Random things of text
The title is exactly what it sounds like. I asked theladyheir for a list of random words, and random words she gave.
They're all kind of fairy-tale like, in way.
1. Puppet
It is a puppet that dreams of life.
It does not have a name or a mind or a family. It is made of wood and metal, string and glue and all tied together by human ingenuity. It does not have blood or veins, and it does not have a heart. Nor will it.
But it had a dream to be human.
The puppet maker dreams too, of a son. And so he names the puppet, and dreams that it would be his son.
And sometimes, dreams are enough.
They will find the body of the old puppet maker tomorrow, on his bench. They will not find the puppet, and they will puzzle over the smile the puppet maker has on his face.
Somewhere in the world, a puppet makes his way through the world and thanks his father.
2. Sharpie
She hated sharpies.
She hated their design, the felt tips that were so clumsy and impractical. She disliked the ink that was so hard to scrub off, but most of all, she hated the smell of sharpies. Above all things, she hated that sharp, reeling scent that was at once pungent and intoxicating.
So when they found her outside her burning house, and they asked her why she had burned it, she simply stated with a child’s earnestness that it was to get rid of the smell of sharpies inside that her brother had left.
3. Mouse
He was called Mouse.
It was not his actual name, though. No one called him real name. He was the third child of a family of five, and had two older brothers. Both of the brothers were taller and stronger than he was and when they saw him in the hospital, they called him Mouse.
His parents scolded them for such a thing, but they pointed and insisted that he did look like a mouse. And the parents looked at the third son, and admitted to themselves that yes, he did look a bit like a mouse.
Names have power- whether true names or given names. So the third son grew to his given name, Mouse- he was small and furtive and had a nervous mannerism to him. He was often ignored by his peers, who flocked to the brothers, and his parents chided him for not being more like them.
He didn’t mind, though. He had Tessa.
Tessa was a friend he had found in his early childhood- he did not remember where she came from or how she found him. It was as if she had always been there. His family nodded and talked of imaginary friends, and his teachers shook their heads, sure that he would outgrow it.
Mouse was ten years old, and she was still with him. She was the only friend he had, and she always voiced her opinion on things. She was his best friend and confidant. His brothers, teenagers, mocked him. His parents looked on worriedly and whispered of visiting a doctor. He didn’t mind.
She was with him, and that was all he needed.
Then, one day, in the midst of winter, she was gone. Suddenly and without word or farewell, she was no longer there. He sought her out in the corners of the house, in the dusty rooms in vain. He thought at first that his brothers had abducted her and went to them in a rage. His parents came and found him inconsolable and furious, so they locked him in his room while they called the doctor.
He wept till he had no more tears and his eyes were red and dry. It was quiet in that room, and below, he could hear his parents shouting. He pressed his hot cheeks against the window pane, and watched his breath fog the glass.
Outside, he could hear the voices of the snow spirits, dancing and calling him to join them. He had always known better, for to join them in a dance was to dance to one’s death. But with Tessa gone, he decided then that he would not mind so much. So he unlatched the window and scrambled out, clambering down into the snow. He shivered- he was dressed only in thin clothes not suited for the weather.
He trudged out into the snow, following the pale, thin hands of the dancers. They swirled around him, and he felt colder than he did in his life. He wondered if he was to die, now.
Suddenly, the snow spirits were gone. He could not hear their seductive whispers, and he looked up and he saw December. He knew then that it was December, with her regal clothing and her pleasant smile. He greeted her and was polite; she gave him directions to where Tessa should be. As a favor, she allowed him to pick berries in the frost.
He trudged on, and he could not longer feel the cold. He could not feel anything, now. Before long, he met a wolf- it was no normal wolf, for wolves do not grow to be the size of men and do not have coats as white as such. It greeted him, and told him that he was not far from his goal. He thanked it, and did not tell him where he was going- he knew better than such. The wolf watched him go in silence.
And then, beneath a tree, he found Tessa. She was sitting reading a book, still pale and dark haired and the same as ever. He called to her and she ran to him, and he was crying with happiness even as the tears froze on his skin. And then he sat down with her beneath the branches of the tree, and she told him that he was not of this world. That he was a changeling child, and that his world was so close to this one and that it was time for him to return home if he desired.
He smiled, and told her that he would follow her anywhere. She blushed and led him down through the hollows of the tree trunk, into the world below.
They found his body the next day, curled up in the hollows of a tree. It was strange, the police reported. When asked why, they spoke of how they had found a bed of berries growing around him, out of season and how his body was light and gray, as if the living vigor had completely left the body.
4. Dream catcher
They hang in the air, above every sleeper, intangible and invisible.
Perhaps you have seen them. If you could, you would wonder at them- circles of willow and spider’s silk. They are fragile things, these dream catchers. Delicate and small hands wove them and place them there and carry them away before the break of day.
After all that dreaming is done is when they work. Before you wake and after you leave the world of madness and imagination and possibilities for the dull and rioting world, those circles catch the dreams that fall and are left behind. All your abandoned fancies and hopes and horrors and secrets and loves and passions and hates are swept and caught up in those nets. The mountains and chimeras and unicorns and war haunting and demons and your lusts and butterflies who dreamt they were men and talking hares and mad hatters. All of them are there, trapped in the threads: the pretty gypsy girl who was not a gypsy who danced with you; the young boy who was a demon; the path that you walked in the woods; the funeral you attended but never attended.
They do not discriminate in what they capture.
And before the light of the sun shines upon them, small hands and figures gather about and carry those fathoming trawls away. Up and up into the sky, above the heavens and the sun to the place where all dreams live.
Dreams are the stuff of night and moonlight, and the touch of day turns them to dust.
6. Cheese puffs
She came up to him, one day, and in a serious and contemplative tone asked him how cheese puffs were made.
He would have laughed then, but he didn’t. She was too earnest and serious in her question for such a thing. So he sat her down, and began to tell her the story. It went like this-
Once upon a time, there was a farmer and a blacksmith who lived next to each other. As such things go, however, they did not get along with one another. They would have arguments about who was the one to do more to the village. The farmer would say that he did, that he brought in milk and the harvest and that the smith had no right to talk. Then the smith would say and point to the things he had made and that the farmer used, and they would quarrel and bicker till the sun had gone down.
Now, the farmer and the blacksmith both had one child- the farmer had a daughter, and the smith a son. Despite their differences, the two were fast friends through childhood. When they grew into young adults, they found comfort in each other’s presence, and fell in love.
Of course, their fathers objected to this till at last, the farmer came up with a challenge. A challenge that he thought, at the time, could not be done. He gave the smith’s son a block of cheese and dared him to find a way to make it lighter than the air itself. The son took up the challenge and the daughter despaired for she knew such a feat could not have been done, but she stood steadfast by his side nonetheless. He labored long and hard to try to find a way, and could not find a single one. In a state of despondency-
(She interrupted him to ask what the word meant. He explained it, and satisfied, she allowed him to continue.)
-the son went to his forge and bellows to make some tools. And he labored through the night, fearful of morning and his failure, and he fell asleep on the bellows. When he woke in morning, he went to pull out his product and discovered that he had left the cheese on the bellows instead, and to his marvel it had expanded and become almost as light as air. So he took his marvel to the farmer, and impressed, allowed the smith’s son to marry his daughter.
She was almost asleep then, and asked him if the story he told her was real. He smiled and kissed her forehead and tucked her into bed.
7. Music
He was with her on a park bench. Neither of them was speaking, and the air felt cool on his skin. Their backs were to one another, and they were leaning on each other. It was dusk, and the sky overhead was a shade deep purple. Through the night, they could hear the soft notes of an orchestra playing.
She asked him then; did he not also play music?
He smiled and shook his head. Once upon a time, he told her.
She mentioned how she had remembered his name being called first at school concerts, when they were younger.
He shook his head, and told her of how he was once first and best among them all.
She softly asked him why- why did he no longer play?
