June Bugs

Drinking mint juleps with a striped straw,
empty June lungs soon fill with June bugs
and sparkling July promises.
Bitter. The air is bitter with June skies
and July lightning. We called them fireflies,
like tiny beacons to follow home.
By September all our leaves had begun to
brown and the last of the June bugs had
flown South.
These empty June lungs breathe summer and
taste autumn. The sun sets slower, lingering to
glimpse the moon.
The fireflies fade out, one by one, candles
blown out by turning breezes. We're lost in
the dark and tied to each other by red threads.
In December the stars glitter like cracked glass
and dusty diamonds. Our June lungs have frozen
solid, all the air withered and lost in the snow drifts.
Those summer children have long returned to the
ground and all that is left are naked branches.
We remember lemons and the moon longs for the sun.

Disappearing Act

I woke up this morning missing my feet.
Below my ankles was nothing but air,
those two lefties I always claimed to dance with,
the ones too large and flattened,
those feet that I took for granted,
vanished.

By lunch I had lost my hands.
At the wrists I flexed,
stretching invisible fingers toward glasses of milk,
grasping, but not lifting,
dragging knuckles against ivory keys,
simply gone.

At dinner I noticed the hole in my chest.
Oddly misshaped, somehow full of its invisibility,
I touched it with my missing fingers and wondered;
wondered if I was just imagining those tactile senses,
will the rest of me follow suite?
Disappear?

By bedtime I was nothing more than a head.
Resting on a white pillow, dreaming of bodies fled;
wondering where all our pieces go when we fall apart,
aching from lost soles to lost digits,
my head rolled from side to side,
weeping.

In the morning I was gone.

Snowflakes in Black Hair

You are romantic; like snowflakes in black hair,
your smile askew, your hair rakish.
Your lips are roses, pressing themselves together,
parting like every movement is a kiss.

You are quiet; soft spoken like summer rain.
Yet, intense; passionate, provocative, polite.
Your eyes turn into oceans, I could fall hard into,
drowning in them, storm-tossed in softness.

The Skeleton Remains

The skeletal remains of your kisses
clink around my incisors, tickle the
ivory of my molars, tap dance across
my canines.

At night I can hear them, tinkling
like chandeliers in a breeze. I can
taste the bittersweet, hollowed, bones
of them curled against my tongue.

Their sugar melts into cavities of
emptiness, blackening my teeth with
the ash of them. They rub themselves
against my taste buds, reminders.

In the still of your long absence,
all of my teeth have rotted away, wasted
by the frame of your feelings for
me. Too sweetly  bitter to remain in me.

The ghosts of your kisses have replaced
the skeleton of your love. They howl,
but at least the clink of your chandeliers
against my teeth has ceased.

Nursery Rhyme for Astronauts

Ring around the moon,
a pocket full of loons,
spaceships
spaceships
we all fall like shooting stars.

Bathing Beauty

Quiet thoughts seem to whisper,

Your love letters never linger;

who am I to you?

Bathe me in kisses soft,

let my heart never break.

No Rhyme, nor Reason

In my, brief, lifetime there have been many battles lost and won; over hearts come undone and rewoven; over stories that have yet to be spoken into being; over blessings and curses, tears and verses.

Love has been cast, like so many pearls, before the swine; but who can blame a pig for being a pig?
We tell the pig to change his ways, mend a soul to alter appearances. Ah, but those are words for older scars and, really, who and what we are is nothing in the comparison of who and what we could be; will be.

Love comes as a harlot, a wanton, eager for desire and heat. Eager for some kind of belief; the belief that physical attraction is all that is required to make it last.

Love comes as a broken child, lonely and full of grief, eager for comfort and trust. And we all trust love when we see her, because we have been taught to.

Love comes not as a present to be unwrapped, unraveled, undone. Nor merely as a prize to be won. No, Love comes as a thief, a murderer in the night. It steals your soul, sifts through the rubble of your existence, murders your will, shatters your heart. As it breaks, it heals, it conjures and tricks, it flits about in fits.

