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deep beneath the waves lies something tempting.

there is a ripple-a flash of light-then you have to wonder, did you actually see that?

deeper beneath the waves lies something terrifying.

there is a shadow, a luminous darkness, and it swallows your every rational reaction whole and makes you think of absolutely nothing.

and deepest beneath the waves lies nothing
because nothing is incapable of lying
nothing is capable of nothing

and then you see it

and it sees you

and for one moment all you feel is a BLINDING SENSE OF PANIC, IT HAS OVERTAKEN YOU, IT WILL CONSUME YOU, THERE IS NOTHING LEFT OF YOU TO PASS ON-

and then a sense of content washes over you

and you realize there is nothing wrong with the creature in front of you

and the wrong lies with you

and you think is there any point in having anything left of me to pass on?

so you become One with It

and you are It

and It is good

Robin returned home to find her kitchen table covered in newspaper and puddles of food coloring. A giant bowl of eggs rested as a makeshift centerpiece, much like a classical painting reference. Only it was being swarmed over by excited children, grabbing individual eggs and dunking them in little plastic cups, full of colored liquid that only occasionally was spilled all over the place.

“What are you up to, munchkins?” Robin asked her children, half in dismay, half in amusement as she removed her coat and stashed her work bag in the closet.

A chorus of bright voices greeted her in return. “We’re dyeing eggs, mommy!”

Her babysitter, Lucy, shared a sheepish grin as she removed a brightly hued rainbow egg from a dye cup. “Kids were bored. This gave them something interesting to do without destroying too much of the house. Don’t worry, it’ll be cleaned up once they’re done.”

After the usual afternoon hugs (complete with food coloring hand prints) and “how was your day” talks, Robin took an open seat at the table, watching the chaotic creation process with interest. In between splashes, spills, and water fights, eventually the boiled eggs sat for a time in their vinegar and dye bath, rolling and rolling for coverage, then laid out to dry on paper towels.

It was clear which efforts belonged to the kiddos, with their uneven bright hues, some even caked in glitter and sequins. Still, some of the eggs nearest Lucy held beautiful precision in color, with deep layering and marbling effects, marked with adorable crayon art that popped against the dye.

How hard could this be, Robin thought to herself. She took an egg and a cup of purple dye for herself, celebrated with a chorus of cheers from the kiddos.

Of course, her experiments, even with help from Lucy, led almost nowhere fast. Being so out of practice with art, coupled with demanding perfection from herself, led to strange results. Brown and gray attempts at layering colors. Unidentifiable doodles that only served to make the kids laugh. Still, she pressed on.

Egg salad for lunch… many lunches then, she mused, lifting her last egg from the purple dye cup. It was more… garish than inspiring, to her dismay. Pink and purple crayon stripes and dots on a deep amethyst backdrop. At least she got the colors right on this one.

“Mommy, I think your egg is prettiest,” her younger chimed in, daubing a little sequin crown on Robin’s violet egg. “There. Now it’s a royal purple princess egg.”

His latest mark was in a church.

Religion never ceased to amuse Maelstrom. Why did humans in so many different worlds enjoy praying to a nebulous unknown? Of course, he knew the truth of that unknown quite well (some would call him part of it), but the humans didn’t. Neither would they ever get any proof.

Why, then, did they still pray?

Maelstrom crossed his legs as he leaned back on the altar, lips curving upwards slightly. He almost wished that everyone could see him just so they could be horrified at his blasphemy. His scythe rested next to him, the metal gleaming a dozen different colours beneath the sunlight that filtered through the stained glass. He idly traced a finger along the blade, eyes fixed on the frail, trembling form in the front pew. The old man’s eyes were shut tightly, hands clasped together as he mumbled beneath his breath; praying, repenting, pleading for the forgiveness that Maelstrom rarely ever saw a human receive.

He counted off the seconds on his hand before the man collapsed, the other church-goers rising in a chaotic crowd of worried calls. Stretching, he reached for his scythe, striding towards the still body. A surge of power filled him when his scythe cut soundlessly through the man’s body, drawing out his soul.