He was silent for several heartbeats. The lilting trills can be heard through the woods. Then he began to speak- he requested that she not laugh at him for his tale.
She was puzzled, but agreed nonetheless.
It was a strange tale, he said, hesitantly.
It was after a concert eight years ago, and he was walking her home as he had done in those days. They held hands then, innocently, as friends and talked of quiet nonsense. He was already in love with her then, but he could not tell her. They were the best of friends- it was impossible. They reached her house, and they stood in the driveway for a while. He enjoyed the simple pleasure of her company.
Her mother finally called her in, and he turned down the driveway to make his way home. It was dark and under the sickly yellow of the street lamps, the path was straight and dark. He could make out the lights of houses that burned like stars, and he chose a quiet and empty path through the woods. It was peaceful and he was flush in the memories of her when he heard a strange noise.
He panicked at first, but paused- the noise continued. It was a melody, distant and alien, but there was an unearthly beauty to the refrain. He followed the notes, stumbling through unfamiliar territory and feeling his way in the dark till at last he caught sight of a clearing. It was lit by the gentle glow of lanterns strung by the branches, and inside there was a ring of dancing people.
But what arrested his attention was the quartet that stood to the side and played their unearthly music. It was trill and sharp, full of notes that he did not recognize and patterns and beneath it all, he could feel the advance of the sea. He did not know how long he was there, hidden in the shadows listening to that beautiful music. It was beyond anything he heard before- it was all soft melodies and rhythms he had never conceived and next to it, all the music he had played seemed mundane and dull.
He woke then to the sunlight shining down upon his face, and in a panic, made his way home. His mother scolded him but did not ask where he was last night. Afterwards, he made his way up to his room and pulled out his instrument, on tried to play on its strings the song he heard the night before. But it was in vain, for the notes he had seemed to be shrill and droll, all sharp and dissonant cadences that were nothing like that song. Next to it, the music he played seemed to be piercing and monotonous to the tune that he could not quite remember.
He fell silent then.
She asked him if he ever recalled the song.
He shook his head, but said to her that you could not hear the song without it changing you.
It was with him, still, a faded memory of song he could not remember.
8. Stapler
He was no more than eight when he found his first faerie.
If you asked him how he knew it was a faerie, he would look at you with a solemn, wide eyed gaze and tell you that it simply was and that he just knew.
He found it in his stapler- it was small and human like and very still, and he did not wonder why it was there. He reverently took it and carefully took it, and held a vigil over it. After several hours, when it did not stir or draw breath, he sadly took it to his backyard and buried it respectfully, and erected a small marker to mark its grave.
He was not surprised to awaken one night, and see a small gathering of lights about the grave. He toddled down to the site, and was greeted by a small procession of faeries, much like the one he had buried. They were weeping, their voices high and thin. One saw him, and made his way to him. It said something in an unintelligible language of squeaks and trills, but he could understand the gestures it made.
“I’m sorry for your loss too. I didn’t know him- I just found him on my stapler.” He said. It would not do any good to lie to them, he knew, for they were the masters of twisting words and meanings. It studied him with beady black eyes, and then motioned him to follow it.
He was hesitant at first, for he knew the danger of accepting an invitation of a faerie. But he was curious, and so he followed it into its world.
He later returned that night, and upon returning, painted a magnificent painting of the sights he had seen.
And so it went on like such, for several years.
Then one day, when he was twelve, he could no longer find them. He was sad and he wept, and they watched him and spoke to him but he could not hear or see them any more.
Growing up means losing one’s childhood.
9. Thunder
“You don’t like the thunder?” I asked him.
“Not particularly.” He said nervously. He looked out the window cautiously, into the dark rain and sky. Another bolt lit up the sky, temporarily. There was no echoing pulse that followed.
“Why are you afraid?” My hand was resting on his shoulder gently. I could feel him tremble beneath my touch- surprisingly, he did not flinch at my touch. “It’s just noise.”
“I know.” He was silent for several moments, but I could feel a shudder run through him. Another bolt cracked through the air, naked power suspended there for a moment, before it vanished with a clap. He shivered. “It’s just the idea of that much raw power, you know? Of being so close to you, that it could just by simple chance, reach out and end your life.”
“I never told you this. When I was younger, I didn’t mind the thunder. My parents were out that day, and my sister was gone as well to some birthday party. I was home alone and young, and I liked to watch the rain and lightning. But then, by some chance, the power went out. A freak accident, I’m sure. But just like that, I was in complete darkness. I couldn’t see a single thing, couldn’t contact a single person. I was alone and in the dark, and the only thing I could hear was the steadily increasing thunder.”
He paused and I didn’t speak. I didn’t tell him that I could see the tears on his face. “It’s just something stupid like that. Like all of this. This whole situation.”
I wrapped my arms around him, and he clung to me as if I were the only real thing.
10. Clover
This is a story of clovers.
Originally, clovers were of three leaves and they were considered pleasant. Each leaf represented love, faith and hope, and they were awarded to newlyweds as promises of such. It was on such an occasion, that the newlywed bribe was presented with a clover of no more than four leaves. Puzzled by the meaning of this, she asked her husband of this, and he told her that he had found it in the river on the day of their wedding. Curious at the meaning of the fourth leaf, she set off to find the old druid of the town.
In the dark of his hut, he studied it in equal puzzlement and conferred his books, and told her he did not know the meaning of it. She went to ask the elders of the village, and they told her to ask the faerie-folk. She then kissed her husband farewell, and sought to seek the faerie-folk in hopes that they would know the answer to her query.
She wandered for a long time. For the sidhe are elusive and will not be found if they do not desire to be found.
At long last, on the last of her supplies and her luck and on the verge of death, she found Lady Luck.
Lady Luck is a fickle woman- she will be kind and gracious one moment, then cross and furious the next. Who knows what governs her moods? Who knows when she is alive, if she was ever alive? She despises and loves everyone at a point, and does not speak often. When she does, it is of the weather.
But above all things, she is lonely.
The bribe, no longer newlywed, found Lady Luck by a lake. A lake, which, according to legend, was the gate to Avalon and the resting place of Arthur; but she did not know this and saw only a stranger and water. She called to Lady Luck, begging her for water and wept at the futility of her quest. Lady Luck was silent and contemplative, and asked what manner of a quest it was.
And so the bribe told her- of the clover and of her wedding, of her husband that she was sure had abandoned their marriage, of her futile quest to find an answer. Through it all, Lady Luck stood stolid and inscrutable, watching her.
When she finished her tale and her tears were spent, Lady Luck approached her and took the clover from her hand. With little more than a spoken word, she blessed the fourth leaf of the clover with her own quality, luck.
The bribe cried out with joy at this, but stood in worry over her return home. But Lady Luck smiled gently, and sent her on her way.
The bribe returned to village to find her husband waiting for her, and lived out the rest of her life with a measure of good luck. The clover she kept as a treasured keepsake, and upon her death, had buried over her grave.
11. Fireworks
I never been to a fireworks show, I told her over the phone. It was the truth. She didn’t believe me at first, but a few minutes of earnest convincing, she invited me to go see them with her.
I was delighted, and told her I would be there shortly. She said that it would be fine, that her family would be out and she hoped I would not mind. I didn’t. Several minutes later I was in front of her house, knocking on her door. She answered, and we had a small bowl of grapes while waiting for the fireworks to begin. We talked a bit of books in the time, as ever. After a while, we strolled out down the road to see the fireworks.
She told me that they were not much, and just a neighborhood thing.
They were spectacular. Showers of gold and yellow and red, all lit up in dying phosphorescent sparks that winked in and out of existence. There were those that did little more than sputter and huddle along the ground, and there were those that exploded viciously and noisily and brilliantly, ending the short span of their existence in a detonation of heat and light.
We watched them for a long time and sat there for an even longer. After the fireworks were spent and the haze of smoke clung to the air, did we move to leave. We talked a bit, as ever, of the fireworks and matters on our minds.
