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18. stars
pretty, effervescent stars,
hiding in them human hearts, hiding in them
particular parts, lungs and livers,
little bits and small affordable pieces. that's what's inside her.
(mentally, not physically so--- for in that, she is like everyone else.)
get her started and she will run a blood rhythm,
an aperture of the human heart,
carved in extra white blood cells, coated in the blue and purple paint of genius artists.
an integral chamber of her insanity is the art with which she delivers her messages to earth.
an integral participant in her greatness is the mental shakiness with which she clings to
a reality formed of thoughts, a shadow of the real world.
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Li Soon
Li Soon was her name, a girl with many talents and interests. She usually wrote stories, though. On paper, with charcoal or feather ink pens.
She wrote stories of her friends and neighbors' antics, or different versions of her own life or the stories she heard from overseas. Often, they were a little depressing.
Xander seemed like a beacon of light in the world; like the only place one could truly live in obscurity and peace. There wasn't even any starvation, although there was still hunger.
Twins came here, when they existed, albinos, giants, midgets. Ascmadian witches who didn't want to live in the royal court (with all its cloak and dagger, marriages, the corruption of the nobility and the knighthood--- people, especially witches, were always afraid of being killed, married off, or worse, their reputations destroyed, which was often a witch's only protection.) Witches who were sent by their mothers from the States of Ejead for fear that they would be discovered and killed. Witches f
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17. the beast
picking wildflowers, snipping roses,
the small, wild ones that are less brilliant in color,
selecting blades of bluer grass, greener,
preserving them and putting them in vases,
putting them on masks for the festival,
the hundred-year anniversary of the day
when the five stood against the one and killed it
for the sake of the country (and a couple of others that are gone)
the vases sit in every window,
red and green remembrances of the human blood lost then,
green for purity, a virtue thought
to decide the fate of kings, and shake worlds.
back then, when wild roses withered before maturity
and one could not find the flowers,
the beast lost its mind on a routine occasion
and blasted the seaside and most of the south with its rage,
over time, stealing children,
although they don't think it ate them,
and curling up to sleep in heaps of its own made trash,
remnants of the buildings, curling its gem-studded tail round
itself like a partial armor,
immune to everything--- except fire,
but it w
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16. for long after
pretty things,
frozen pieces,
ever, sun,
long life, in the shadow of the neverending tower,
wonders for one's complexion, the storms and snowstorms are.
each of its teeth are a lifetime of worry,
and inside its mouth is a bite that can crush bone,
crush lead. but they never got around to guns,
just other mechanisms of death. they never got around to capturing it,
just its offspring, who die when maturing.
sometimes it sleeps in the snowstorms,
a blue and white offering of the gods of death in its wake,
fur that feels like silk, according to one person, and a shadow
that will live long after its gone, for fear any of its offspring make it.
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15. forever, sun
a few hundred sleepy wildflowers all rely on each other for company,
unwilling to imagine a life that's different from this.
every single blade of grass is precious,
and none of them have ever seen a human being,
or a domesticated animal, acting unwary.
a domesticated animal, acting unnatural. like
a horse standing still for ages, waiting for someone to return.
then sun rises and they all drink it in together.
a thin spindly oak starts to rise from the grass.
an inevitable push. a single green leaf sprouts.
pink butterflies gather, and then fall away.
the moon shifts into phases, falling in place.
the flowers face the sun, unrestrained.
somewhere in the distance comes the strain
of an instrument. the whole wood grows quiet.
the cliffside is alone save for the music.
it is an odd feeling for a flower to possess.
the sound is unlike anything they've ever heard before.
its like the wind gained a character,
or the sun a name.
they listen to it for as long as it lasts,
and then the valley g
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14. itching, bleeding
itching, bleeding
cold, decaying,
blood, more blood, more full-bodied blood,
part of the world, that this thing has made for itself
since it left behind its human body. bones and all.
all the weak tendons, snapped like strings. all the people,
saying what the heck is this thing.
turning in its innermost leg
like a gristly chandelier
it turns and surveys the world in a blinding array of fourteen colors
all lighter than yellow. its eyes, slowly, lose their human pupils.
now just facets of ruby and brimstone. its eyes snap down to its former child.
a feeling of possession comes over it. then,
screaming black pain, and it can see no longer.
a mixture of red and blue blood pour from its thorax.
its enormous jaw of a thousand white teeth let out an intense wail.
all the red blood is gone.