Love calls upon the pigs and the princesses, it calls upon paupers and kings. It courts death and divinity, plagues baited breath and ribald poetry. It dances through moonlight silences and evergreen wastes; through joy and through pain.

The Dragon King: Part Two

The dragon city was a breathtaking display of the ingenuity of its creators. A spiraled staircase, carved with runes in the wyvern tongue, seemed to be the only way down, as well as the only way to reach a network of tunnels which traversed more than two realms and went down just as many fathoms. The walls, along the stairs, were ingrained with shimmering crystals that eerily resembled eyes and the steps, themselves, were encrusted with gems as well as symbols.

Faolán, the queen’s champion, taking note of the sconces hanging from the walls, put his torch to the tinder and watched in amazement as the abyssal labyrinth came alive. Sconces, at least three levels below them, began to twinkle with star-like bursts of light. The company marveled at the beauty of the ancient city, breathless in their awe. It was unlike anything they had seen before and it was far less than what they had been told in the legends. The queen fluttered down to stand beside her favored knight, her small hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed out over the immensity of it.

Spanning the chasm were golden bridges connecting the myriad of landings. Each bridge opened the way to new tunnels, and with these channels, were alabaster cities trimmed with sapphires or rubies. Every passage seemed to hold a wholly separate kingdom, utterly abandoned and all more beauteous than the next. The darkness beneath them shone like the starlit heavens and every entrance held a beckoning new world.

At the forefront, prodded by blunted staves, stumbled a dryad witch, a captive of the faery court. She looked up with wondering eyes, wishing for even a glimpse of light from the outside world. Her henna coloured skin was smattered with bruises and tattoos. The bruises were, by far, the most noticeable, a result of the poking staves and the leather straps used to bind her at night. Her hair, chartreuse and wildly unkempt, was braided with feathers and wilting flowers. Her teal eyes darted nervously, searching for any chance of escape and her cracking lips mumbled prayers to unknown gods. Though it was unnaturally warm within the old city, she shivered, hugging herself as she walked, thirsty for just a flash of golden sunlight.

When they had traveled for a day and a half, the ocular stones judging their progress, they came to the first of many large landings. Consulting with her companions, the queen called for camp.

“Halt.” Cried the melodious voice. The company came to a full stop, a guard jerking the dryad to a standstill and turning her so that she faced the voice.

Aysel, the faery queen, slowly floated to the ground, the hem of her orchid petal gown brushing against the basanite floor. She waved away an attendant and stalked toward the witch, her plum coloured eyes blazing with fear and anger. Her wings, pale pink gossamer and as delicate as a butterfly’s, flowed behind her like water and a strand of her apricot hair slipped from its place in her intricate styling. She grasped the dryad’s chin in her hand, forcing her gaze upward.

“Where shall we find the dragon king, sorceress?” She asked, her grip tightening, slightly, on the dryad’s chin.

“If we find the underground ocean, milady, we will find the dragons.” Twisting, she tried to escape the fierce grip of the faery queen. Aysel tightened her hold, like a vice.

“If I find that ye have lied to me, Kiri,” she said, ominously. Within the caverns something seemed to echo the unspoken threat beneath her words, startling her into letting go of the witch’s face. Glancing into the sparkling void, she shivered and retreated to her stewards. As she went, a look passed betwixt her and Faolán, then quickly vanished. Yet, it did not go unnoticed by Kiri or the crystal eyes.

“We shall make our encampment here,” said the queen, holding herself very straight and aloof. “When the hourglass has emptied thrice we shall depart and continue along this path.”

Following his lady toward where the guards busily began to create a makeshift tent, Faolán glanced around. The landing provided a crossroad, of sorts, but it left the company open to an attack from all angles. He bit his tongue, reminding himself that they need only fear attack from above. It was clear that nothing kept residence in the caverns, not anymore. Bearing this in mind, Faolán approached his queen and gently pulled her aside.

“Your majesty, ‘tis not the wisest judgment to encamp here. ‘Tis nigh indefensible. T’would be better to take up residence in yon corridors.”

