Refuge Pg 3
The seelie are a High Court now. They parade around in moonsilk and faeweave, showing their tits. They ain’t got a speck of flash showing, they’re nat all through. The tower is their home, the tower, rising like a finger, like a phallus from the center of the City. The tower is the shaft, the slums the balls, the outcasts and unseelie the little hairs and mites. The tower is the phallus of the High Court. You step outta line, you get fucked.
Flash is a good industry these days. You know how to rig a body-bot? A new arm? You can hold the flesh together when it starts to fail, and you’ll keep your own hide just a little longer. Best flashwalla is a beast, little ape with horns and a temper. Flings his shit if he’s had anything to eat, otherwise just makes new eyes and ears, new muscles. It ain’t pretty, but it works.
In the slums, there be one rule, na? You stay alive at all costs. You beat back the sickness, the wasting, the slow death. You keep moving, you keep reaching. Die by the sword or the sizzle and that ain’t a bad way to go. No one wants to sit and wait to fall apart, and anyone you meet will kill to keep it so.
(The attached image is the third page of the comic short Refuge, written by me and illustrated by Christina Beard.)
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home
The soft white flakes swirl. The earth is cold, cold beneath me. I slumber, bereft of light, bereft of warmth. The long nights take their toll, and I watch the world die around me. Deep into the earth my roots run, seeking, striving. This season, this unending time of frost. When will the sun return?
The shortest days will soon arrive. I remember this, deep in my roots, I remember the hardship of the shortest days. Unending monotony, fearful of falling, of feeding the earth.
I am aware and I am free, but I am not like you. I do not walk the world, I do not decide with great leaps of insight or feral instinct. Where to grow? Where to grow? This is the question, paramount, where and how and when to grow. I am not like you.
Yet I listen, I feel. I know the world around me and I love it. I hate it. I fear it. A fox trots past and I know his footsteps, feel his urine, soak up his scent. I hear the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker resound in the silence of the snow. The little mouse in his den beneath my roots, I feel him stirring in endless sleep.
I witness the great dramas going on around me daily, even as the world dies. The quick death of the sparrow in the owl’s taloned embrace. The slow death of the insects as they succumb to the cold. The romances of the wolves, the great chases and kills. The start of new life.
Refuge Pg 2
Streak is brass, crass. She leans in real close, gets up in its face. The flesh don’t move much, but it opens its eyes. Heartbeat, one-two, one-two. Flesh is a girl, Streak sees. Outsider, but girl, wearing a dress that isn’t Streak’s style. Streak has got a rep to maintain, and the water damage doesn’t help.
In pain, in powerlessness, Zurisha feels the pitter-patter of tiny little feet. She hears the shouting of giant little lungs. Little fairy on her chest, she still dreaming? Little fairy with metal in her jacket and pink in her hair. Little fairy, little fae.
Brutus the mountain, he comes up close. The pretty little flesh be thin, so thin, he can scoop her up in his arms. Baby, baby, don’t say a word. Daddy’s gonna hunt you a mocking bird. In his mind he sings to her, he knows her name, he gives her light. Streak buzzes around his ears, but he’s lost in the flesh.
High above, near the source of the river, a man in ragged steel plate and chain crouches by a fire. He holds a pale, impaled arm up to the flames. His stomach rumbles. He waits, he waits for his dinner to finish. There is now enough food to go around.
(The attached image is the second page of the comic short Refuge, written by me and illustrated by Christina Beard.)
Refuge Pg 1
Zurisha is bleeding, na? Bleeding from her gut. Lifeblood pumps out, one-two, one-two, her little heart sings. She’s a stranger in the City, and she’s dying in a river of blood.
Streak flaps her gossamer wings faster than Brutus can see. Streak the devil-child, the mischief-maker. Streak moves like a hummingbird, but with cooler hair. She writes in the air, the mist is her paper and pen. She writes with precision, Streak does. She writes, ‘Fuck’, and laughs.
Brutus is a big mother, but he’s careful. He avoids stepping on a flower poking its head out of concrete and rebar. He likes flowers, the yellow ones most of all. His hand blurs as he slaps a jackfly who is biting his neck. His hand comes away red. The familiarity of it saddens him, and he reaches into the river to wash the blood away.
High above, near the glacial source of the river, a small village is still in flames. An infant lies half-dead, quiet in the cold. His head hurts, but his body is numb, and in the flickering shadows he falls asleep.
(The attached image is the first page of the comic short Refuge, written by me and illustrated by Christina Beard.)
A Necessary Madness
It’s the end of the day, and the man takes off his mask. He slumps into his chair as the small pool of light from the desk lamp glitters off of sequins and rhinestones. Silver leggings and crimson boots and gold stripes down a skintight shirt sparkle, sparkle. The man’s eyes are dark, hidden behind heavy brows and layers of makeup, by shadows. He sits still, not moving except for a tremor in his hand, for a long time.
