A November Witching Hour

Part I

It was the witching hour: a time to celebrate or a time to pray. The small town of Breton lay in the bosom of the Devine Woods. Only one walled road lead from the town, and along it two girls now walked. Someone coming at them from behind had never yet been able to tell them apart for both had brown hair to the bottom of their shoulder blades, and always wore skinny jeans with a brightly colored T-shirt. They were equally athletic in form, and lyrical in motion and gesture. It was in the face that one saw the difference.

Addison’s eyes were of that color that is sometimes blue and sometimes green depending on what it sees, and her mouth was set in a way that bespoke a woman who always said what was on her mind. However, very little of what was in Addison’s mind was her own.

Reilly’s eyes were a deep brown, and in her face no one ever found an accusation. What they did find if they looked down into her eyes was a sadness, for she took everything personal for good or ill, and if they looked beyond that a lioness stared back. The pair took their walk along the lonely road as often as they could, as they both felt more at home among the bright colors of the forest then among the drab, dark tones of downtown. But now it was November and the woods were as dead as the town. For the last two weeks their walks had grown more frequent and they stayed out later, though never before as late as they did tonight. The small world of Breton was growing smaller, and they were suffocating under the pressure.

Addison zipped up her black hoodie, and said in as close to a normal voice as she dared in the dark forest, “You’re not hearing me, Reilly. That’s not what I meant.”

Reilly thought for a moment.

“It’s not what you mean now, but that’s where it’ll eventually lead.”

“C’mon. We’ve been the revolutionaries in this town for 18 years and everyone’s put up with us.”

“They all thought we’d grow out of it, but we kept ourselves together.” And never before had either of them questioned the goodness of a founder of the town.

“Exactly, but now you’re leaving me behind.”

Reilly stopped, and looked Adds in the eyes.

“I never meant to. You know me. I like asking questions.”

“I know. I’m asking you to listen to their answers.”

“I have.” Reilly took both Adds’ hands in hers. “And believe me, I’ve tried to convince myself they’re right, but I just can’t make myself believe in them.” They had been friends since before they were born as their parents had been a foursome since high school. They had been raised as sisters, and shared everything. For the sake of that, Reilly added in a whisper, “They’re hiding something.”

Addison yanked her hands away, her left hand going to her forehead, and she walked a few steps forward. Reilly stared after her, shocked. Addison whipped back around.

“You don’t get it. This isn’t about reason or logic. This is about faith. You’ve known the elders your whole life. For gods’ sake, your mother’s one of them. Don’t you think they have our best interests at heart?” Her eyes blazed.

Reilly willed her friend to understand. She gave a tiny smile, her eyes glassy, and she said softly, like the sound of a knife through bread, “No, I don’t.”

Addy shook her head, and laughed.

“So typical.” She took off in a dead sprint down the last several yards of the road into town.

Reilly dragged her fingers through her hair, then raised the back of her hand to her lips. Tears slipped down her cheeks, staining them with eyeliner and mascara. She bit the side of her index finger to hold back her sobs. She hadn’t asked to be this way. She knew the bliss of ignorance, but could never let herself be satisfied with it. She began to walk after Addison, her pace picking up with her thoughts. She had to get out of here. She had to get out of here! She reached the first house of her pretty neighborhood, and began to run. She had to go. Images of the limitless possibilities of the world outside flipped through her mind like she was looking through those binoculars with pics of Paris in them that kids played with.

She ran past her house then slowed to a fast walk. She reached main street. She couldn’t leave. It would be so selfish. Her parents and little brother would forever bare the mask of a family who had borne someone who was discontent with Breton. She couldn’t do that to her brother, who couldn’t even yet speak to defend himself. She couldn’t spoil his innocence before he even had a chance.

She stopped, feeling weight of her knowledge sinking her into the earth. She had walked all the way down main-street, and stood in front of town hall. She looked up at the brick building to the gold-plated tip of its steeple. She resolved to grin and bare it. She would keep her questions and her doubts for solely her own solitary reflections. That would be the end of it for a while.

Even Star

      All credit for song goes to Owl City
      On the Wing by Owl City from his Maybe I'm Dreaming album


The badge Catherine of Aragon, first wife of King Henry XIII was a pomegranate.