Just as in his final moments of life, the man’s soul trembled as he looked from his still body on the ground to the crowd around him, his eyes gaining a wild, desperate edge when he turned and came face-to-face with Maelstrom. Most people reacted that way; Maelstrom supposed that red-eyed demons didn’t usually herald the path to Heaven. “Was I not worthy?” he whispered. Maelstrom gave him a careless shrug, beckoning him forward.

“Nope. But hey, look on the bright side—you’re not worthy to enter Hell either. You’re just going to get put through the wringer and spat out at the other end as a fresh life on some world. Something like that anyway. I haven’t really figured out how it works.” Maelstrom was about to touch his scythe to the wall when he paused, a sudden idea striking him. Touching the stained glass window instead, he watched as the dark, swirling portal opened, the reflection of colour on his scythe’s blade disappearing into shadow. “Well? Come on. I lied about not entering Hell, kind of. Spirit cycle’s housed there, so you’ll get to sightsee on the way.”

“I repented,” the man murmured, wringing his hands together. Maelstrom snorted, yanking the man forward by the wrist. “Surely God must have heard my prayers. Have I failed Him? Was my faith not enough?”

“That’s the question everyone asks.” Maelstrom smirked. “I heard your prayers. Does that make me God?”

The man didn’t reply, merely bowing his head. Shrugging, Maelstrom hefted his scythe, leaning it against his shoulder. It looked like he wasn’t going to get an answer out of this one, but then again, he never got an answer from this type. So many of them still prayed, even in death. It was a mystery he would never solve.

Stepping forward, he let the shadows consume him, taking them to Hell.

His was a long death.

His last hours were spent encroached in darkness, the thick, heavy air a weight upon his broken form. He could feel the earth gradually shifting beneath him — hear the crumbling from high above as more stones tumbled and struck the ones that already pinned him. His breaths were shaky and slow, softly rattling around the blood that slowly seeped into his lungs. 

The pain was immeasurable — his nerves fired constantly, though there were some disconnects that he was vaguely aware of. He couldn’t feel his fingers; had no sensation left in his left leg. If he could have craned his neck, he would have checked to see if they were still attached — perhaps the rockslide had ripped them away; spared him at least a little bit of pain.

He laid broken and battered for what felt like hours, listening to the rocky cavern shift with each aftershock and the shaking efforts of his own breath; feeling the ground beneath his form grow sticky and wet from whatever was left to leak out of him. He was cognizant enough to realize he was going to die; had enough time to carefully pick through his thoughts.

Strangely enough, the ones that came easiest to him were the negative ones. Not a thought was spared for those he loved, nor his accomplishments nor fondest memories. Instead he was consumed by bitter anger and disgust at all that was being taken from him.

Finally, as the numbness slowly crawled its way up his spine, he said a prayer. One last appeal to whatever God or demon or abysmal beast that would hear him — Take my body but spare my soul; I pray that I may see every one of my enemies fed to the earth before I expire.

Kippie

Run. Run. Run.
The paws touch only briefly before kicking off again, subtle, nearly silent. The only sound coming from the rasp of disturbed foliage and panting breaths. The day was bright and the dark figure running with a clean, efficient stride easily visible.

There is another figure, darker black still lagging behind. These twin shapes race across the land scape, endlessly moving forth, ever forward.

They are a pack; they race across the world in search of something. Perhaps the barest wisp of a memory fragment.

They race the sun, they race the moon, they race the stars, and they race the wind.

They seek something that they could not define, even if they could speak. They seek and they seek.

Their quarry is not prey, oddly enough. They do not know what they seek. They only know they have something they must seek.

On they run, on and on, further and further into the horizon. They seek.

by me

The sunlight makes Sephira think of Remei.

She still remembers the days where they would bask together in the patch of sunlight that shone into the depths of the mountain. Remei liked to play with her hair—braided it, weaved it into odd shapes, tied it up and pinned it together until she changed her mind and just let it fall loose across Sephira’s shoulders instead. She remembers the way Remei would smile when she stroked her hair, snuggling close. “Your hair looks like it’s part of the sunlight.”