All of a sudden, he takes a breath, like he had forgotten how and suddenly remembered, much to his surprise. He slides a small key out of his mask puts it into the drawer keyhole. He waits there for a long time, not turning it. He does, but slowly. Inside is a bottle, unlabeled, and a small glass. The contents swish, bright green, belaying the faded light.
A silver spoon and a packet of sugar cubes are the artifacts of the ritual: the vajrakaliya, the cross, the blood of the lamb. The process is ingrained, the ritual carried out without thought. The spoon, the cube, the slow green waterfall. The gods are appeased, such as they are. They send the gift of the mind, the twisting and turning, the beautification of the darkness, and the vilification of the light.
The man is now alive. His act is over, his falseness spent, he opens himself to the madness.
He laughs and twirls, and the light glances off his sequined dress.
Light of Remembrance
“Aer domihe. Aer dulihe. Aer dainihe. God, hear us. Son, in darkness and in light, we speak. Spirit, in oblivion we give you praise. Our lives and eyes are yours, this phase and all. We devote ourselves to remembrance.”
The Elder paused, carefully. “Man once ruled a world of light–passionate and arrogant, Man put themselves ever closer to Son. God grew angry at Man’s hubris, and so struck Man down. The speaking of the Word led to oblivion, oblivion to darkness. In darkness Man has lived away from the burning wrath of God, and has survived.”
When the Elder stopped, the only sounds were the faint swishing of the Elder’s robes and the life-noises of three hundred people. The smell of sweat and pitch dominated, but beside me I could smell my mother’s clean sulfur scent. The air stirred lazily and the earth was silent.
“Aer domihe. Aer dulihe. Aer dainihe. In darkness we give praise, oh God. In oblivion we give thanks, oh Son. We remember, we remember, we remember.”
“Timekeeper! Is it the time of Remembrance?”
A new voice, heard before in my life only a handful of times. “We keep the time so that all men may know. Great Elder, Remembrance is indeed upon us.”
Beats, deep drumsounds, pounded the earth and air. I heard the echo of the sound off the bodies, felt the stirring of the people around me.
The Elder said, “It is spoken! Time of God, Time of Son, Time of Ghost. We remember, Amen!”
Faster, faster went the drums. I closed my eyes. Anticipation, anticipation, anticipation. Could I hear the footfall of the lighters? Not sure, maybe just another drum. The smell of pitch was overpowering now. Faster and faster the beat of the earth, until I could take it no more. I leapt to my feet, pounded them, kept my eyes tight shut. Bodies in motion flowed around, sensitive, earnest, in the dance.
And there it was–I smelled it first. The smoke. Then through my eyelids I caught the briefest flash of sparks. Again! In what seemed an instant, it erupted, the great bonfire. My eyes burned bright through the lids, I felt the pain of it, but I could not wait for it to subside. I opened them, and the full radiance of my namesake hit me. How do I describe fire? How can I? It is a liquid thing, of pure magic. It rises and strains against its bonds, practically alive, yet unable to escape for more than an instant. And the light! The sheer joy! All around me I saw them, the shifting bodies and writhing shadows. All the browns and blacks and greys, the reds and whites, oh, to exist like that always! I careened my head around, I wanted to see it all, capture the details, fodder for future dreams. I saw my third-father Spear-tosser, his hair white and grey and black, caked with the rich brown of dirt. My mother’s glistening body, beautiful in brown and pink, the light glimmering from her figure. My own hands, raised in front of my face, thrown into shadows. I could see the flames dancing between the gaps in my fingers, little pools of fire. I closed my fingers, put my hands over my face, but still I could see the light! It was everywhere, and for that moment, seemed eternal.
But it ended, as all celebrations do. The light dimmed and the smoke hung heavy. My eyes kept sending me flashes of greens, yellows, purples, as if saying, “No, don’t stop, I want more.”
I curled up, then, in my mothers arms. I was safe, and filled of wonder, and I knew that God must exist exactly as they said He did. And in this comfort, I slept.
Toyoshi
Toyoshi wears straps and buckles, zippered here and tightened there. He’s got thirty kinds of leather, fourteen kinds of metal, at least two electronic limbs. Eyes are purple, nat or flash, don’t matter. He looks at you, you know him by the eyes, na? Wears a sword, a remnant of the old world. Maybe he knows how to use it, too. You the saph anxious enough to find out? Has a rep, Toyoshi does, size of the queen bitch’s brassiere. Looks like a biped, but acts like a beast.
Toyoshi was unseelie is the word, before the categories stopped meaning anything. The word can alter though, and it did the day Toyoshi showed his colors. There’s a pair, go by Streak & Brutus. Toyoshi and they don’t mix, oil and water. Streak & Brutus, they find this flesh washed up on the river, pretty little thing, all half-dead. Carry it home, cause a stir, folks want to know what up.
Toyoshi, though, he gets mad, no one knows why. Sends some goons, death op. Toyo wants these guys dead, along with the girl who’s on her way there already. Mech and flesh, both, covers all the angles. Streak & Brutus null them, no problem, teamwork, brains and brawn. Pretty thing dies anyway, wound that wouldn’t heal.
