Lighthouse

Wolf in City of Glass

There is a swelling storm, and Mal was caught up in the middle of it. It wanted to pull him downward into the squall. It wanted to tell him that he was wrong about everything. It wanted to tell him with bellows of thunder that every event in his life was the very result of Mal himself.

What are you?

Dark eyes, all the darker still below the surface of the ground in this grave to which he was forced into, moved to the now limp body of the woman. His attention moved at last from the face of demise, towards that of the ‘Queen’. Then, it moved to the creature which obviously served her by will and power.

It ran through his veins all the more bitter.

What are you?

It may seem like a thousand years, an hour, or much too long, but with that deadly black eye of the weapon pointed in his direction, Mal responded in the matter of only a moment. A moment filled with those self doubts.

Because, the truth was, the man had no fucking clue.

“Closest thing I can answer with, or at least without lying to you, is that I am a Ship of Theseus Paradox. I am -not- a Werewolf. I am -not- a shadow underneath a bed. And also, I can’t do that…”

A hand motioned without turning his eyes towards the now dead thing slumped at a nearby corner of the wall.

“…to either of you ”

Fear did not fill him but hesitation did. No sudden movements now, slowly, carefully, and clearly within view the man took hold the edge of his jacket and pulled it open. Below against his chest was no leather strapped pistol, or even knife, and bare fingers slowly… clearly.. dipped into one of the various pockets tailored into the fabric. Though it shined like silver, I can assure you, the flask was pulled free and was made merely brushed stainless steel.

The cap was casually unscrewed, and as always Mal seemed to move as if all the time in the world was on his side. It was lifted to his lips, the pungent smell of Honey Jack Whisky remained on his lips as it was lowered. Soft pink tongue of his collected the flavor from the lower of his two, and while those oak hues held the woman… the man could not help but glance towards the Bird with all the hatred inside him held for such creatures.

“I can see that the Lady has at least heard of it, but for you? Well I’ll explain it in slow simple terms so perhaps you can follow along. Hope I can manage before you see something shiny and go rushing after it like a cheerleader dropping her panties for an American football player.”

The careful process of opening his jacket, the casual manner of replacing the flask to its hidden compartment just below the outline of that drawing book.

“A museum gets a relic of a boat.” His finger twirls in the air as if spinning yarn upon its touch. “Over time some of the boards rot. So, they get to work and replace those planks. More time passes, and they have to replace rusted parts. At which point is it no longer the ship, but rather something new?”

Chest lifted, ribs pushed outward against the flesh, and further expanded against the front of his jacket before the sigh was released. A heavy thing, a tired thing, a thing with so many words that could be used to describe, but the true answer? Well there weren’t many truths to that these days.

“I’m not a Werewolf, because that is a single word. I have a Wolf inside of me. Yes, that word may have fit at one point, but over the years and through my attempts at killing the bastard…”

In this hollow space below the world to which humanity treads above, his hard soled shoes (Never tennis shoes) clacked against the ground like muffled claps. To the woman, the slumped figure, Mal did stray. Crouching down beside it, gentle hands took hold of limp wrists, and placed them delicately in that lap that never would bounce a child while playing horsey again.

“... all I have left is to wonder where that line was. What and when exactly was it that it became something different? What or when exactly did I get changed in the pursuit?”

A slow shake of his head, his hands now covering the still and cooling touch of the corpse, as his gaze now fell to solely the remains for just one of those moments which Mal seemed to always drag his feet through.

“May you find your ocean. May you find your field. May you find your peace.”

A shake of his head, a senseless murder, a loss of light, life, and soul. All because the man had dared to save her life.

Murder, not the kind that meant the collection of the bird's kind, showed clear in his eyes as he looked at the creature near the Queen. Yes, even if it wasn’t with words, a promise was made. It may be the Wolf, or it may be the man, but at some point those hollow bones would be ground beneath his teeth.

No threat however was there when his gaze moved to the woman with the gun. No, Mal didn’t fancy a black ball surrounding his skull. Didn’t even fancy feeling his own bones snap.

“And so I answer your request. I’m the damned fool who made himself into what you saw, and her name by the way was Bethany. Bethany Townsend. Not that either of you asked.”

Rising to his feet, the man stood tall, wounds all but healed, all but mended. The shell of humanity once more clean, well save for the drying blood upon his skin. Save for the wounded sense of another murder upon his hands.

What are you?