In some ways, Sephira has moved on. Remei has always—and always will—occupy a special place in her heart, but Sephira’s starting to think it’s not impossible to love again. The queen of faeries is stunning in ways that Sephira has never imagined before, and it’s easy to forget everything else when Titania is with her. But in other ways, Sephira knows that she’ll always linger in the past.

She sealed off the skylight years ago. Now, when she wants to see the sun, she emerges from her mountain.

One day, perhaps, she’ll be drawn out into the sun. At her core, Sephira is a creature of the light. But for now she lingers in the heart of the mountain; and in her dreams, she can feel the warmth of the sunlight and Remei on her skin, all tangled together into one.

“The humans are fighting again…”
It had to have been the hundredth time he’d said it this year. The humans were always fighting but he didn’t understand. They made sure that they gave them everything; food, water, a place to live, and love. Of course, not everyone was at fault. There were those who tried their best to stay out of conflict and hoped it would all end soon. They relied on their Faith.

“Hope…” He thought to himself and created a young child to rekindle their will to live.

The boy descended upon the human world without a sound however, everyone already knew who he was and who he would become. They raised the child in the Temple, he was their Holy Glow.

As the boy got older, he was both coveted and resented. Everyone wanted the boy to bless them…but he could not. He was still just a child. They hated that they had been caring for him all this time and have no received any good. But the holy ones were pleased. As the humans watched the child, they had ceased their fighting…but at the cost of the child they made…

The boy grew older still and learned to perform small miracles. He could instantly grow crops and change the weather, he could heal the sick and ward off evil. Although he learned and helped the people, they became greedy and wanted more. Each person wanted him for themselves…the boy grew tired.

He prayed to his holy fathers and asked them for guidance. They would grant him salvation if he promised to relay a message.

That morning he walked to the center of town and told the people they had been selfish. They used his gifts until he fainted, they wanted him to give them everything…but he could not, he was just a boy. He told them to stay faithful and to help one another instead. No one else like him would come to help the people ever again.

As some people cursed at him for “giving up” and other begged him to stay, he knelt down in prayer and melted into a small spring. He was now free of their demands but he would never leave them. So long as they took care of this spring, he would be there.

Centuries may pass, but Riyin will never forget how it feels to be tricked.

The memory brings with it a rush of bitterness, sharp and acrid in the back of his throat; Xin’s smile and sweet words, the soft touch of his fingers against Riyin’s feathers. The overlap and contrast when Xin turned on him with that same sweet smile and ripped his feathers from his body, leaving behind a thousand wounds that would never heal.

He remembers how it felt to lie at death’s door in more pain than he could possibly imagine—remembers that he must have cried and screamed for days on end, until his tears ran dry and his voice fell soundless. And most of all, he remembers the moment when his despair shifted into fury.

Riyin doesn’t forget. He doesn’t forgive. He is a phoenix, and while his brethren may have chosen to hide themselves away, he intends to forge forward. Xin is still alive; Riyin has seen the lanterns he created, the lives he’s forcibly taken to extend his own. The feathers are being used in the most disgusting way possible, and if the other phoenixes won’t emerge from their safe little corner to right the world again… well, that just means it’s up to Riyin.

He will take back the feathers—because he is a phoenix, and woe betide any who dare to stand in the way of his flames.

There’s a great many stories about hungry things that live in the darkness and the wild places of the world. And as long as they stay in those wild places and in the darkness it’s easy to tell ourselves we have nothing to fear from them, that we’ll always be out of reach.

The thing about hungry things though is that they tend to develop ambitions.

One such ancient hungry thing did exactly that, learning the taste of fine and comfortable lives and deciding that, and that alone, would be what it would hunger for. This hungry thing gave herself a name, folded herself into a form that could walk beyond the shadows and the wild places, and this hungry thing went to work creating a predator’s empire of debts and favors to supply her with those fine and comfortable things.

Now centuries on, you will not find this hungry thing in the dark and the wild, but sitting in a comfortable office awaiting her next meeting with some unfortunate soul in need of a favor. Money is what they usually want, or someone dead, the more interesting ones come with questions, seeking information for some ambition of their own. And this hungry thing, well she has a reputation to keep, and trades them what they want, if they can give her what she seeks in return.
For money, she seeks blood.
For blood, it’s money she will ask.
And for information, well that is worth a favor equal to the question. Most likely to be called in at some later date.

