Showing posts from August, 2022

The Nameless Realm

  There was once a place of sanctuary that was barely there. It was nothing, nowhere, nameless—and it lay waiting. It was the sorrowed ones who discovered the secret path that gave the place a where . The misfits, the rebels, the cared-for-less—all the beings of the world that did not belong to it. It was in a star-filled path, one that drew the unfortunates to it like a beacon across space and time to a realm that should not have existed.             The first to travel were ancient in their own right—the small fairies, too tiny to take their place amongst the cruel Fae, who treated them as nothing more than insects to be harvested for small powers. Too much blood, too many little bodies broken, and in their grief, they made their way to a nowhere place they began to call home. This nothing place wrapped around them as though they belonged to it, a gift like a sweet kiss across a wearied brow from some great Power.             Next came the gnomes, then the centaurs, the eccentric

Balance of Hearts

 There was once a woman whose heart ebbed and waned with the goodness and sorrow of the world. All was well, while the balance remained. But when the world bent in favor of sorrow for too long, the woman felt her heart break. She fell upon her back and watched the spinning of time with all the numbness of her broken heart, where she could not weep or wail, keen or care, for her heart no longer worked. And she was alone.     And there was once a man whose heart tipped and righted with the goodness and sorrow of the world. He remained steady, content to feel as events came and went. Until the world tipped into sorrow and he could not bear the length of it for the breaking of his heart. He sank into a chair, his head shaking in his hands, his body unable to feel the prick of needle nor the edge of a knife, for his heart had shattered. And he was alone.     Too, there was once a child whose heart rose and fell to a tune of its own, untouched by the goodness and the sorrow of the world. She

Only a Matter of Logic

 There was once a forest from which no living soul returned. It was said that the forest had a penchant for flesh. All who thought of its border of gnarled old trees leading into darkness pictured strewn corpses, littered bones, and the smell of decay so putrid that it could render oblivion with a mere whiff.     So went the legends.     Now, legends are powerful things. So much so that no one had entered the forest itself for centuries. And no one thought about the fact that if no one had entered it for centuries, than it was not likely to be strewn with corpses, littered with bones, or smell of rotting flesh. No one, save a logical little girl desperate to get away.     Hold, the reader might say. Logic? one might ask. Surely a little girl filled with logic would find herself at a crossroads when desiring to immerse herself in a forest. That would be the magical thing to do; quite at odds with what is logical .     Ho, ho, this writer might say in return. Perhaps, she might endeavor