The Wolf, that was not a Wolf anymore, laughed in the hollow chambers of his mind. Laughed with fangs. Laughed with greed. Laughed with knowledge that even this answer could not fully answer the question Mal asked himself so many times.

“To the unspoken question, I didn’t cleanse anything. Not in the way you mean. She wasn’t changing, but rather something inside of her was growing like a parasite. I told you from the start, it would come ripping out of her. It’s not a curse anymore, not in the way you’re thinking by the word Werewolf. It’s a cancer, forming its own cells, and structure.”

A step forward towards the woman, always that casual manner, never threatening, nor shying away from that black eye of a pistol that stared him down.

“Though, if you pull that trigger, in this confined bit of space? Well, you might just get your answers. In the least you’ll have a better understanding through experiencing first hand the effects. Better way to learn I suppose then any words I can provide. Could give a damn less about that…”

Motion towards the (Not raven or crow, but simply…) bird.

“However, I’ve seen enough pretty things die today. So, how about you lower that, and we just go about being as friendly as we can be?”

Wolf in City of Glass

Hope.

Four letters.
A single word.

Humanity had known it, strived for it, and based their supposedly indomitable spirit upon it.

Hope that their lives will turn around. Hope that their children would grow without knowing malice or discontent. Hell, the short lived bastards even named some of their next generation that very thing.

Hope.

Four letters.
A singular lie.

Yet, despite the knowledge of this disheartening truth, it was that very meaning to which shook the foundation of green hues at the back of Mal’s vision. The color of forests turned to that of shades of oak once more, and as lips sealed themselves into a grim line, no longer were there sharp teeth to display.

Hope.

Four letters.
A single purpose.

… lasted long enough within him to take a breath, calm his mind, and take stock of the situation. No longer did that monster inside his head and body scratch at its confines, for it too wished to be free of imprisonment. That much should be clear by the infliction to which the bystander of a brave act was now suffering.

The man and monster stilled their joined body as the Lady of the Glass Towers split, and pulled apart like a childs taffy. It wasn’t with amazement, nor with awe, but with Hope… that Mal and his Wolf watched this happen.

Though they had been down this road before, and quickly that light had been quarantined and snuffed from existence as easily as said child could pull apart a sweet treat.

Hope, a singular foolish word in the dictionary.

Choices long ago had been stripped from the capture of heart and hand from Mal, and so the current circumstances meant not despair, or even doubt. For you see, forever was a word made from ink and letters just as the other one, but try as he might… the man had never been able to smudge that ink which had tattooed into his very being. It was not by drinking the blood of virgins or devouring of hearts that it scarred him. It was not with promises of power, or even idiotic claims of good deeds such as jumping in front of a car. No, it was something worse than even the trickery afoot with the word of Hope. Whereas now Mal could keep the thing inside at bay, if a death marker were placed upon him, it would be him that would be inside. It would be the monster pushing his head underneath the waves… again…and again… and again…

Death would not be the end of him, but it would be the end of his control.
Oh, how he wished that the gun could put him to rest. How the scent of that wolfsbane, which indeed would prove effective against him, smelled of promises. Though the man knew the truth, because hope was a word given up on… even if small fragments of childish belief could still be born inside of him from time to time. So no, there was no resistance. There was no wishing upon a star to be taken away to a land far away from this. Neverland had no place for him it would seem.

There was hesitation though. A moment of consideration that would take less than a fraction of a moment. Bare hand moved out, palm outward towards the edge of where that circle would permeate the air, and almost… almost touched magic once again. No, she was prepared, the gun and poison were markers of this.

Fine.
His mind whined in childish submission.

It was not heaven from which Mal fell, nor were there any wings upon his back to be sundered away, but fall into that hole all the same he did after a step forward. It was not with a super hero’s power stance to which he landed either, for such fairy tales just like a world of lost boys were never his birthright. Instead the abused body struck the ground, and a careless crack of leg could be heard to absorb the impact of the already damaged structure.

Perhaps it was self punishment, or flagellation as the word may be deemed to be. Though this new fracture was taken upon himself with only a soft growl of agitation. Forever was a word for him, and this too shall pass.

“Move away from her bird. Let her be.”

His voice was not worried, hurried, and seemed earnest in its tone. Now he could feel the Wolf. Could feel it riding the course of the woman’s heartbeat. Could feel it tearing apart the genetic material to make its own.

To make one understand what was happening would be a simple matter. Take a colony of ants. A single one of those little insects could bite, tear, and do damage yes … true… though it wished to serve the colony. It served a higher purpose. Without that source, it would wander and die. It would starve. It could not repopulate, nor could it nest into the earth.