She looks so much them them now, or at least enough like them, that they don’t always seem to understand what they’re speaking too. Most often these are the little yapping ones that think themselves just as predatory. They never seem to see the ripple of dark feathers in her hair, or the arch of antlers in her shadow, or that the red on her teeth is no lipstick.
Of course this makes all the better when they do see her for the ancient hungry thing beneath the tamed skin, not that they often last long after that. The one side of her work at least, lunch is rarely missed even on days with unusual hours.

“Uh, miss?” The man at the door says, leaning in with out actually looking at her where she sits on her haunches in the middle of the room, licking her fur and feathers clean. His voice doesn’t shake, he’s too well trained for that, be he doesn’t look either.
“Your next appointment is here.”

(Forgive me I don’t know what this is)

_{Word count: 839}

“When did you know it wasn’t coming back?”

The woman sitting in front of me winces, as though I just lunged at her across the desk and not asked her a simple question. A complicated mess of emotions flits across her face before she finally settles on a scowl.

“Who do you take me for? What, do you think I just, that I just covered my eyes and pretended nothing happened?” she spits her words like venom. Still, I know it’s not really me she’s upset with, so I pretend to look through my notes to give her a moment to compose herself. Out of the corner of my eye, I can already see her relax.

A few minutes pass, interrupted only by the sound of the rain outside. My eyes rest briefly on the only window in the room; truthfully, there is not much else to look at. The room is small, but not cramped; there is only my old wooden desk desk, my creaky chair, and the chair of my guest. The lamp on my desk gives off a weak light, and I can see dust motes hanging in the air. The atmosphere is stifling. Perhaps I should open the window later on- ah, but the rain-

“I knew right from the start, of course.” I raise my eyes to meet the gaze of my guest once more. Her voice is calm now, and she looks much more composed, her hands in her lap, her long, blonde hair tucked behind her ear. “I was there. I did not have the luxury of denial.”

She is beautiful, I think idly, and gives the impression of someone who takes great care of her appearance. She has light make up on, carefully applied to hide the shadows under her eyes, but her nails are crimson red. She’s wearing a white pressed blouse, its color far too crisp for it to be anything but brand new; a set of heavy amber-colored gemstones hangs from her neck. Her skirt is long, long enough to reach her ankles, and it is both purple and red with a splash of gold. Bold, rich colors with only the slightest hint of black on the edges.

She exhales a puff of air, too softly to call it a sigh. Her hands twitch; she would not look out of place with a cigarette in her hand, but she had not asked if she could smoke; perhaps she took into consideration the poor ventilation of the dusty old room we found ourselves in.

How kind.

“The first thing I’d done was clean it out.” she says. “The room, I mean. It’s not like it’d be seeing much use after- after that. I knew that. I know that. I couldn’t just leave that mess lying around, so I started cleaning. I folded the clothes, picked up the dirty cups, washed the floor, that sort of thing. It gave me something to do.”

“Hmm.” Again, I shuffle around the notes on my desk. “You mentioned the clothes?”

“What about them?”

“I was wondering if you’ve gotten rid of them yet.” I say, meeting her gaze. Her face looks tense. “And the other things, if you’ve gotten rid of them too.”

Her left cheek twitches, and she taps her fingers on the desk once. The sound seems to startle her, and she withdraws her hand back into her lap. She fidgets in her chair; it’s like her body is going through a checklist of nervous ticks. She untucks a strand of hair from behind her ear and twirls it around her finger.

“I, that is to say…” she begins, looking anywhere but at me. Eventually, her eyes find mine and she gives me a weak, embarassed smile. “I haven’t gotten around to it just yet. I mean, I know, I won’t get any use out of them anymore, I mean- I don’t need them, there’s no point in keeping them. It’s just that, it’s such a hassle, you know? Getting rid of things. You have to sort them, and to pack them up, and I just- don’t have the time.”

I school my face into a sympathetic expression and make a few placating noises.

“That’s alright,” I lie. “Okay, I have just one more question for you and we’ll be done here.”