The purport of madness

     All credit for song goes to Copeland

     Control Freak by Copeland from their Eat, Sleep, Repeat album

Ex malo bien

      All credit goes to Seabird for song

      Apparitions by Seabird from their 'Til We See the Shore Album

Beloved Son

    If anyone has any I ideas for a song to put in the background I would appreciate it
     I think one without lyrics would work best

The abrupt end of the uninteresting castle

     Advisory: the title is more epic than the film :)
     All credit for song to Eisley
     A Sight to Behold by Eisley from their Combinations album

"Optimistic, but never quite eloquent"

Silver

Never Sleeps

Branded

Thanks to the Lost Princess

Church

Unknown in the Purple Door

Window

Ysbryd Iawn o Ryfeddod

Part XVII

Deus ex machina. God out of the machine. In case you didn’t know, these are words loathed by literary critics throughout the worlds. I don’t think they deserve this as I find them to be rather cute and timely if you just consider their shape on paper. However, when I consider their meaning, a malicious suspicion sows into my mind. God out of the machine. This is a literary technique that some authors use in which they put their characters into an awful, helpless situation and then get them out of it by introducing some random element. This element was probably not known in the story before and requires little or no growth in the character in its application for their salvation. Some might call a miracle a deus ex machina. Now this observation confirms my suspicions of the meanness of employing this technique because I have a problem with miracles and random salvation suddenly being thrown down from Heaven on some unsuspecting or even suspecting victim (the suspecting victims especially cause me pains). This is because I have never seen a supernatural bust-the-door-down-and-rip-those-chains-off miracle. I have heard report of them and I have seen sunsets and videos of babies being born, but never have I witnessed a fire-work wielding miracle. Hence, I have nagging suspicions of the ones I do hear of. Miracles don’t seem to settle things for me. Hand-to-hand combat does that. Looking my problems in the face and dragging them out the door and behind the tool shed is the only way that I can get rid of them, it seems. The problem with throwing miracles out is that my technique for dealing with problems only goes so far. I can’t break an addiction, or end the human desire for abortion and slavery. If miracles do not exist the world is in trouble. What will the end of the world look like without them? Now after this long and convoluted introduction I arrive at my point, and the conclusion of the story of Alaric and Lovey.

Preston Glover could not have been more high if he had spent the last twenty-five years inhaling opium with every breath. His bloody thoughts and bloody imaginings ran so fast through his mind they became grey streaks and buzzing. His hands shook, moving the steering wheel back and forth perceptibly. He didn’t check his mirrors or his speed. They were going to die. bloody, bloody die. His teeth cracked together, and the road seemed the thing in his imagination and the bloody bodies of Alaric and Lovey the things actually before his eyes. Finally, he screeched to a stop on the opposite side of the street from the Green Fountain Inn, forgetting his gloc in the dashboard, and stepped out of the car. Without a thought he stepped into the street, just as the driver of a pink Suburban received a text message. Crack. Crimson blood gushed from Preston’s head onto the hood of the pink SUV and flowed down to his white shirt. He was dead. Killed just outside the inn without a finger being lifted by Alaric. Red blood looks so good on pink and white.

(Perhaps you may object to calling the murder, even of someone as deadly as Preston Glover, a miracle, but I doubt you will object to calling it a deus ex machina.)

Lovey and Alaric heard the crash, and the following screams of the teenage girl from inside the inn. They rushed out, and Alaric ripped off his shirt to try to stop the bleeding of Preston’s head (even though he knew he was already dead.) Lovey tried to comfort the girl, and called 911. As the blood began to dye Alaric’s fingers red he had a sudden vision. And immediately, he saw Preston in a dank room with dirty dun walls and no furniture except for the matted rug he was kneeling on. His eyes were closed and he was muttering to himself. 

“She cannot live. She will die. You must kill her. She will die. I will break her fingers. Do it. I will break her every bone and cut out her tongue. Cut out her heart. She must never meet the Enemy. I curse that Spirit. He will try to use her to speak His words. She would have been great through him. She will never be. She will die a tyrannized child and join us.”

The vision faded.