The memory of those evaporating outbursts was still in my mind, and I recalled the manner that they had ended. In vividness and luminosity, hurling themselves forward with a reckless abandon.
12. Bird
We waited patiently by the top.
It was dusk in the city, and below us, there were the sounds of traffic and the humdrum of life. The bustling crowds shuffle beneath us as we wait upon the top of the Empire State building, wind buffeting our face. It was a cloudy night, and one would wonder what any of us were doing up here.
We came to seek immortality.
Perhaps you might scoff at us, and shake your head at the notion. But we were not mere men then- we were all men who had delved deeper and further into the dark corners of the world than any had dared. We had found the trolls under the bridges, the spirits of those departed and things that man could hardly ever dream off. But we were men, and even men must age and pass into the yawning dark.
So we searched desperately for an answer- surely, we, masters of the occult and hidden knowledge could find some manner to avoid death. But our quest seemed to be for naught- no one knew the answer to immortality locked in this world. In vain did we rally and search for those long years, till at last, we had found in the cold reaches of Russia, a man much like us, who claimed to have seen the Phoenix.
He called it the ‘celestial Phoenix’ and spoke of how it lived for an eternity and beyond. So we searched, desperately, and found clues in the forgotten lore of the world. Whispers of those who ate the burning remains of the Phoenix would burn away the years of old age.
It was little more than a rumor, but as we felt the oppressive hand of time, we hastily followed all leads that we had found, till at last, we had after long years of research, detailed a compiled map of the locations that the Phoenix built its nest, and where it would appear next.
So we found ourselves in the cold, above New York City, awaiting the Phoenix. It is strange, we murmured, that it should not have appeared yet- for the Phoenix is a bird of fire and wild freedom, and the sun had already faded. But we did not pretend to understand why it had not come yet.
We waited long in the cold and beneath the dark clouds. It was a starless night, and the clock tolled midnight. We cursed and shook our fists at the heavens and began to shuffle our way down. So many resources and time spent to chase an illusion.
Above us, the stars came out. The clouds must have moved, we thought. Then we suddenly realized, with shock, that the clouds did not move.
The stars themselves were moving.
We yelled and pointed frantically at the sight. A million burning points of light against the dark blue sky- no, not sky- feathers. The sky was moving above us, and from it, two talons descended to grasp the spire. It was beyond large, to make the tip of the Empire State Building to look like little more than a branch. Then it lowered its wings, oh so barely, and we could see the cloudy night again. And it peered down at us with an alien face, with twin points of light that burned with unfathomable intent. Then, satisfied, if such a creature could know such a feeling, it took flight to the sky again.
The celestial Phoenix- how wrong we had been.
It is not a bird of the sun and fire and rebirth. It is not of one lone star. It is an uncountable multitude of infinity. It is the bird of the sky, the stars themselves and all the stars that glitter and is eternal. It is not an earthly creature at all, but one that has sailed the void between worlds for ages and countless eons before coming to this one.
It is the heavens above us.
13. Pajamas
She didn’t like to sleep with pajamas.
If you ever asked her why, she would shrug and answer nonchalantly that it was too hot in her room. The truth was she just felt more comfortable and free without them, so she didn’t see the point of wearing them. That was before the incident.
The boys at her new school would be happy to learn this information- she is pale and dark haired and not particularly pretty, but boys like her. They don’t know why. The girls hate her for stealing all the attention and are pleasant to her face, but in actuality seethe with jealousy. Such is life.
She doesn’t particularly mind either- she dislikes the town. It is too wet and grey and dark, too small and closeted. It is temporary, her residency with her estranged father here. Her mother has recently remarried, and is currently on the move about the country with her new husband. She is to stay in the town of Forks until then.
There isn’t much to do in town, she knows. It doesn’t help that her father is the chief of police here- that cinches almost any chance of a party. So she sits in her room and does her studies dutifully and wonders of what life will be like.
The clock chimes midnight, so she goes to shower and prepare for bed. She slips in bed, and falls asleep. She dreams of haphazard things: a priestess in the woods, an immortal who desires death, a rat in human form and a girl made of mist. These are as dreams should be.
Something moves in her room, and she wakes suddenly. Startled, she glances around and flicks the light on.
There is a boy at the foot of her bed. He stands there, and looks surprised that she is awake. There is no telling how long he has been there.
“Who are you?” She says. Her hand slips down to grasp the base of the lamp. If he should make any movements, she’s prepared to fight back.
He looks at her in surprise. “I’m Edward.”
A memory registers in her mind- she does know him. The boy in her biology class who sits next to her and all the other girls gawk at. She doesn’t understand their attraction, though; he is too pale and cold, and his hair is insufferable. “What the hell are you doing here in my room?”
“I, uh.” He hesitates, unsure of how to respond. “I was watching you sleep.”
“Right. So, why the hell were you watching me sleep?” She becomes horribly aware that she is only in her undergarments and several intrusive answers present themselves. Her hand tightens on the lamp. “And more to the point, how the hell did you get in here? I mean, haven’t you heard the law that says you don’t break into people’s houses?”
“I…like watching you sleep.” He runs his hand through his hair- it only serves to cause a further mess of it. “And I came in through the window.”
“Wait.” A pause. She stares at him, incredulous. “You what?”
“I came in through the window. I had to oil it, though, since I didn’t want to break it-”
“Hold it.” She takes a breath to calm herself. “Now, what the hell are you doing climbing through my window to watch me sleep and do who knows what in my room?”
“I don’t sleep. My kind, you see, we’re not required to do things like that. We’re not prey to human weaknesses-”
She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “I don’t want to hear whatever weird fantasy you’ve got wrapped up in your head. Just get out of my room and I won’t call the cops.”
“But it’s true. I can barely stay away from-”
She hurls the lamp at him. He promptly jumps out the window, and she locks it behind him. She peeks out to make sure that he is gone and shivers in her undergarments.
She wore pajamas from then on, for the rest of her life.
15. Vines
Her name was Columbine, and she liked gardening.
She was named, her mother had told her when she was a child, after the Harlequin’s Columbine and under the belief she would be desirable and pretty. If you asked her now, she would tell you with a shrug that it was just a name her mother fancied- she was homely and plain, but she did not mind. She lived by herself above her flower shop, and she was well known for raising some of the prettiest flowers seen.
Many times, her customers would leave various plants as gifts at her doorstep, and she would take them in and water them and tend to them before planting them outside.
One day, she returned home and found a small clay pot filled with dirt, upon her doorstep. There was a slip of paper upon it, that said:
To Columbine, with many thanks.
Dream well and surely.
From- Jack Spriggins.
She was puzzled, but she took it nonetheless. Once inside, she discovered that there were five beans inside the pot. Being a practical person, Columbine planted them and watered them. She then went down to open the shop for business.
At the end of the day, when she had closed up the shop, and began to make dinner for herself, she went to check on the newest additions. She was surprised, for the beans had grown quickly and surely and already were brushing against the roof. They were all twined around each other, creating in a sense a tree made of vines. She considered it, and decided that she should plant it outside before long.
Columbine then went to bed and dreamed of giants and mountains.
She woke in the night, suddenly, to a crunching and tearing noise from the kitchen. She stumbled up out of bed, and came upon an odd sight- the vine-tree had surged up and torn a whole through the roof. Curiously, she could hear noises and see sunlight streaming down through the hole, so she put a coat on and clambered up the tree.
The next day, one of her customers stopped by to see her- she found the door locked, and curious, called for Columbine. When she did not answer, she felt uneasy, for Columbine was an old woman- worried, she called the police. Upon arriving, they broke down her door and filed upstairs to find a most peculiar sight. The entireties of the walls were covered with thick, verdant vines that bloomed with an uncountable amount of flowers, filling the air with a pleasant, cinnamon scent.