“And be trapped with no hope of escape? Nay, good Faolán, we shall camp here.”

“My lady, we are out in the open, entirely unprotected.”

“Aye, we be in the open, but we have room if we are to run.” The queen turned away, looking over her people and sighing. Taking her hand, the champion pulled her toward a dark corridor, out of sight.

“Aysel,” he began, but she waved her hand to silence him.

“Nay, I shall hear no more. We have been marching, nay, fleeing, for almost two days, Faolán. The men are exhausted. I am tired. We must rest. And I would have us rest where we have at least a chance of escaping if there be trouble.”

“Pray, Aysel, what wilt thou do if we find the fabled ‘prince of dreams?’” He looked down at her, his black curls serving to accentuate the dark look in his vibrantly blue eyes. He was troubled. The desire to serve, to protect his queen from any harm, was at war with his disbelief in tales of old.

“I know not.” She replied, the words leaving her lips in defeat and resignation.
Taking her in his arms, the faery knight held his queen, burying his face in her sweet smelling hair.

“Ah, my sweet, Aysel,” he sighed, breathing her in. “Ever shall I protect thee with my very life.”

They stood there for only a moment before he was forced to let her go. Distantly, he could hear a voice calling for her. As she walked away, he asked her,

“Wouldst thou have a small troupe of men, and myself, to scout our position?”

She did not look back at him, only nodded her acquiescence. Retreating to a small pavilion, hastily erected by her men, Aysel began laying out the maps of the Caverns of Omra. She studied the tracings, feverishly searching for any short-cut or secret passage that might lead her to the dragon king. All the while Faolán’s words, and the threats of Emyr, played war with the fear racing through her veins.

It had been a week’s time since Emyr had stalked into her court and commanded her to be his wife or suffer his wrath. It had been, at least, that long since she’d had the dryad witch kidnapped and brought to court as prisoner. She looked down at her locket, a gift from the goddess of the moon, and paused before opening it. Immediately the locket began to glow, showing only a sliver of silver. It had been three days since Emyr sent a missive demanding her surrender by the end of the lunar cycle. She had one more night, before her time was up, and she did not doubt that the goblin king was already on his way to retrieve her.

The Dragon King: Part One

The faery knight stood guard at the mouth of the cavern. The entrance of the abandoned dragon city glowed, eerily, in the moon’s pale light, causing the young chevalier to nervously flutter his iridescent wings. As a man-at-arms in the court of Lua, it was not the moon that unnerved him. Rather it was the things that could lurk in the shadows, and escape the moon’s wandering gaze, that caused him disquiet.

It was folly to be here, he thought. The whole quest was lunacy. He would never express such doubts to the Queen, but her obsession with awaking the dragon king was bordering on insanity. He was not the only courtier whispering behind their wings about the queen’s odd behavior, either. The court had been buzzing with rumours, for at least a season, and the capture of the dryad witch had only increased them. Sighing, he leaned against the polished jet archway, his wings rustling, in a slightly irritated way, in the cool breeze. Who was he, after all, to question the actions of his queen?

Out of the darkness came a low, menacing, growl, snapping him out of his thoughts and to attention. Dropping down, he edged against the wall, slowly drawing his weapon. His wickedly curved scimitar slid slowly from the sheath, the sharpened edge faintly glistening. The growls grew louder, followed by the sound of teeth gnashing and the war cries of goblins. From the silver-leafed trees strode Emyr, the Goblin King, his obsidian bow drawn and arrow nocked. He was followed, closely, by a horde of goblin warriors, many of them astride the hairless wolves of the Cristal Mountains, carrying the meticulously honed bones of fallen enemies.

The goblin king stopped, raising a long fingered hand to halt the army. The moon hid behind dark gray clouds, as if she were frightened, blotting out the stars and casting the earth into shadows. Emyr’s long, colourless, hair seemed to glimmer in the sudden, and complete, darkness and his eyes gleamed like icy gold. He raised his bow, aiming into the lightless void of the cavern’s mouth. His keen sight fell on the frantically beating heart of his prey and he smiled, wickedly.