A threat yes, but not an origin. Not a core. Like the man, it had no hope.
This time there was no rising to his feet, merely remaining there with that half kneeling pose, and eyes the color of bark closed behind his lids. Wolf Song. Could they hear it? Could they understand it? There was the soft knocking of a wooden hull against the pier as gentle waves lapped against nearby shores. There was the song of birds above the forest. There was the smell of pine and the chill of northern climates. It was that picture, that very one that had been drawn, and torn from the book that still remained within his breast pocket.

The man pushed the head of the beast below the line of the water.
Stared into its snapping jaws as it submerged.

Though that link, through that core, through that nest that he was in fact… the man focused. Not through magic, nor through power or such a foolish word as hope. No, through the curse. Through damnation. Through wounds. Through blood. Through bone. Through himself, for in truth drowning the beast time and time and time again… was as if drowning himself… time and time again…

A thin line of water that smelled suspiciously like salt trickled from the corner of his lips, but still did he breath. Still did he remain kneeling before the Bird and Queen.

The woman would spasm, flail, and gargle. Salt water in the flow of tides would be vomited from her mouth. They could watch it like tears as it gushed up through nasal cavities. No, this was not a pretty sight, but when ever had such a thing like drowning been a thing of beauty?

For you see, while the word Forever was etched into him, it was not so for the mundane creature that had been infected. While a fever was an indication of the body fighting off a foreign pathogen, this… well… as far as Mal knew… this was the only way to treat this particular ailment. Just as that word had been lost well before now, the little show he was putting on wasn’t the first rodeo for him either.

At last, tired, without air, and unable to struggle further, the thing inside a much frailer body would let go to drift off… would no longer be able to hold on, and the man’s eyes opened. He could feel it… see it still like a day dream…. slowly sinking lower, lower, and lower into that black depths to which he imagined.

A ragged gasp. A breath true and clear of that which his blood could wrought, once more brought her own blood the needed oxygen. Once more the woman was clean, or at least cleaned from the toxic inhabitation of a Wolf that should not be.

“Malcome, but I prefer Mal.”

A soft grunt, lifting himself to stand once more from that pose. Though the slightly bent knee still showed it was sore, no longer was it fractured. Oak eyes turned towards the Queen and the Bird, but the true hate… the forever kind of hate… was manifested for the one that could have wings.
He hated birds.
Hated them for their freedom.
Hated them for their laughter in the trees.
Hated them for what they did to him.

And yet, from that pull of making his stance clear, the man managed a smile, and turned chest fully towards the woman who no doubt still carried the gun.

“At your service.”

Greetings Fellow Travelers!

Another who uses the terms near and dear to me.
Welcome in return Fellow Traveler.
Take a seat upon the train with us, and watch worlds pass by outside the window of your screen.

May you find your lyrics, music, and stories among us.

Wolf in City of Glass

Mal was surrounded by the glittering of glass, and the rising forms of buildings. Below his hand, which curled its fingers through the shards, was the summer heated asphalt. In his lungs was the burnt rains of fumes and no doubt more than a few globules of blood. Though this is not where he really was. The dazed dark eyes, they saw her, saw the circle, took notice of the magic… but this is not what he was paying heed to.

No, it was naught these things.

It was the swelling inside a river. It was the crashing roar of waves against a beach, and the crack of thunder over the seas inside of himself. It was the storm to which his mind held to. It was anger. It was instinct. It was that thing inside with saber teeth and bright green as emerald eyes.

You see Fellow Traveler, it was the wolf to which Mal was paying mind to. Its growling hatred. Its howl of indignation at the taunting. Its cold as the first winter frost set of words…

Let me out.

Inside was not a cage built of iron nor silver. Nor was the man so foolish as to think such a beast could be contained by will alone. It was the waters, yes, that was the key to keeping such a thing that could not die in check. You drown it. As it gasps for air, you crash another curl of salt and liquid over its head… again…and again… and again. You could not kill it. You could not contain it. Though you could restrict it. You could push its head under each and every tidal wave so it could not breathe.

With wet fur and snapping jaws, from time to time it could reach up and drag you under with it, but such creatures were not born for distant shores. Or at least, they were not built for it as men and women were.

So, Mal still fought to push that thing down inside of himself.