Columbine was no where to be found, and never did anyone see her again.
16. Dust
It was a way, he had said, of talking about sin without talking about sin, of talking about the faults of mankind and the fall of Eve. It was a way to avoid directly confronting the guilt of it, he said- there was nothing to fear from the snake haired woman. It was nothing more than a myth, and there was nothing that his God could not conquer.
He went to seek her out.
They found him as a statue weeks later, partially crumbled to dust.
From dust to dust.
17. Shampoo
Emily loved the dog.
He was a small thing named Maverick, all soft brown fur and large black eyes. She adored him beyond reason, and he seemed much attached to her as well- he would crawl into her bed at night to sleep with her, his small, warm form curled up against the hollows of her body. And in the day, she would walk and he would follow her, a shadow that she could touch.
The thing she loved best was giving him a bath- full of soap and shampoo, his fur would stick up in spikes and he would look much like a ball of fur, with his eyes peering out from the center. She would laugh and smile at him, and he would pretend to be fierce then settle down in her lap as she read a book to the both of them.
What was sad, though, that he was not her dog- he belonged to a neighbor, and she had offered to take care of him for the month.
But she loved him, still, and enjoyed the time she had with him, though she would be sad to see him go.
18. Eye
Liam was an old man when he found Odin’s eye.
He didn’t know at first that it was Odin’s eye, plucked and placed in Mimir’s Well as payment. Liam just thought it was an odd ornament of sorts that his grandson had sent him from Iceland. He was there on an archeological dig of sorts and had discovered it in a thrift shop, the letter went to say, and had thought that his grandfather, being a historian, would find the bauble amusing.
Liam turned it over in his hands- it seemed to be made of glass and was smooth and clear and of course, much like an eye. He wasn’t quite sure of what he could do with it; it was too round to be a paper weight and did not fit well on the mantle. So he tucked it away in his desk and it gathered dust.
He would have likely gone to his grave without thinking any more of it if not for the strange visitors he received over the next few weeks.
Liam went out to collect his mail the next morning, and found two crows perched on his mailbox. They did not move or flinch as he gathered his mail and he watched them from his house with curiosity. He lived by himself in a small house- his wife had passed away several years ago and his children moved away. Only his grandson kept any contact with him now.
He settled down to have a cup of tea and read the newspaper when he heard a knock on the door. He got up and wondered who would come seeking him. Liam opened the door and was at first perplexed to not see anyone- then he looked down and realized that the visitor was a good foot shorter than him. A dwarf, as one would call him.
“Greetings, grandsire- I am Dvalin the Dallier, who graved the runes for the dwarfs upon the World-Tree.” His voice was deep and his beard thick. There was something about him that convinced Liam that he was telling the truth.
“Hello there,” Liam said. What does one say to such a visitor? “Would like to join me for tea?”
Dvalin bowed. “Sadly, grandsire, I must pass on your offer. I come to seek the eye of Odin, which was plucked and given to Mimir as payment.”
“Well, I daresay I have it.” That was what the eye was, then. He looked at Dvalin carefully. He seemed to be honest. “But wouldn’t it belong to Odin?”
The dwarf nodded, his face turned downward. “Aye- it is the All-father’s eye and whoever looks through it may know the present and past and what is it be and the truth of the world.”
“I see.” Liam nodded. “Well, I’ll give it to him when I see him, then.”
He then invited Dvalin in tea, to which the dwarf politely refused. Liam returned inside to look thoughtfully at the eye. Then another knock sounded on the door. Liam was greeted this time, by a thin man. He was dressed in a worn suit and there was something fox-like about his mannerism.
“Hail, wizened and sage keeper of Odin’s lost eye.” There was a subtle mocking in his voice. He bowed graciously, but to Liam it seemed that the man was derisive of him. “I am here to claim the Wander’s lost eye.”
Liam looked at him carefully. This was not a man to trust. “And who are you to say I’ll give it to you?”
The man gave him a sharp smile. “I am Loki, brother of Odin All-Father. I am the mother of the eight legged stallion, Sleipnir. I am the father of Fenrir Sky-Eater and Hel half-rotted and Jormungund World Serpent. I am Loki Sly-tongue, Loki Kin-slayer. I am Loki Lie-Smith, and the god of ice and fire and wit, and I will have Odin’s eye.”
“Are you done with your list?” Liam asked, impatient. He really wasn’t in the mood to listen to a long recitation of titles. “You’re Loki the Trickster.”
“I am.” He said with a touch of pride.
“Well, you’re not Odin. So I bid good day to you, and ask that next time you come by you don’t leave so much mud on my doorstep.” With that, Liam promptly closed the door.
Outside, Loki Lie-smith cursed in forgotten tongues and turned and left. And the two crows on the mailbox watched.
Liam finally settled down to finish the newspaper. When his tea was cold and finished, he got up to peer at the eye. The future could be seen in it, Dvalin had said. It was tempting to look through it.
He sighed. He was an old man, and did not have the time for such silly things as the future. Liam supposed he’d rather hold on to it till the owner came to pick it up.
There came a knock on his door. He did not move to answer it, but then came two more raps. He was too old for this. But he still got up to answer the door.
It was a very old man, dressed all in grey and washed out colors. There were two crows, one on either shoulder and he had only one eye. There was only one person he knew it could be.
“You took a while getting here.” Liam said finally. He pulled the eye out of his pocket and gave it to the silent god.
“My bones are old; I no longer move as I once did.” Odin said with a shrug. “I thank you for holding onto my eye.”
“You’re welcome.” And with that, Liam closed the door and went about his day without anymore strange visitors.
19. Apple
He flew up through the brimstone clouds that were not yet brimstone clouds that were instead industrial clouds of construction and beyond the depths of Hell, to which he had been cast.
He flew through the dark of existence, places that had not yet seen light and matter, places of nothingness and nonexistence- naught places and nothing places. He dared to fly through, for he was the Lightbringer, the highest and most beautiful of all angels even after the Fall. He was Lucifer Morningstar, brother of Michael and the former commander of Heaven’s legions.
He flew through the void, to see this new creation and toy of God.
And it was before him, suspended in the vast blackness. It was a gem- all sapphires and greens and browns, a masterpiece of life. There were no stars yet, for stars were still being planned and constructed. But there was light, and in the far off distance, he could see the glow of the Silver City.
In his heart, he felt a yearning and sadness, but he steeled himself against it. Tucking his wings in, he flew down to investigate this new creation of the Lord, this ‘human’.
He didn’t look hard to find it- they were there in the Garden of Eden, as was ordained in the plans. He looked at them curiously- they were much like angels but they were without wings and darker skinned. Their hands were clumsy and rough, and he did not understand why God had favored them so.
But there was also the ‘female’. There had never been such a thing among angels, this strange and alarming creature of curves and breasts and hair. She was much like the male, but slighter, gentler and softer in a manner.
She intrigued him, but he looked to his goal instead. At the center of the garden there was a tree- a tree that bore apples. He knew that they would look like they were carved of rubies, and that their skin was soft and delicate. After all, he had planted the tree himself. It was called the Tree of Knowledge.
Hopefully, it would allow him to understand the reason for the angel’s execution. Hopefully, he would understand the justice of the Lord, and why there could be no forgiveness.
He hoped.
He slipped down, and took the form of a ‘snake’, an animal that they had designed and planned for this planet. It was also the only form that could slip through the narrow gates of the garden. He slipped up next to the bizarre female and spoke to her, and asked her to fetch a fruit for him. One fruit from the tree, he said, and God would understand. She agreed, and went to pick one. He watched her, patient. She approached the tree, and then hesitantly, picked one.
She simply stood there for several moments, and then promptly took a bite from it. He couldn’t believe it. The only hope he had for possibly understanding and returning to the Silver City was there, being devoured by a human.
He wept, and fled from the Garden before discovery, and returned to his throne in Pandemonium, in the House of the Fly, and swore that all humans would suffer from stealing away his one chance of redemption.