Alaric hands lost circulation. He straightened, and looked up. The star looked down on him and smiled. They were saved. Someone had saved them. The Jabberwocky was dead. Lovey was staring at him, letting the girl weep into her lap. She saw his countenance fill with light, and smiled.

Later as they waited in the hospital with the girl, Alaric told Lovey of his vision. Then, he was called away to answer some questions of the police. She grabbed an old tabloid and someone’s forgotten pen off the table and began to write.

I have seen a miracle, but what does it have to do with God. I have seen evil as well. What has sight to do with God? Why do I feel beholden to Him? Why do I feel joy when I think of Him who looks on a world so broken. For the question remains why would He save me and not others? Are not all useful to God, their Creator? I do not know the answer, but as I hear this girl pray who has just experienced the cruelest accident of Providence and choice and murdered a man, innocently, I begin to have faith. She begs Him for forgiveness, and I know He will grant it to her. We make our choices to ruin this world, and yet I know in my gut He will forgive us. I have faith. For without the Great Spirit of Wonder and His wonderful acts there would be no beautiful moments in this world.

Ex malo bien.

Thanks to the Lost Princess

Meeting Again

When we were kings and queens,

we swung on the swings,

and thought we were flying.

No, we knew we were flying

When we are kings and queens,

we swing on the swings,

and think we are flying

No. We know we are flying.

When we are young and lovely,

we are unabashed of death,

and we think we are sure of Paradise.

No. We know we are sure of Paradise.

When we are kings and queens,

we sing songs in tongues,

and think we are loved forever.

No. We know we are loved forever.

Waiting

Star

A Meeting

A Meeting

A Meeting

Edited using Picasa

Ysbryd Iawn o Ryfeddod

Part XVI

Descartes (the cute, dear man) at one point believed that since when he dreamed he could rarely tell that he was, in fact, dreaming, and believed himself to be in the real world, hence when he awoke he could not know, for absolutely certain, that he was, in actuality, awaking. There was a very distinct possibility that what he knew as the real world was a dream, so therefore he could not know it at all. Before his first dream of Lovey, Alaric would have said Descartes was a moron, but perhaps now he might have some sympathy. For now he is in fact dreaming, but if you are able to tell him so, he will not believe you.

Perhaps you have once had a dream in which you could feel exactly what other characters in the dream are feeling while knowing you are not them (if not I would suggest you stay in more, and daydream.) This is what Alaric was experiencing as he looked at the dreamy Lovey. He knew that the tile floor of the bathroom was cold under feet. She pressed her toes like teeth into the grouted grooves. Her hands gripped her thighs hard, to keep her hands from shaking. A man was standing behind her, behind the mirror. His arm reached out from the glass and wrapped around her neck till it came to its fist. Perhaps his fingers were clenched because he was frightened too. Alaric couldn’t imagine what a demon could be afraid of.

“Do you know why she is going to die, Alaric?” the man asked. Alaric could only see the dark outline of his head behind Lovey’s.

“She is not going to die,” he answered, biting off the words.

“She is going to be the secretary of the Enemy. She will write down His words and deliver them on the unsuspecting public. That makes her public enemy number one, my dear.” He giggled.

“The only enemy is you, and you will die. I swear to God.”

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

And immediately, the man fist unclenched and he snapped Lovey’s neck. She fell to the ground, and he stood with his arm out the mirror, trembling and yellow.

Alaric woke up. It had been a dream, but not one to caste aside.

He went into Lovey’s room, and found her on the bed, writing on the complimentary pad of paper. Writing the words of that man’s enemy, he hoped.

She looked up, saw him, and smiled. Lovely Lovey. He sat down next to her, but didn’t touch her.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” she replied, and put the pad and pen on the night stand.

“We should probably be going soon,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. Neither made eye contact.

“I had another dream about you last night.” Their eyes met.

He told her about it, even about how she died even though he hadn’t wanted too. He even described the man’s trembling, and color. She held his eyes.

And immediately said, “if what he says is true why is he so afraid.”

“Dark Spirit will fear me cause I’m a warrior,” she thought.

Don't get in the box, darling

Home?

Home?

Wonderstruck