It did not take inhuman hearing to listen to the scratching noise of shattered glass being dragged by his palm as it was pressed underneath him. It did not take the inhuman ability of scent to tell that still blood dripped from twisted left arm limb. It did not take inhuman vision to see the Wolf, or so he was called, bringing him to stumble to his full height at last.

These days people have forgotten that words have meaning.
These days people have forgotten that words have power.

…A wolf is an animal...

These days people have forgotten that midnight could only be held at bay by the nightlight as long as there was power to keep that tiny light a glow. These days people blinded themselves with delusions far thicker than those phone screens they all but push their noses to.

…And every animal will fight for survival...
With teeth. With claws. With anger and rage.
Every animal, even that of a little rabbit soul, could harvest the word doom in its eyes once pressed to corner space.

One eye that had been sealed shut by swelling, at last cracked wide to join its brother on the other side of his features, but it was not his deep oak color. Now that orb inside the skull was bloodshot, and obviously damaged, and yet was as gossamer green as a forest. Two creatures bound, twined, and sewn inside the same form looked out from the road damaged body.

Mal was healing slowly, slower at least then one would expect from his kind. Bits of glass did tumble out of his flesh to tinkle soft music at his feet, and flow of red did stem its tide. Though the arm did not snap back into place yet, and swelling only deflated as if a tire with slow leak.

Maybe it was the circle pushing him to places that were not real.
Maybe it was because the creature inside of himself was fighting now on two fronts.

Though the man knew the cause, others could not be so certain.

Left side of mouth showed edged teeth, while the right side showed the omnivorous nature of humanity as he spoke. It was words that hissed through that deformed mouth, but the southern charm of its patterns still showed through. Humanity was stubborn like that. Even under a curse they fought to keep themselves. Even under a disease of the soul, people tend to seek to retain even the smallest bits of themselves… even if it was their own voice.

“My apologies darling. If I knew there would be a welcoming such as this waiting for me, I would have threaded some flowers into my beard for you.”

Let me out.

“But right now, we both have a problem.”

Undamaged arm reached across himself to grab that damaged wrist, and with a sudden sickening yank there was a meaty pop of tendon and muscle as Mal jerked it back into socket. It was still broken, but mending all the same even if slowly.

No, Mal wasn’t so brave as to stop the growl at the sudden punctuation of pain it caused, but head rolled to the side offering a soft pop. Those eyes had closed in the action, but as the chin again settled flat, those eyes of different hues again opened.

Still useful hand lifted up, extended his index finger towards the girl… the very one that had been splashed with blood. The very one the man was ‘sweet’ enough to save, but only if this Witch knew that in the same action the innocent was damned all the same.

Because it wasn’t just Mal’s blood that had touched her. Because it wasn’t just a human’s virus that was spread. It was a curse of the grave. It was a curse of the soul, mind, and body.

People forget words have meaning and intent.
People forget words have power.

Curse.

Mal had forgotten that long ago and had to be reminded of it. The man had turned down the monsters that lived inside of his head. The man had tried to pour another drink until they quieted down. The man had even tried to find a way out of the word forever, and had failed. In fact Mal had pissed the thing inside of him off. Had forced it to change, forced it to evolve, made it find a way out of the corner that he himself had placed it in.

An animal will fight anyway it can to survive.
A virus will spread to propagate.
A monster will take whatever it needs to live.
“What the fuck?!” Among the rabble the EMT perhaps could not be heard, but the screaming… the sudden pitched howl of a woman… screaming as if her insides were being clawed out… could no doubt be noticed.

“LETMEOUT LETMEOUT LETMEOUT”

Mal did not move from that circle which had pulled him out of focus and away just as surely as Peter Pan stole children to the second star on the right. No, the man knew well enough not to test that which he didn’t know. The effect of touching such a power was not to be tested. Truth be told, he wouldn’t need to would he? Because she said it herself.

She had forgotten that words have meaning, just as once he had.

Her home.

Wolf song. Wolf. Not human. It wasn’t meant for just a ‘mere mortal’ as no doubt the Witch thought her kingdom full of. It had infected the poor bystander who started her day with a cup of coffee and thoughts of her date tonight.

Wolf song. A trembling symphony of vocals that could break the heavens and drive the rains away.

And Mal? Mal couldn’t drown it, because of this circle. It kept them out of sight. Kept them safe from prying eyes. Kept them away from her kingdom. Kept him out of phase with reality.

It took the leash out of his hands from anything outside of that line.

“The choice is yours O’ Queen of the Glass Kingdom.”