They're all kind of fairy-tale like, in way.
1. Puppet
It is a puppet that dreams of life.
It does not have a name or a mind or a family. It is made of wood and metal, string and glue and all tied together by human ingenuity. It does not have blood or veins, and it does not have a heart. Nor will it.
But it had a dream to be human.
The puppet maker dreams too, of a son. And so he names the puppet, and dreams that it would be his son.
And sometimes, dreams are enough.
They will find the body of the old puppet maker tomorrow, on his bench. They will not find the puppet, and they will puzzle over the smile the puppet maker has on his face.
Somewhere in the world, a puppet makes his way through the world and thanks his father.
2. Sharpie
She hated sharpies.
She hated their design, the felt tips that were so clumsy and impractical. She disliked the ink that was so hard to scrub off, but most of all, she hated the smell of sharpies. Above all things, she hated that sharp, reeling scent that was at once pungent and intoxicating.
So when they found her outside her burning house, and they asked her why she had burned it, she simply stated with a child’s earnestness that it was to get rid of the smell of sharpies inside that her brother had left.
3. Mouse
He was called Mouse.
It was not his actual name, though. No one called him real name. He was the third child of a family of five, and had two older brothers. Both of the brothers were taller and stronger than he was and when they saw him in the hospital, they called him Mouse.
His parents scolded them for such a thing, but they pointed and insisted that he did look like a mouse. And the parents looked at the third son, and admitted to themselves that yes, he did look a bit like a mouse.
Names have power- whether true names or given names. So the third son grew to his given name, Mouse- he was small and furtive and had a nervous mannerism to him. He was often ignored by his peers, who flocked to the brothers, and his parents chided him for not being more like them.
He didn’t mind, though. He had Tessa.
Tessa was a friend he had found in his early childhood- he did not remember where she came from or how she found him. It was as if she had always been there. His family nodded and talked of imaginary friends, and his teachers shook their heads, sure that he would outgrow it.
Mouse was ten years old, and she was still with him. She was the only friend he had, and she always voiced her opinion on things. She was his best friend and confidant. His brothers, teenagers, mocked him. His parents looked on worriedly and whispered of visiting a doctor. He didn’t mind.
She was with him, and that was all he needed.
Then, one day, in the midst of winter, she was gone. Suddenly and without word or farewell, she was no longer there. He sought her out in the corners of the house, in the dusty rooms in vain. He thought at first that his brothers had abducted her and went to them in a rage. His parents came and found him inconsolable and furious, so they locked him in his room while they called the doctor.
He wept till he had no more tears and his eyes were red and dry. It was quiet in that room, and below, he could hear his parents shouting. He pressed his hot cheeks against the window pane, and watched his breath fog the glass.
Outside, he could hear the voices of the snow spirits, dancing and calling him to join them. He had always known better, for to join them in a dance was to dance to one’s death. But with Tessa gone, he decided then that he would not mind so much. So he unlatched the window and scrambled out, clambering down into the snow. He shivered- he was dressed only in thin clothes not suited for the weather.
He trudged out into the snow, following the pale, thin hands of the dancers. They swirled around him, and he felt colder than he did in his life. He wondered if he was to die, now.
Suddenly, the snow spirits were gone. He could not hear their seductive whispers, and he looked up and he saw December. He knew then that it was December, with her regal clothing and her pleasant smile. He greeted her and was polite; she gave him directions to where Tessa should be. As a favor, she allowed him to pick berries in the frost.
He trudged on, and he could not longer feel the cold. He could not feel anything, now. Before long, he met a wolf- it was no normal wolf, for wolves do not grow to be the size of men and do not have coats as white as such. It greeted him, and told him that he was not far from his goal. He thanked it, and did not tell him where he was going- he knew better than such. The wolf watched him go in silence.
And then, beneath a tree, he found Tessa. She was sitting reading a book, still pale and dark haired and the same as ever. He called to her and she ran to him, and he was crying with happiness even as the tears froze on his skin. And then he sat down with her beneath the branches of the tree, and she told him that he was not of this world. That he was a changeling child, and that his world was so close to this one and that it was time for him to return home if he desired.
He smiled, and told her that he would follow her anywhere. She blushed and led him down through the hollows of the tree trunk, into the world below.
They found his body the next day, curled up in the hollows of a tree. It was strange, the police reported. When asked why, they spoke of how they had found a bed of berries growing around him, out of season and how his body was light and gray, as if the living vigor had completely left the body.
4. Dream catcher
They hang in the air, above every sleeper, intangible and invisible.
Perhaps you have seen them. If you could, you would wonder at them- circles of willow and spider’s silk. They are fragile things, these dream catchers. Delicate and small hands wove them and place them there and carry them away before the break of day.
After all that dreaming is done is when they work. Before you wake and after you leave the world of madness and imagination and possibilities for the dull and rioting world, those circles catch the dreams that fall and are left behind. All your abandoned fancies and hopes and horrors and secrets and loves and passions and hates are swept and caught up in those nets. The mountains and chimeras and unicorns and war haunting and demons and your lusts and butterflies who dreamt they were men and talking hares and mad hatters. All of them are there, trapped in the threads: the pretty gypsy girl who was not a gypsy who danced with you; the young boy who was a demon; the path that you walked in the woods; the funeral you attended but never attended.
They do not discriminate in what they capture.
And before the light of the sun shines upon them, small hands and figures gather about and carry those fathoming trawls away. Up and up into the sky, above the heavens and the sun to the place where all dreams live.
Dreams are the stuff of night and moonlight, and the touch of day turns them to dust.
6. Cheese puffs
She came up to him, one day, and in a serious and contemplative tone asked him how cheese puffs were made.
He would have laughed then, but he didn’t. She was too earnest and serious in her question for such a thing. So he sat her down, and began to tell her the story. It went like this-
Once upon a time, there was a farmer and a blacksmith who lived next to each other. As such things go, however, they did not get along with one another. They would have arguments about who was the one to do more to the village. The farmer would say that he did, that he brought in milk and the harvest and that the smith had no right to talk. Then the smith would say and point to the things he had made and that the farmer used, and they would quarrel and bicker till the sun had gone down.
Now, the farmer and the blacksmith both had one child- the farmer had a daughter, and the smith a son. Despite their differences, the two were fast friends through childhood. When they grew into young adults, they found comfort in each other’s presence, and fell in love.
Of course, their fathers objected to this till at last, the farmer came up with a challenge. A challenge that he thought, at the time, could not be done. He gave the smith’s son a block of cheese and dared him to find a way to make it lighter than the air itself. The son took up the challenge and the daughter despaired for she knew such a feat could not have been done, but she stood steadfast by his side nonetheless. He labored long and hard to try to find a way, and could not find a single one. In a state of despondency-
(She interrupted him to ask what the word meant. He explained it, and satisfied, she allowed him to continue.)
-the son went to his forge and bellows to make some tools. And he labored through the night, fearful of morning and his failure, and he fell asleep on the bellows. When he woke in morning, he went to pull out his product and discovered that he had left the cheese on the bellows instead, and to his marvel it had expanded and become almost as light as air. So he took his marvel to the farmer, and impressed, allowed the smith’s son to marry his daughter.
She was almost asleep then, and asked him if the story he told her was real. He smiled and kissed her forehead and tucked her into bed.
7. Music
He was with her on a park bench. Neither of them was speaking, and the air felt cool on his skin. Their backs were to one another, and they were leaning on each other. It was dusk, and the sky overhead was a shade deep purple. Through the night, they could hear the soft notes of an orchestra playing.
She asked him then; did he not also play music?
He smiled and shook his head. Once upon a time, he told her.
She mentioned how she had remembered his name being called first at school concerts, when they were younger.
He shook his head, and told her of how he was once first and best among them all.
She softly asked him why- why did he no longer play?
