job had left Ernest and his boys hiding out in squalor while the law pursued them. They always broke clean by the end. But in between the late night breaths of the rotten timbers in the house, Ernest wondered if he’d pushed one too many invitations towards Lady Luck.

“For the last time, Victor, I did not throw a bomb,” a dark haired man in a double vest said. A giant Viking of a man stared back in annoyance

“You threw something. The sheriff heard it. He came over and then I had to kill him.”

“You didn’t have to kill him. We could have told him a street kid did it.”

“It’s a town of thirty people, Shiloh. I had to kill him, but his blood is on your hands.”

“Pfff” Shiloh waved Victor off and walked to the front window. The floor gave an uneasy creak. “Shouldn’t have come here in the first place. Can’t even find a trace of Azim. How do you lose a guy like Azim? Ridiculous.”

“I’ll ask him how he lost you two when we find him,” Ernest said with a hard stare. “Been trying to do that myself for seventy years.”

Victor looked over from the kitchen table, “What was that?” Ernest pulled out his sword and set to polish it. They’d have to be ready once they found Azim. Whoever kept him from returning couldn’t be underestimated.

Ernest felt the warmth of the bone pommel in his palm. It had been ages since he earned the blade as a boy. His lips moved in a silent whisper. The heat drained from the pommel and Shiloh whipped around from the window.

“You can’t.”

“Already did. She’s heard my promise. We leave tonight.” Victor grunted and stood up. A bear waking from hibernation as menace began to ooze from him. He bent down to grab a wicked looking axe. Shiloh shook his head.

“You can’t promise that. We don’t know where he is.”

“Victor will call upon the wind. We’ll leave our brother to it no longer.“ Ernest sheathed his sword and grabbed a ready bag. “We leave by sunset.”

***

Summons

There are few things as problematic as summoning a God.

First of all, it helps to believe in them. Otherwise, it’s a slap in the face. Don’t believe, but you still want them to show? That’s a set of cosmic cajones you’re rockin’.

Say you’re not summoning a God— say it’s another ethereal force.

Say you’re summoning a muse. What then?

Well, once again we’re back to belief. Your request is filtered through the prism of your desires. That means no two summons are alike. That prism is the synthesis of soul and experience. A calibrated wavelength that radios out into the universe from a singular point— so when you call— remember there’s only one person that can answer— you.

That means you should steer clear of summons if your subconscious is a Diablo II remix or a Hieronymus Bosch crafted landscape.

But say you’ve got a “mundane” subconscious. A palatable one— safe. What then? Who arrives at the end of your signal fire? Bob Ross? Cleopatra? Not even close.

The odds for that magical roulette would be staggering. Surpassingly rare to retrieve anyone of note. Even (or especially) when requested.

No— the universe provides who you need. Sometimes it provides what you “think” you need. But oft is not so cruel.

So, if you’re set on this path. Set on calling to the Great Beyond for help & inspiration.

May I remind you as the dark hours draw near. As the candle wax boots the floor beneath your feet.

May I remind as you begin your first intonation.

There is no doorway the Devil does not know.

Back & Forth

“You’re not, you’re not, you’re not! You are not sorry. You’re never sorry, Jason,” she wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth on the bed. Tears falling like loose leaves. “Why can’t you ever be sorry?”

The room stilled like the morning after a snowstorm. Jason stood in the doorway. Sabrina kept crying. Softly rocking back and forth. He made to step towards her, stopping at a broken picture frame. Three faces looked back at him.