As if taking his time, the man lifted his once useless hand, slowly curling his fingers as bones at last began to mend themselves.

“You can remove this little puddle I’m in, and she goes back to well… being her… Or in about ten seconds, well… Something is going to come ripping out of her like one of those damned Alien movies. Then your home is certainly going to be a lot less quiet for some time.”

That wasn’t the full of it was it?

If she killed the woman, well, it would distract her even for a millisecond. Enough time for him to test the circle for escape, or she could lower that circle and the outcome was all the same.

A heavy sigh, body still mending.

“I do apologize for the trouble, but as you say, my kind are not known for our manners.”
Name purposefully not given.

Those eyes of his, both of them now, were moving towards that crow on her shoulder. They narrowed, and was that a tongue moving along the sharpness of his teeth? Could that winged thing hear it? Could it hear the beast? Could it smell hunger? Yes, it wanted to slaughter the Witch, but it wanted to devour the bird.

Within the tides of story telling.

- Foreword -

Below you will find a collection of ideas, music, and images that within the confines of my mind weave together what one could define as stories.
Be warned Fellow Traveler, here there be monsters, dragons, and dreams.

The Invitation

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qo9G36cZX8o

What to expect of me.
-Distant light above another shore-

Thousand or more words per posts.
Multi-character interactions.
World building fraught with many attributes.
Characters who are shown to have flaws, issues, and directives of their own.
Story above all else.

---

What is expected.
-Digging seaglass from below grains of sand-

Honesty in the regards that if the story is not suitable to taste.
Polite OOC interactions, neither of us are punching bags.
The ability to write character/characters as they are, not as one would assume them to be.
If an idea strikes the back of mind with hot iron, write it.

---

Stories yet to be
-Folded paper inside glass bottles-

Dark Savior, Supernatural, Demons, Monsters, and a cat in a hat named Topper.

Carnival of Fools

youtube.com/watch?v=UQejHbExIbM

The air was thick with excitement, and cries of laughter edged with joy punctuated against the ears. The taste of cotton candy, boiled peanuts, and sweet treats lingered upon the edge of lips. Now after many hours, the sun was fading, pushing down lower against the distant horizon, but still did children try to ignore the fact, only to run about with their eyes full of sugar filled glee. They pointed their fingers towards the ferries wheel, and watched with amazement as trickery pulled cards from thin air as magicians took a bow. Clowns painted in broad whites and deep blacks seemed to dance upon their feet, and strike at each other with comically unfortunate swings. Only now as color of day faded to blood reds, oranges, and burnt yellows, Mothers and Fathers pushed the future generation along with the words Gee-Wiz all but printed across their young offspring's features.

With the wind finding a cooler tone, so too did attitude of the Carnival of Fools change. Instead of colors, bright and pure, the tents themselves seemed had all but been converted to the modesty of black and white. Ah yes, perhaps you would notice it at last, a fact that seemed to be hidden by the sunlight... and why should it not be so? With the glare of sun, now fading to the shadows that crept closer, could one see their painted faces in full at last. It was not evil smirks, or devilish smiles, but each and every of the carnival workers had a theme.

Each and everyone who called this place home...
Bone.
Skeletal painted.

This fact could be published in the papers, and talked about in the headlines. People thought it a theme, a paltry trick. A way of saying that soon comes the hours for adults. Hawkers would soon begin stand upon pedestal to invite those who would pay for shows... shows that younglings would dare not turn their gaze towards. Freaks, Monsters, Dancers, both clothed and naked, and while those hours would soon be at hand... they were not here yet. Yes, indeed, there was time left for one last show of his own. One last performance that could be made before the innocence of youth was shuffled away to the tired dreams of sunburnt cheeks that was brought on by carnival cheer.

One last chance of the day to hear those wonderful sighs of amazement.

Topper, like the rest of the crew in the Carnival of Fools, was dressed to the part. Wide, or at least for him, brim hat sat upon his brow, and makeshift suit kept neat upon his breast. Small brass buttons upon the edge of his limbs, and bright eyes sought through the thinning crowd. According to the theme, or rather his birthright, Topper was black and white as the rest of them. Though in his case no paint was required now was it? For you see Fellow Traveler, this was no actor upon stage or man trying to sell games. No my friend, this was but a cat with brass colored eyes and fur the color of the very hues the clowns themselves wore.

As the shadows further grew, blossoming like roses made of midnight, there among the others was a girl holding a balloon by its long stringed tail. If felines can smile, and I suspect they can while we do not watch them, surely it was Topper's turn to curl lips up against long whiskered cheeks.