He was silent for several heartbeats. The lilting trills can be heard through the woods. Then he began to speak- he requested that she not laugh at him for his tale.
She was puzzled, but agreed nonetheless.
It was a strange tale, he said, hesitantly.
It was after a concert eight years ago, and he was walking her home as he had done in those days. They held hands then, innocently, as friends and talked of quiet nonsense. He was already in love with her then, but he could not tell her. They were the best of friends- it was impossible. They reached her house, and they stood in the driveway for a while. He enjoyed the simple pleasure of her company.
Her mother finally called her in, and he turned down the driveway to make his way home. It was dark and under the sickly yellow of the street lamps, the path was straight and dark. He could make out the lights of houses that burned like stars, and he chose a quiet and empty path through the woods. It was peaceful and he was flush in the memories of her when he heard a strange noise.
He panicked at first, but paused- the noise continued. It was a melody, distant and alien, but there was an unearthly beauty to the refrain. He followed the notes, stumbling through unfamiliar territory and feeling his way in the dark till at last he caught sight of a clearing. It was lit by the gentle glow of lanterns strung by the branches, and inside there was a ring of dancing people.
But what arrested his attention was the quartet that stood to the side and played their unearthly music. It was trill and sharp, full of notes that he did not recognize and patterns and beneath it all, he could feel the advance of the sea. He did not know how long he was there, hidden in the shadows listening to that beautiful music. It was beyond anything he heard before- it was all soft melodies and rhythms he had never conceived and next to it, all the music he had played seemed mundane and dull.
He woke then to the sunlight shining down upon his face, and in a panic, made his way home. His mother scolded him but did not ask where he was last night. Afterwards, he made his way up to his room and pulled out his instrument, on tried to play on its strings the song he heard the night before. But it was in vain, for the notes he had seemed to be shrill and droll, all sharp and dissonant cadences that were nothing like that song. Next to it, the music he played seemed to be piercing and monotonous to the tune that he could not quite remember.
He fell silent then.
She asked him if he ever recalled the song.
He shook his head, but said to her that you could not hear the song without it changing you.
It was with him, still, a faded memory of song he could not remember.
8. Stapler
He was no more than eight when he found his first faerie.
If you asked him how he knew it was a faerie, he would look at you with a solemn, wide eyed gaze and tell you that it simply was and that he just knew.
He found it in his stapler- it was small and human like and very still, and he did not wonder why it was there. He reverently took it and carefully took it, and held a vigil over it. After several hours, when it did not stir or draw breath, he sadly took it to his backyard and buried it respectfully, and erected a small marker to mark its grave.
He was not surprised to awaken one night, and see a small gathering of lights about the grave. He toddled down to the site, and was greeted by a small procession of faeries, much like the one he had buried. They were weeping, their voices high and thin. One saw him, and made his way to him. It said something in an unintelligible language of squeaks and trills, but he could understand the gestures it made.
“I’m sorry for your loss too. I didn’t know him- I just found him on my stapler.” He said. It would not do any good to lie to them, he knew, for they were the masters of twisting words and meanings. It studied him with beady black eyes, and then motioned him to follow it.
He was hesitant at first, for he knew the danger of accepting an invitation of a faerie. But he was curious, and so he followed it into its world.
He later returned that night, and upon returning, painted a magnificent painting of the sights he had seen.
And so it went on like such, for several years.
Then one day, when he was twelve, he could no longer find them. He was sad and he wept, and they watched him and spoke to him but he could not hear or see them any more.
Growing up means losing one’s childhood.
9. Thunder
“You don’t like the thunder?” I asked him.
“Not particularly.” He said nervously. He looked out the window cautiously, into the dark rain and sky. Another bolt lit up the sky, temporarily. There was no echoing pulse that followed.
“Why are you afraid?” My hand was resting on his shoulder gently. I could feel him tremble beneath my touch- surprisingly, he did not flinch at my touch. “It’s just noise.”
“I know.” He was silent for several moments, but I could feel a shudder run through him. Another bolt cracked through the air, naked power suspended there for a moment, before it vanished with a clap. He shivered. “It’s just the idea of that much raw power, you know? Of being so close to you, that it could just by simple chance, reach out and end your life.”
“I never told you this. When I was younger, I didn’t mind the thunder. My parents were out that day, and my sister was gone as well to some birthday party. I was home alone and young, and I liked to watch the rain and lightning. But then, by some chance, the power went out. A freak accident, I’m sure. But just like that, I was in complete darkness. I couldn’t see a single thing, couldn’t contact a single person. I was alone and in the dark, and the only thing I could hear was the steadily increasing thunder.”
He paused and I didn’t speak. I didn’t tell him that I could see the tears on his face. “It’s just something stupid like that. Like all of this. This whole situation.”
I wrapped my arms around him, and he clung to me as if I were the only real thing.
10. Clover
This is a story of clovers.
Originally, clovers were of three leaves and they were considered pleasant. Each leaf represented love, faith and hope, and they were awarded to newlyweds as promises of such. It was on such an occasion, that the newlywed bribe was presented with a clover of no more than four leaves. Puzzled by the meaning of this, she asked her husband of this, and he told her that he had found it in the river on the day of their wedding. Curious at the meaning of the fourth leaf, she set off to find the old druid of the town.
In the dark of his hut, he studied it in equal puzzlement and conferred his books, and told her he did not know the meaning of it. She went to ask the elders of the village, and they told her to ask the faerie-folk. She then kissed her husband farewell, and sought to seek the faerie-folk in hopes that they would know the answer to her query.
She wandered for a long time. For the sidhe are elusive and will not be found if they do not desire to be found.
At long last, on the last of her supplies and her luck and on the verge of death, she found Lady Luck.
Lady Luck is a fickle woman- she will be kind and gracious one moment, then cross and furious the next. Who knows what governs her moods? Who knows when she is alive, if she was ever alive? She despises and loves everyone at a point, and does not speak often. When she does, it is of the weather.
But above all things, she is lonely.
The bribe, no longer newlywed, found Lady Luck by a lake. A lake, which, according to legend, was the gate to Avalon and the resting place of Arthur; but she did not know this and saw only a stranger and water. She called to Lady Luck, begging her for water and wept at the futility of her quest. Lady Luck was silent and contemplative, and asked what manner of a quest it was.
And so the bribe told her- of the clover and of her wedding, of her husband that she was sure had abandoned their marriage, of her futile quest to find an answer. Through it all, Lady Luck stood stolid and inscrutable, watching her.
When she finished her tale and her tears were spent, Lady Luck approached her and took the clover from her hand. With little more than a spoken word, she blessed the fourth leaf of the clover with her own quality, luck.
The bribe cried out with joy at this, but stood in worry over her return home. But Lady Luck smiled gently, and sent her on her way.
The bribe returned to village to find her husband waiting for her, and lived out the rest of her life with a measure of good luck. The clover she kept as a treasured keepsake, and upon her death, had buried over her grave.
11. Fireworks
I never been to a fireworks show, I told her over the phone. It was the truth. She didn’t believe me at first, but a few minutes of earnest convincing, she invited me to go see them with her.
I was delighted, and told her I would be there shortly. She said that it would be fine, that her family would be out and she hoped I would not mind. I didn’t. Several minutes later I was in front of her house, knocking on her door. She answered, and we had a small bowl of grapes while waiting for the fireworks to begin. We talked a bit of books in the time, as ever. After a while, we strolled out down the road to see the fireworks.
She told me that they were not much, and just a neighborhood thing.
They were spectacular. Showers of gold and yellow and red, all lit up in dying phosphorescent sparks that winked in and out of existence. There were those that did little more than sputter and huddle along the ground, and there were those that exploded viciously and noisily and brilliantly, ending the short span of their existence in a detonation of heat and light.
We watched them for a long time and sat there for an even longer. After the fireworks were spent and the haze of smoke clung to the air, did we move to leave. We talked a bit, as ever, of the fireworks and matters on our minds.