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13. everlasting death
everlasting death,
death in redemption rather than redemption in death----
that's what's to follow for the blonde one and her pale offspring,
locked into a cycle of events eternal and neverending.
eventually the series of warriors trained and monsters and half-monsters
became a series of interlocking loops like a tangling chain,
where people were killing monsters and people were killing each other,
so there's no hope--- not for those inside the loops at least.
a many-clawed, red-horned and shark-toothed beast
claiming to have once been a woman named Sherryl
bursts into the side of a church one day and slaughtered everyone inside.
there's an old one,
blue and grey,
who sits in the old oak tree just outside of town at night
and cries. its wails are like nails on a chalkboard.
it feeds on large and lesser animals. its human family has been dead for a long time.
ages ago. ages and ages ago.
women and men, ritually branded and trained in every form of weaponry,
go out to fight the beasts oc
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The Ghost of a Good Time
Paleo sat on a sitting boulder of grey granite, overlooking the eastern sea.
Sea, ocean, it all meant the same thing. When you were a singer, words became colors on a canvas, flexible tools. Beautiful, shale, surprise, wonderful, mystery,
Opalescent, everlasting, cerulean, lovely---
Words were weapons, and those who had the artist in them, became the best of the singers. They could use words in a way that touched people--- and the stronger the effect, the better their songs shaped the world.
Right now Paleo was silent. He only ever sang in his cabin. He could feel the desire to sing rising up in him, but ignored it for the most part, humming "Bells on the Road," a song that induced some people to start dancing and often wilted flowers and rotted fruit.
The grey morning was the same as every other morning here, on Rook Island, one of the few uninhabited islands of the northern islets that were infamous for housing rogue singers. He watched the sun cast a bleak orb of butter-colored ligh
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The Journey II
Annie fingered her cloth doll, looking at the indecipherable sign on the beach that Wu had so helpfully said read, "Fools only."
She glared at it for a minute, and then an impression of two Xanderians, with their narrow eyes and black hair and short statures, laughing, and putting up the sign. One painted it delicately with a thick black brush. One paused, and seemed to turn and look straight at Annie, for a moment, without her actually having seen her---
A powerful, resonating, real image--- not those half-imagined mostly mind-pictures she was used to receiving--- suddenly appeared before her, whisking her away from reality into the world of the mind of the -one-, direct descendant of the intent gene, direct descendant of the intent gene, direct descenda---
"ANNIE!" Kiko was shaking her. She saw and heard it as though from a distance, but her body was numb and she only felt the shaking as though cloth were wisping over her arms.
---Powerful, mind-numbing, a power that lords of the sha
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The Journey I
Annie had learned of the pact between the storm dragons of the southwest and those of the northwest and northeast (together) and ever since, the absolutely outlandish idea of trying to cross the eternal storm.... had appealed to her in the manner of a long-lost dream, rediscovered. A writer by heart who had formerly been illiterate all their lives.
The idea stemmed from the obvious: that there was something in the southwest of the world map to govern. Something alive. She did not, personally, believe in the story of orange-haired, green-eyed monsters of men, living in a verdant land. She believed in the goodness of people, not necessarily of nations, but that war couldn't be extended for hundreds of years--- not without magic, and she knew that they didn't carry the magic gene. The ancestors of Bells people were the ones to spawn that.
A ship was the first barrier. A ship made of bones from the ethereal plane was beyond her power to will into the world, and would have cost more than he
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The Richness of the Spirit
The Columbu people were warring again. It was always this fucking way. Sometimes, Harriet didn't think she'd be able to stand it.
The legends of the gods were full of brutality and monsters, but it was people, the children of the gods, who were the real monsters.
Harriet undid the bone curls tying her ginger-orange hair up and looked hopefully at the results. The mirror was cracked. She smiled, ruefully. Her curls would be springy--- for a while. Enough to last through the battle, which was what she was hoping for.
Her own people, along the northernmost strait of the continent of Amesia, were being constantly invaded by the substanstially weaker Columbu people of the northern islets. Normally such a foolish people would have been crushed long ago into dust, but (and many of the weaker tribes owed their survival to this) the bordering peoples of Jasie and Humonesia were at war with them as well.
As usual, it was over land--- arable land. Occasionally, it was over both arable land and re
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Mother and Cub
An immense, slightly light brown grizzly bear lay still and breathing out and in slowly with her dark cub beside her in a shale cave. The sound of the ocean crashed constantly outside.