A voice, not thunderous, vile, or cruel, brought the young girls eyes downward and away from the ferries wheel that turned so high that it seemed to scrape against the sky itself. Her wide blue gaze, grew all the wider still at the sight of an eight pound cat in fancy little suit beside her. Words from the creature were but a purr, a fabrication made to mimic the use of tongue and lips as humans did, but yet every syllable was clear as the day had been.

"I have something for you Rebecca."
The cat said in that voice that was gentle as falling into a snow drift. An elegant bow of his head, one which Topper would never admit that was practiced, allowed his hat come tumbling off to the dried trampled earth. Now sitting with that hole facing the sky, his small bare black and white face darted inside. What was the response of the girl? What more she do but stare at him in disbelief with mouth forming an almost perfect O of amazement? Oh, but careful now... her hand loosed dangerously close to letting the balloon seek the heights of heavens.

A sound of effort, a soft Hmph! as the feline pulled back. Paws scrambling against the dirt below at last managed to provide enough purchase, and with almost a cartoonish 'pop' of release (If cartoons had yet been made), a stuffed black and white version of himself came to sit beside Topper. It was not dressed in the manner that he was, but the resemblance? Well that Fellow Traveler was without a doubt uncanny.

"F...for...m...me?"
The girl managed in her stuttering voice, one that was not flawed out of amazement but rather defect to which the poor child did stammer. As if assuming a trick, a guise, or that she would be punished, at first her eyes flicked back and forth between the now nearly duplicated feline.

"For you."
Topper confirmed in that steady purr of a voice, and those words were enough for the child to retighten her grip upon that string, assuring that the balloon would not be set free.

"Mom! The k...k...kitty talked! And he kn...kn...knew my name!"
The child turned her blues towards the woman who was all but focused on her son as he drift higher in the Ferris wheel towards the heavens, in response to the summing call of attention from small girls words, the woman half glanced back to her daughter who stood there next to a stuffed cat with puzzlement on her brow.

"Pick up your toy 'Becca, don't get it dirty. When Jacob's done we're going home."

Rebecca, Becca, or to her Father 'Reebs', turned back towards Topper.. or rather where the feline had been. Now by itself, the stuffed version of the feline only sat still awaiting Rebecca's claiming touch. With her free hand, the girl did exactly that and took hold of it. Once or twice she did look around with puzzlement, but a new toy? Well, that was always more interesting wasn't it?

The stuffed animal of course would be abandoned within a year, and this event would merely be cast off as a sugar fueled day dream. Yet, for now? Well for now... Topper smiled from beneath the edge of a nearby tent as the girl offered a stammering 'T..t..thank y...you..' as she buried her sticky face into her new friends fake fur.

---

A man, six foot and two inches tall, stood before a mirror that reflected a pure image of himself back. Black hair messed and tumbled like strands of soft ink, and he was suited in clothing to match. Paint, or what one could assume as such, turned those handsome features into something else, and from that mirror no longer could Vincent see himself. No, what stood there before that silvered glass was the Prince of the Fools. What stood there before the mirror, dressed in all his finery, was no man at all. Every detail marked, colored, and draped almost in a ritual of action, motion, and mask.

The air in here was warm, a day of heated pressure of sun above seeing to that fact, but it did not smell as one would expect. Rather it smelled of roses, of blooms, of fresh growth. The scent came not from the hard packed earth below his shined shoes, nor did it come from the breeze that pushed in and caused the flaps of his personal tent to whisper against each other quietly. No Dear Friend, it seemed to come from him, and how perfect that statement was if one only knew the truth.

Eyes, not golden, but bronzed as the buttons upon Topper's limbs, looked at the figure in the mirror in return unflinching. A smile spread across its black lined lips and pushed up against the white cheeks beside them. In the distance there was a 'clack', and sudden vibratory hum of generators coming to life. In the distance the glow of bulbs starting to glow to life.

It was nearly time...
It was nearly time for real show to begin.

The Prince of Fools did not dawn a crown, nor golden marks of station. Rather a wide brimmed top hat marked with black hearts and diamonds found its place upon that black ink hair. Everything was in place. Everything was in order. Everything was as it should be.

For there was joy.
For there was laughter.
For there was innocence.

And soon now? Soon now it was time to balance the scales.
For you see, that is what Magic really is. Balance.
And the Prince loved this part. His part.