The memory of those evaporating outbursts was still in my mind, and I recalled the manner that they had ended. In vividness and luminosity, hurling themselves forward with a reckless abandon.
12. Bird
We waited patiently by the top.
It was dusk in the city, and below us, there were the sounds of traffic and the humdrum of life. The bustling crowds shuffle beneath us as we wait upon the top of the Empire State building, wind buffeting our face. It was a cloudy night, and one would wonder what any of us were doing up here.
We came to seek immortality.
Perhaps you might scoff at us, and shake your head at the notion. But we were not mere men then- we were all men who had delved deeper and further into the dark corners of the world than any had dared. We had found the trolls under the bridges, the spirits of those departed and things that man could hardly ever dream off. But we were men, and even men must age and pass into the yawning dark.
So we searched desperately for an answer- surely, we, masters of the occult and hidden knowledge could find some manner to avoid death. But our quest seemed to be for naught- no one knew the answer to immortality locked in this world. In vain did we rally and search for those long years, till at last, we had found in the cold reaches of Russia, a man much like us, who claimed to have seen the Phoenix.
He called it the ‘celestial Phoenix’ and spoke of how it lived for an eternity and beyond. So we searched, desperately, and found clues in the forgotten lore of the world. Whispers of those who ate the burning remains of the Phoenix would burn away the years of old age.
It was little more than a rumor, but as we felt the oppressive hand of time, we hastily followed all leads that we had found, till at last, we had after long years of research, detailed a compiled map of the locations that the Phoenix built its nest, and where it would appear next.
So we found ourselves in the cold, above New York City, awaiting the Phoenix. It is strange, we murmured, that it should not have appeared yet- for the Phoenix is a bird of fire and wild freedom, and the sun had already faded. But we did not pretend to understand why it had not come yet.
We waited long in the cold and beneath the dark clouds. It was a starless night, and the clock tolled midnight. We cursed and shook our fists at the heavens and began to shuffle our way down. So many resources and time spent to chase an illusion.
Above us, the stars came out. The clouds must have moved, we thought. Then we suddenly realized, with shock, that the clouds did not move.
The stars themselves were moving.
We yelled and pointed frantically at the sight. A million burning points of light against the dark blue sky- no, not sky- feathers. The sky was moving above us, and from it, two talons descended to grasp the spire. It was beyond large, to make the tip of the Empire State Building to look like little more than a branch. Then it lowered its wings, oh so barely, and we could see the cloudy night again. And it peered down at us with an alien face, with twin points of light that burned with unfathomable intent. Then, satisfied, if such a creature could know such a feeling, it took flight to the sky again.
The celestial Phoenix- how wrong we had been.
It is not a bird of the sun and fire and rebirth. It is not of one lone star. It is an uncountable multitude of infinity. It is the bird of the sky, the stars themselves and all the stars that glitter and is eternal. It is not an earthly creature at all, but one that has sailed the void between worlds for ages and countless eons before coming to this one.
It is the heavens above us.
13. Pajamas
She didn’t like to sleep with pajamas.
If you ever asked her why, she would shrug and answer nonchalantly that it was too hot in her room. The truth was she just felt more comfortable and free without them, so she didn’t see the point of wearing them. That was before the incident.
The boys at her new school would be happy to learn this information- she is pale and dark haired and not particularly pretty, but boys like her. They don’t know why. The girls hate her for stealing all the attention and are pleasant to her face, but in actuality seethe with jealousy. Such is life.
She doesn’t particularly mind either- she dislikes the town. It is too wet and grey and dark, too small and closeted. It is temporary, her residency with her estranged father here. Her mother has recently remarried, and is currently on the move about the country with her new husband. She is to stay in the town of Forks until then.
There isn’t much to do in town, she knows. It doesn’t help that her father is the chief of police here- that cinches almost any chance of a party. So she sits in her room and does her studies dutifully and wonders of what life will be like.
The clock chimes midnight, so she goes to shower and prepare for bed. She slips in bed, and falls asleep. She dreams of haphazard things: a priestess in the woods, an immortal who desires death, a rat in human form and a girl made of mist. These are as dreams should be.
Something moves in her room, and she wakes suddenly. Startled, she glances around and flicks the light on.
There is a boy at the foot of her bed. He stands there, and looks surprised that she is awake. There is no telling how long he has been there.
“Who are you?” She says. Her hand slips down to grasp the base of the lamp. If he should make any movements, she’s prepared to fight back.
He looks at her in surprise. “I’m Edward.”
A memory registers in her mind- she does know him. The boy in her biology class who sits next to her and all the other girls gawk at. She doesn’t understand their attraction, though; he is too pale and cold, and his hair is insufferable. “What the hell are you doing here in my room?”
“I, uh.” He hesitates, unsure of how to respond. “I was watching you sleep.”
“Right. So, why the hell were you watching me sleep?” She becomes horribly aware that she is only in her undergarments and several intrusive answers present themselves. Her hand tightens on the lamp. “And more to the point, how the hell did you get in here? I mean, haven’t you heard the law that says you don’t break into people’s houses?”
“I…like watching you sleep.” He runs his hand through his hair- it only serves to cause a further mess of it. “And I came in through the window.”
“Wait.” A pause. She stares at him, incredulous. “You what?”
“I came in through the window. I had to oil it, though, since I didn’t want to break it-”
“Hold it.” She takes a breath to calm herself. “Now, what the hell are you doing climbing through my window to watch me sleep and do who knows what in my room?”
“I don’t sleep. My kind, you see, we’re not required to do things like that. We’re not prey to human weaknesses-”
She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “I don’t want to hear whatever weird fantasy you’ve got wrapped up in your head. Just get out of my room and I won’t call the cops.”
“But it’s true. I can barely stay away from-”
She hurls the lamp at him. He promptly jumps out the window, and she locks it behind him. She peeks out to make sure that he is gone and shivers in her undergarments.
She wore pajamas from then on, for the rest of her life.
15. Vines
Her name was Columbine, and she liked gardening.
She was named, her mother had told her when she was a child, after the Harlequin’s Columbine and under the belief she would be desirable and pretty. If you asked her now, she would tell you with a shrug that it was just a name her mother fancied- she was homely and plain, but she did not mind. She lived by herself above her flower shop, and she was well known for raising some of the prettiest flowers seen.
Many times, her customers would leave various plants as gifts at her doorstep, and she would take them in and water them and tend to them before planting them outside.
One day, she returned home and found a small clay pot filled with dirt, upon her doorstep. There was a slip of paper upon it, that said:
To Columbine, with many thanks.
Dream well and surely.
From- Jack Spriggins.
She was puzzled, but she took it nonetheless. Once inside, she discovered that there were five beans inside the pot. Being a practical person, Columbine planted them and watered them. She then went down to open the shop for business.
At the end of the day, when she had closed up the shop, and began to make dinner for herself, she went to check on the newest additions. She was surprised, for the beans had grown quickly and surely and already were brushing against the roof. They were all twined around each other, creating in a sense a tree made of vines. She considered it, and decided that she should plant it outside before long.
Columbine then went to bed and dreamed of giants and mountains.
She woke in the night, suddenly, to a crunching and tearing noise from the kitchen. She stumbled up out of bed, and came upon an odd sight- the vine-tree had surged up and torn a whole through the roof. Curiously, she could hear noises and see sunlight streaming down through the hole, so she put a coat on and clambered up the tree.
The next day, one of her customers stopped by to see her- she found the door locked, and curious, called for Columbine. When she did not answer, she felt uneasy, for Columbine was an old woman- worried, she called the police. Upon arriving, they broke down her door and filed upstairs to find a most peculiar sight. The entireties of the walls were covered with thick, verdant vines that bloomed with an uncountable amount of flowers, filling the air with a pleasant, cinnamon scent.
Columbine was no where to be found, and never did anyone see her again.