“Really? So quickly?” She leans back into her chair. “Well, shoot.”

“Do you regret it?”

She goes slack, as if all energy has suddenly left her body. Before, she’d twitch constantly, fraught with tension, but now the only thing she can do is stare at me in silence.

Slowly, she begins to lean forward, towards me. In the weak light of the lamp, her eyes are big and glistening, like molten gold, like the sun itself.

I clench my fists and make sure not to smile.

Therr͟e̢ s̨h́e͟ ̸iś.

She sighs, the air leaving her lips with an almost too quiet to hear whistle.

“Can I get back to you on that?”

Outside, it rains, and rains, and rains.

By me!
From this post

The waves rolled and bucked, choppy but not storming, not just yet. The wooden ribs of the great frigate groaned on the twisting sea, her song waking what slept beneath the waves and call it up from the beneath.
With glittering scales and swishing fins and shinning teeth they came from the depths. The coming storm left the water feeling charged like it was holding it’s breath waiting but shaking to hard to hold still, and so the creatures them selves were much the same. Diving and swirling in the ship’s bow wake nipping at each other and coiling tight on themselves.

Mermaids they were, but not the ones who tempted sailors to the edge with beauty. They are beautiful in their own right,
but beautiful like sharks are, adorned in jeweled scales and lost jeweled chains and crushing teeth and long claws and spines that left marks in the hulls of ships. They didn’t tempt and lure their prey they waited and dragged it down to crush their bones with all the voice of waves and against cliff. And when an aching ship met a coming storm the rose to wait.

Above on deck the man on watch had been sailing a long time, long enough to have a feel for the moods of the winds and the waves, and he’d known the moment the feeling of the air had changed. He hung his lantern and leaned as far as he dared with out a light to look at the waves below. Age had taken the edge from his vision and the richness of it color, but even in the slowly fading light he saw the claws and scales that flashed beneath the waves. So it would be a bloody storm.
Like the ocean it’s self her children were as dangerous as they were lovely and had their reasons to act, he knew this full well and had long since outgrown the idea of calling them monsters simply because they hunted, but that didn’t make him any happier to see them. But one doesn’t travel so long on a landscaped this steeped in magic with out picking up a little magic of your own, and a little whistled tune was all it took to feel the sails with a steady wind that didn’t swirl or drive. It might not save them from the storm but it should ease their passage. For now though, the old sailor could only warn the crew and wait, listing to the soft swishing of fins where they broke the surface.

The sky had gone black and the winds howled, while the waves rose high enough to crash onto the deck and over the bow. Men clung tight to masts and lines and rails until the water passed before running back to work. The old sailor kept his tune alive as needed, and though it was lost to everyone’s ears in the crashing and shouting his wind held steady and strong to their stern, no matter how they had tor turn to face the waves. They hadn’t lost their jeweled shadows though, every now and again one could be seen riding a swell to watch them.
They hit one swell wrong though, a massive wave that caught them broad across the starboard side out of nowhere and washed across the deck near deep enough to drown a man. More than one crew member lost his footing, but only three unfortunate souls lost their grip as well and were dragged into the waves bellow. One young man, too young to know the rules, went to bolt past the old sailor to look for the men gone overboard. But the older one grabbed his arm before he could get far, pulling him back close enough to hear him.
“In a storm unnatural, if you don’t hear lost men call, don’t go looking.” He told him sternly, while the young man tried to pull out of his grip, but before he could the sea died down and the winds calmed. The sky stayed dark but it lost it’s oppressive weight and was instead just dark clouds.

The old man looked skyward and sighed, speaking a little prayer for the men gone over and releasing the young sailor with one more piece of wisdom.
“This isn’t our world, and sometimes there is a toll to be payed for passing through. Sometimes it’s gold, sometimes it’s blood, but no good ever comes of telling them that live below what they can and can not have.” The younger man looked stunned, and still went to look over the rails, if he survived he’d learn to. In time.

In the distance the water threshed red and wild, jeweled tails breaking the surface as they tore their blood payment to shreds. And when there was not left but color in the water they sunk below again with new bones and stone to add to their collections to wait for the next debt they were owed.