He turned from that reflection, abandoning it to that otherworld to which so many people swore that mirrors lead to, and moved towards the entranceway of his tent. That fake smile, one that was built upon years of showmanship, painted just as the makeup upon his features, and those bronze eyes shown like gold at last.

[To be continued when the story has a dance partner.]

Modern, Low Magic/Fantasy, Romance, and Wolves.

Wolf in city of Glass

youtu.be/yWNJ7V3AnhY

All creature at times become deaf or blind in their distractions. It is how hawks dive from the clouds with bent wings to seize their prey. It is what allows a fox to sneak up on a rabbit in the brush. Humanity is no different in the end, not really. Though often they tell themself otherwise, the worse of it still is to be stated. In their ignorance of the truth, they fill their lives with such numbing distractions. They bury their eyes into the screens of their phones, and fill their ears with the constant hum of noises produced by earbuds. Though they claim their birth right to be of the masters of this world, they are no different then mouse or hair. They are simply prey, telling themselves that they pull every last string like a puppet master.

Perhaps, ignorance is bliss after all.

The pencil slid across the page in steady even strokes, and Mal's ears took note of the scratching sound of it as at last the edgings was finished. It was hard to say the man was satisfied with his own work, and if pressed would merely call them doodles, but in the least it was somewhat pleasing. No, that which he had drawn wasn't the place to which he sat, or even had seen. It was somewhere that someday he would like to find. A place of dark deep woods, of babbling water, and peace enough to drift upon such a thing as that vessel which line by line his imagination had structured.

The man found his lips moving, softly singing under his own breath before he could silence them.

"Pencil glides with steady grace
Draws a dream
A far-off place
Woods so deep
Water so clear
A peace that whispers in my ear."

And for a moment, only that moment, Mal let his soul drift upon that song which had risen up inside of him unbidden and new. He could hear the river. He could taste the woods upon the air, and he could feel the peace settling over mind and muscle.

Fool
The harsh edge of his own thoughts all but growled at him in retort for such stupidity. Hand, which felt almost claw like in this angry moment, tore away the page with a noise of ripping paper and senseless dreams. No, he should not be distracted. No, he shouldn't think about anything other then the word -now-. No, he should not act like prey, despite the fact that he was indeed hunted. So, dark brown eyes set below oak colored hair turned themselves to the city of glass to which he inhabited. Sitting upon the steps of some old red brick domicile, the man let it all come rushing in to replace the senses muted by senseless dreaming.

Engines, drinking oil and gasoline, spewed foul odor and smoke. Music, laughter, and people caring nothing but for their own entertainment filled the air, only to be punctuated by screens on crowded streets barking out advertisements. Street performers were dotted on corners, only to argue with homeless begging for change. This was no New York, nor was it Chicago, but it was close to these crowded places. Body odor, perfumes, colognes, cigarette, e-vapes, and marijuana smoke where sharp tastes behind it all, though Mal could be said to have a sensitive nose compared to most.

One would think, a man dressed in a finery such as he, would not stoop so low as to sit on a... well stoop... but there he was with that drawing pad of his placed neatly upon his legs. The pencil left in crease of torn away page, forgotten about as attention moved through the herd of humanity.

Sunlight, bright for even this hour of noon, danced off reflective walls of towering giant buildings which stood to reach towards God itself upon its throne in heaven. Concrete bones held the structures solid, and steel muscles promised a thousand upon thousand years before collapse. Yet, they called it a city, but for him, Malcom, there could be no other word but cage that was brought to mind. A cage made to contain people. To force feed them information through digital veins and propaganda. Yes, it may sound like he was a conspiracy theorist, but there was little theory about it these days. People lied, they always will, always have. There was no theory about it anymore, and with the internet being the largest resource of information there ever was, people could simply educate themselves... yet per usual they merely wanted to repeat what they heard.

Mal didn't like thinking like this. Wanted to push such thoughts to the back of his mind. Dig a hole, bury them, and let humanity crumble far faster then this city ever would. A lift of his chest raised ribs outward, before the man (who was not really a man) gave off a heavy sigh. Hand drifted in habit to the side of his bearded jaw, ran his fingers to smooth over those chestnut strands of hair, and shook his head as Mal once more brought himself to a standing position. Book tucked safely within the confines of his jacket pocket, pencil secured in the little elastic loop, Mal in his stance of six foot even moved into the throng of motion that filled the streets.