16. Dust
It was a way, he had said, of talking about sin without talking about sin, of talking about the faults of mankind and the fall of Eve. It was a way to avoid directly confronting the guilt of it, he said- there was nothing to fear from the snake haired woman. It was nothing more than a myth, and there was nothing that his God could not conquer.
He went to seek her out.
They found him as a statue weeks later, partially crumbled to dust.
From dust to dust.
17. Shampoo
Emily loved the dog.
He was a small thing named Maverick, all soft brown fur and large black eyes. She adored him beyond reason, and he seemed much attached to her as well- he would crawl into her bed at night to sleep with her, his small, warm form curled up against the hollows of her body. And in the day, she would walk and he would follow her, a shadow that she could touch.
The thing she loved best was giving him a bath- full of soap and shampoo, his fur would stick up in spikes and he would look much like a ball of fur, with his eyes peering out from the center. She would laugh and smile at him, and he would pretend to be fierce then settle down in her lap as she read a book to the both of them.
What was sad, though, that he was not her dog- he belonged to a neighbor, and she had offered to take care of him for the month.
But she loved him, still, and enjoyed the time she had with him, though she would be sad to see him go.
18. Eye
Liam was an old man when he found Odin’s eye.
He didn’t know at first that it was Odin’s eye, plucked and placed in Mimir’s Well as payment. Liam just thought it was an odd ornament of sorts that his grandson had sent him from Iceland. He was there on an archeological dig of sorts and had discovered it in a thrift shop, the letter went to say, and had thought that his grandfather, being a historian, would find the bauble amusing.
Liam turned it over in his hands- it seemed to be made of glass and was smooth and clear and of course, much like an eye. He wasn’t quite sure of what he could do with it; it was too round to be a paper weight and did not fit well on the mantle. So he tucked it away in his desk and it gathered dust.
He would have likely gone to his grave without thinking any more of it if not for the strange visitors he received over the next few weeks.
Liam went out to collect his mail the next morning, and found two crows perched on his mailbox. They did not move or flinch as he gathered his mail and he watched them from his house with curiosity. He lived by himself in a small house- his wife had passed away several years ago and his children moved away. Only his grandson kept any contact with him now.
He settled down to have a cup of tea and read the newspaper when he heard a knock on the door. He got up and wondered who would come seeking him. Liam opened the door and was at first perplexed to not see anyone- then he looked down and realized that the visitor was a good foot shorter than him. A dwarf, as one would call him.
“Greetings, grandsire- I am Dvalin the Dallier, who graved the runes for the dwarfs upon the World-Tree.” His voice was deep and his beard thick. There was something about him that convinced Liam that he was telling the truth.
“Hello there,” Liam said. What does one say to such a visitor? “Would like to join me for tea?”
Dvalin bowed. “Sadly, grandsire, I must pass on your offer. I come to seek the eye of Odin, which was plucked and given to Mimir as payment.”
“Well, I daresay I have it.” That was what the eye was, then. He looked at Dvalin carefully. He seemed to be honest. “But wouldn’t it belong to Odin?”
The dwarf nodded, his face turned downward. “Aye- it is the All-father’s eye and whoever looks through it may know the present and past and what is it be and the truth of the world.”
“I see.” Liam nodded. “Well, I’ll give it to him when I see him, then.”
He then invited Dvalin in tea, to which the dwarf politely refused. Liam returned inside to look thoughtfully at the eye. Then another knock sounded on the door. Liam was greeted this time, by a thin man. He was dressed in a worn suit and there was something fox-like about his mannerism.
“Hail, wizened and sage keeper of Odin’s lost eye.” There was a subtle mocking in his voice. He bowed graciously, but to Liam it seemed that the man was derisive of him. “I am here to claim the Wander’s lost eye.”
Liam looked at him carefully. This was not a man to trust. “And who are you to say I’ll give it to you?”
The man gave him a sharp smile. “I am Loki, brother of Odin All-Father. I am the mother of the eight legged stallion, Sleipnir. I am the father of Fenrir Sky-Eater and Hel half-rotted and Jormungund World Serpent. I am Loki Sly-tongue, Loki Kin-slayer. I am Loki Lie-Smith, and the god of ice and fire and wit, and I will have Odin’s eye.”
“Are you done with your list?” Liam asked, impatient. He really wasn’t in the mood to listen to a long recitation of titles. “You’re Loki the Trickster.”
“I am.” He said with a touch of pride.
“Well, you’re not Odin. So I bid good day to you, and ask that next time you come by you don’t leave so much mud on my doorstep.” With that, Liam promptly closed the door.
Outside, Loki Lie-smith cursed in forgotten tongues and turned and left. And the two crows on the mailbox watched.
Liam finally settled down to finish the newspaper. When his tea was cold and finished, he got up to peer at the eye. The future could be seen in it, Dvalin had said. It was tempting to look through it.
He sighed. He was an old man, and did not have the time for such silly things as the future. Liam supposed he’d rather hold on to it till the owner came to pick it up.
There came a knock on his door. He did not move to answer it, but then came two more raps. He was too old for this. But he still got up to answer the door.
It was a very old man, dressed all in grey and washed out colors. There were two crows, one on either shoulder and he had only one eye. There was only one person he knew it could be.
“You took a while getting here.” Liam said finally. He pulled the eye out of his pocket and gave it to the silent god.
“My bones are old; I no longer move as I once did.” Odin said with a shrug. “I thank you for holding onto my eye.”
“You’re welcome.” And with that, Liam closed the door and went about his day without anymore strange visitors.
19. Apple
He flew up through the brimstone clouds that were not yet brimstone clouds that were instead industrial clouds of construction and beyond the depths of Hell, to which he had been cast.
He flew through the dark of existence, places that had not yet seen light and matter, places of nothingness and nonexistence- naught places and nothing places. He dared to fly through, for he was the Lightbringer, the highest and most beautiful of all angels even after the Fall. He was Lucifer Morningstar, brother of Michael and the former commander of Heaven’s legions.
He flew through the void, to see this new creation and toy of God.
And it was before him, suspended in the vast blackness. It was a gem- all sapphires and greens and browns, a masterpiece of life. There were no stars yet, for stars were still being planned and constructed. But there was light, and in the far off distance, he could see the glow of the Silver City.
In his heart, he felt a yearning and sadness, but he steeled himself against it. Tucking his wings in, he flew down to investigate this new creation of the Lord, this ‘human’.
He didn’t look hard to find it- they were there in the Garden of Eden, as was ordained in the plans. He looked at them curiously- they were much like angels but they were without wings and darker skinned. Their hands were clumsy and rough, and he did not understand why God had favored them so.
But there was also the ‘female’. There had never been such a thing among angels, this strange and alarming creature of curves and breasts and hair. She was much like the male, but slighter, gentler and softer in a manner.
She intrigued him, but he looked to his goal instead. At the center of the garden there was a tree- a tree that bore apples. He knew that they would look like they were carved of rubies, and that their skin was soft and delicate. After all, he had planted the tree himself. It was called the Tree of Knowledge.
Hopefully, it would allow him to understand the reason for the angel’s execution. Hopefully, he would understand the justice of the Lord, and why there could be no forgiveness.
He hoped.
He slipped down, and took the form of a ‘snake’, an animal that they had designed and planned for this planet. It was also the only form that could slip through the narrow gates of the garden. He slipped up next to the bizarre female and spoke to her, and asked her to fetch a fruit for him. One fruit from the tree, he said, and God would understand. She agreed, and went to pick one. He watched her, patient. She approached the tree, and then hesitantly, picked one.
She simply stood there for several moments, and then promptly took a bite from it. He couldn’t believe it. The only hope he had for possibly understanding and returning to the Silver City was there, being devoured by a human.
He wept, and fled from the Garden before discovery, and returned to his throne in Pandemonium, in the House of the Fly, and swore that all humans would suffer from stealing away his one chance of redemption.