Streak & Brutus, they mourn, but not long. Now they just want answers. They track down the guy Toyo used, shake him down. Give him a message for Toyo, a time and place. Wait for Toyo to show.
Toyo comes, right, punctual as anything. He got his sword, some mech bodyguards, an eye for danger. Streak & Brutus have themselves. They see Toyo, they know. He’s not unseelie, jive? He got the pointed ears and teeth, the sharp-like face. Toyo and that pretty dead flesh look like they could be twins. He’s an outsider, and in the streets of the city, outsiders don’t last. He got a false rep, false name, false birth. Livin’ a lie, going down, tried to drag Streak & Brutus with him.
Streak drops an EMP, little ball of flash that could knock out a mech the size of the tower. Brutus steams red, drugs start pumping, one-two one-two, heartbeat speeds up. It’s him against a sword, Brutus the big mother against a little twig of steel. Don’t matter how good Toyo is, cuz Brutus, he don’t feel pain. Takes the sword, one, two, snaps it. He up in Toyo’s face, playing it rough. Making his way. Doing his job. Crushes Toyo, doesn’t look back. Streak stays to scavenge, mech and flash and fae abound, Brutus takes a walk.
Toyo’s rep be gone, na? Streak & Brutus are solid, staid, not moving an inch. They got a job, they do it well. Don’t fuck with them, or you get nulled. End of story.
Thailand
I heard in Thailand you can get goat eggs. I shit you not. Eggs from a fucking goat. The Thai are like that. I’m going, you know. Someone said that they were an exiled Egyptian love-slave who used to be a millionaire queen and they fled to Thailand where they have the secret support of the king there but you know he can’t do anything because the Egyptians are the largest importer of Thai betel-nut themed sex toys, and it would kill the economy to piss them off. But she’s in exile, see, and wants to come to America, home of the brave, land of the free, or is that reversed? And she needs my help to transfer her hoard of diamonds and jewelery into the states via my Paypal account but I have to show up in person so she can make sure I’m trustworthy and also have sex with me. I also have to bring ten thousand Euros because she is no longer a slave and goddammit she can charge whatever she wants but don’t worry she’s not gonna hurt me and take all of it.
I don’t have ten thousand Euros. But I know a guy named Briton, and doesn’t Briton have like ten million Europeans? It’s close, maybe she’ll take it. I hope so, I want the sex and the diamonds, she sent me a picture and she looks a lot like that girl that plays Cleopatra in that movie with Ben Affleck and Roger Harris. Affleck seems pretty dumb, but I think even he would take this chance, once in a lifetime, never look back, gonna live it large, party hard, diamond in a Vietcong mansion with Charlies for servants because hey, I have the fucking diamonds, and I can pay you to do what I want this time. Think it’s funny to explode my car right next to me? Well, this time I have some fucking diamonds. And jewelery.
I have to leave in the morning and I’m not fully packed, I don’t know. Do I bring the black or navy blazer? Did I remember to iron my shirt, de-lint my pants? What would impress an Egyptian love-slave queen? Maybe the black, I’ll bring the black.
I’m going to go and fold the black.
Hanuman
I sit in front of a computer. Type-type-type. I’ve always found it funny to imagine the sound effects for a thing taking on the sound of the word. Always and ever. Type-type-type. Eat-eat-eat. Shit-shit-shit. There is a figurine of Hanuman sitting on my windowsill. Hanuman is a god, but he is a really cool god because he doesn’t realize how strong he is. Most of the time, he’s just like you and me. But if someone reminds him that he has godlike powers all of a sudden he’s stepping over an entire ocean or lifting a hundred thousand water buffalo over his head or defeating a demon army single-handedly. The word MAN is in HANUMAN and I think that’s really indicative of what I’m about to explain. But first I want to say that this might not actually work in Sanskrit or Hindi or whatever the word Hanuman is from. But it works in English so here we go: I think the powers of Hanuman are really the powers of regular old Man. It’s like when an old woman sees her grandchild under a car and lifts it off the ground and then has to go to the hospital for pulled-out tendons even though she didn’t even feel it at the time. Or when somebody told Jesus he was the son of God and all of a sudden he was and turned water into wine, though that might be because he was actually the son of God and special, so I don’t know.
And that is what I think. The End.
Inquisitor
The Inquisitor stepped out onto the sunlit street. Coals set deep in his head surveyed a ragged and wretched populace. The stream of humanity flowed around him, and where stream met coals his anger steamed.
They fell before him, burning in the cleansing fires of the Lord. A crimson cross quartered his torso. A crimson blade cut the wicked from the world.
There is no life except what I am given by Him.
There is no victory except what I am given by Him.
There is no power except what I am given by Him.
Over and over. There is no desire except what I am given by Him. Again he repeated the words to himself. There is no greatness except what I am given by Him. There is no strength except what I am given by Him.
There is no….
There is no….
No happiness.
No love.
No joy.
Except what I am given by Him.