The bear's ears pricked. The cub stirred. The mother moved her head slightly, and then lifted it and opened her eyes. The smell of sweet warm air blew in invitingly from the outside. The cub got up and began walking with the lack of coordination that impairs those who were recently asleep. The mother stood up. She sat down again. She pondered, as was her wont. The cub came next to her and lay down. The mother gazed at nothing in particular, thinking. She thought about the spots which were good and not good for fish the last time she fished, and where the fruit vines were, on the rocky crags. She thought about where the berry vines were. She thought about her sleep and how it felt as though it were spring now.
She thought about these things for a while, considering them. Her cub fidgeted anxiously beside
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12. small town
opens in a small town,
wayward, like dodge-- too small
for this crowd, driving in like
a wedge between prosperity and good news.
an old man is having a nap on his front porch,
and a black and white cat sits watching on a roof.
they come in, looking for trouble--- find none,
accoust an indian--- he's shy and walks off.
a restaurant down the way is cooking roast beef
and beans. they go in and have some,
then hold up the place.
there's a bullet in the side of Jonny's neck,
and one in his face. there was no warning.
Sheriff Colby struts in,
slowly, easy as you please,
looking around at the others
who have their hands up, shaking. Johnny's dead.
he has no mercy. this town is too small
for that kind of crowd, they say.
sitting on their porches, watching the coach
come in, reading newspapers and drinking whiskey
during the day. this town is just too small.
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food in brisel
the only land suitable for unassisted farming in Brisel is a portion of the land in Ascmadia, which is reserved for the entertainment of the elite and the tourism it provides. most farmland is rich or sparse scrubland, suitable for fruit vines (apples, peaches, lemons, limes, etc.) and root vegetables and tomatoes (chief among these being sweet potatoes, potatoes and yams.)
the homelands from which Brisel occupants descend do not have grassy plains, grass hills or forest (the forest in Ascmadia being a manmade experiment) and little rich scrubland. Brisel, in contrast, seemed an environmental paradise.
a few fruit and vegetable vines as well as edible moss can grow on the rock crags that make up a significant portion of the unfarmable land majority (the other portion belonging to desert.) among these are rockfruit, turnips, pebblefruit, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, cherries and sunfruit. turnips can grow both on crags and scrubland.
fish makes up a substanstial
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Lovely, Living
Shino and Shina were fishing out half a mile from the shore of the long island of Xander. They looked exactly alike--- their noses, their narrow eyes, their full lips. They were even the same height, although their voices were different--- Shina bore the country accent of the southern shore of Xander, and Shino's voice was more standard for some reason.
Xander was the world's first free country---- any other place would have had them studied for life by court witches or would have had them killed. Here, they were free.
Because of the economy and their location, they were subject, save in the face of extreme determination and accident of birth, to become fishermen--- just like everyone else.
Possibly because of its location close to Ascmadia, Xander had about three quarters of a mile of grassland. The rest was scrubland--- rich or sparse, in patches not large enough for the growing of certain foods. It was a rich land, compared to most. Like most of the body of Numis, portions of the sh
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Lebreau had finished watching the lutist's performance and was walking away, the ache of hunger starting to refill his mind. He was a young boy, his clothes were a bit ratty but better than the ones he'd had last year, and his mom was hungry, and that meant it was time to hunt.
The marketplace was growing dark with the onset of dusk and many of the stall vendors had gone home. He approached Callete, a middle-aged woman who was wanted in Ascmadia for something. She'd stolen from a pawn shop there, or something.
Callete looked down at him and smiled. "Lebreau, its good to see you. I have an apple for you. Come here." An apple a day, and she never complained about the payment he said he would get. She was an angel.
Lebreau bowed his head slowly and held out his small hands--- a glove on the right, nothing on the other. Callete handed him a yellow apple. He put it in his satchel--- it filled the whole thing up. Callete leaned down her tall frame for her expected kiss on the cheek and then
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I haven't been able to submit deviations for ages because of my overused computer.

Brisel has had a lot added to it, as well as I've started on The Isles of Man, a new series. Is better because there is no magic and everything is centered around religion and island life.

I have been making scarves. Seed stitch and seed stitch infinity in solid colors.


:iconknitlizzy: :iconatdines: :iconlarka-the-inu-master: :iconchameleoncamo:


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