Maybe it was his own animalistic tendencies, to either protect himself, or the innocents around him but the man was on high alert. Maybe it was still not used to being in places like this, or maybe he would never be in truth fully used to it at all. He was not from here, and his place of birth was much different. Yet, like a wolf in a businessman's clothing, Mal could move among them all the same. All of this was simply explain what happened next, and why he was aware of it.

If you're paying attention...
If you attune yourself...
... and listen to that inner voice....

You can almost -hear- it when someone is looking at you in a crowd. You can feel the pressure against your ears of someone saying your name from across a building. Even humanity could taste the aggression of a predator in a crowd such as this. It was instinctual. It natural. Well, that was as long as you weren't blinded by your phone, or deafened by those little rubber plugs that fed music into ears.

And Mal? Well Mal could feel, taste, hear, something wasn't right.
What was high alert, instantly became code red.

The crowd to which he was apart of was standing at a curb, a red hand on the other side of the street glowing upon the crosswalk sign paused their movements. Cars whipped by most likely faster then they should be traveling in congested areas, but still.. the hairs on the back of his neck were standing upon end.

So, concerned with his own safety, his own life, Mal didn't register the gasp at first. Didn't realize what had happened until he saw the woman tumbling out into the street. Someone had pushed a woman hard enough to all but throw her. Off balance, she tumbled right off the curb and into the road. Like a fox about to scoop up a hare, painted of red car came barreling forward, and like the song unbidden before... the man's body moved before he could stop it.

Arms, strong as the oak trees that his hair was colored after, wrapped about the female. Thick trunk of body was turned to shield her from the impact, the crumpling of metal, the crack of skull against windshield. This unknown woman, victim, was not immune to bruises, nor was she umbrellaed from the splash of blood which flew. They together were thrown to the hard embrace of the asphalt that lined the roads, and the screams that came after from within the crowd.

Though dazed, perhaps concussed, no major damage would have been done to the female... though the man? The man didn't look so good, even as those dark eyes looked at her from beside the littered remains of headlights. His gaze sought out hers, and perhaps as she would come to find out later... it was that blood... that blood that let her hear him. It wasn't his voice. It wasn't an escape from his lungs. It was something deeper. His thoughts. His mind. His wolf song in his very soul.

She is alive...

Right arm twisted in a way that humans were not made for, the limb lay limp at his side, as once more Mal tried to rise to his full height of six feet. The first attempt failed, tumbling, falling, impacting, driving his already swollen and damaged left side of face back to the hot pavement.

Fuck me... move damnit. MOVE

That song inside of him torrented like a crescendo. Using still undamaged arm, placing his palm against broken glass, heated asphalt and...
[To be continued when a dance partner for this story is found]

A thousand more ideas, stories, songs, and melodies are on tap. I believe these two concepts give a good span of my worth, or lack there of in this dream, concept, nightmare, hope, or hobby of ours.

---

Outro
-As the waves fade to low tide-
youtu.be/WWTUKS6hMnQ

I have but one last question Fellow Traveler.
One last request before this song trails to its conclusion.
A singular thing to the very purpose of me joining this site.

May I have this dance?

The music used in this post

All 'music' has been produced, edited, and made through frustration.
All rights are mine.
I never claimed any of it was good.
All 'music' is free to use, you are welcome to contact me if you're crazy enough to want a copy.
Tools used - ACID Sony Suite, Suntra Modules, Alcohol, Tobacco, and Stupidity.
Special thanks to Lynn and her adorable wife LadyBug for their voices.

A passing light above the waves

You and I
have something in common.

We both have [worlds] locked inside.
We both have dreams that are given life by the simple nature of our own breath.
We both have nightmares tucked away in places we dare not admit.

And so,
we come to these places to press pen to page, finger to key, and dream to story.
So few would understand them, or even seek to step among the buds of these gardens, and yet we create all the same.
We dip minds and quills in love, loss, pain, joy, sorrow, triumph, and defeat.
We spill our ink, souls, thoughts, desires, and fantasies to be shared.

You and I
have something in common Fellow Traveler.
We are both here to craft fables from a blank screen.

------------------------------------------------------

I am a Male writer, aged enough to smoke my cigarettes and partake of alcohol (though the second rare).
I am, truth be told, but a fool with a bag of letters.
A humble student of music, and the creation of it.
And it is a pleasure to now stand among your number.

Though my name matters nothing but a passing note, I have taken a moniker near and dear to my own heart.
It is a pleasure to meet you Fellow Traveler.

May we both find the song to dance with,
Lighthouse