“The queen expects to awaken the dead and defeat me?” he hissed, his nocked arrow glittering green with poison. The faery chevalier said nothing, believing himself hidden from view. He held his weapon in front of him, as if it would shield him further from the horde. His wings spread out, fully unfurling, their colour shifting to the black of the cave’s outer walls. Thinking himself still concealed, the knight crept toward the inner corridor of the dragon city.

Again Emyr smiled, his jagged teeth capped with sharpened gemstones, and let the arrow fly. Moving too late to escape, the dart embedded itself in a muscle, betwixt the heart and shoulder, of the target.

He looked surprised for only a moment before he began to convulse from poison. He clawed at the arrow, choking and spewing pink flecked foam. A small trickle of blood dripped from his eyes, as though he were crying, and he collapsed in a twitching heap. Nonplussed, the goblin king strode forward, stepping over the fallen carcass, and entered the Caverns of Omra.

Wandering Soul

I met a man on the train, headed south of here.
He wore a black suit, the lapels crisp as autumn winds.
His hair was brown, slicked back with bacon grease.
He wore a red boutonnière, its petals twisted and wilted.
His smile was diminutive, as if he were afraid.

His words dripped from his tongue, like Dali's clocks.
He spoke in verse, his cadence like birds flitting.
His tongue pondered poison, his heart bleeding on his sleeve.
He drifted through conversation, a wandering soul.
I admired his stature, his height relative to his speech.

I watched him as we traveled, headed further south.
He cried in his sleep, his jacket soon soaked with them.
His whispered dreams spread, seeping into his skin.
He did not cry out, simply weeping against the window.
His lapels were no longer crisp, his flowers wilted.

His last words were lost, the wind snatched them away.
He smiled sadly, climbing down the steps to the platform.
His smile slipped away, all the light blown out like a candle.
He fell to the platform, the blood rejuvenating his boutonnière.
I did not cry, only slid the Derringer back into my bag.

Kool-Aid

You tasted of kool-aid in the summer of my youth. A sparkling flower plucked in the prime of its bloom. You tasted so sweet in those days. Your words were even sweeter, dripping off your tongue like honey from the comb. You spoke like the angels sing. You kissed me like I was the only heart you had ever held.

And I fell for you. I fell in love with your kool-aid kisses and it would be forever summer.

You tasted like past lovers in the autumn of my youth. The leaves beginning to yellow and bloody in the waning light. You tasted of familiarity and old memories. Your tone had changed, no longer as sweet, but familiar to me. You spoke like fairy tales, comforting. You kissed me like I was someone you once knew.

And I loved you still. I fought for the peace we had held, like lightning bugs, at the end of summer.

You tasted like bitter fruit in the winter of our youth. Our hearts lay like roses beneath the snow. You no longer kissed me in the twilight of our relationship. Your words were few and the silences more telling than any word. You spoke like the shovelful of dirt on the casket of our love. The last kiss you gave me was like a needle through my heart.

And I loved you still. Though we fell apart, crumbling like the words we said when you tasted like kool-aid.

Tell Me Tales

"Tell me tales," she said, her cheeks flushed with the excitement and the wind's kiss. "Tell me about the land when it was young and fruitful."

But how does one describe the azure of the endless sky, dotted with puffs of white? How does one paint pictures of leafy green arms stretched up in ecstasy, ready to embrace the oceanic heavens? Where do I find the words to elucidate the myriad of blood nourished flowers, their petals like so many dancing princesses across the viridian ballroom of the earth?

She tugged at my sleeve, looking up at me with her, too wide, hazel eyes and I knew. Taking her hand, I led her up to the crest of the hill. Below us lay the chessboard of our reality, stretched as far as the eye could see. The wind swept past us, an invisible ocean, its voice a whisper.

"When the earth was new," I told her, my hand sweeping across the landscape as if I were a painter. "the Gods set about forging existence. They began with the fields and the prairies, dressing the earth in green. They adorned her with crowns of mountains, they christened her with an empyrean of stars, they gave her a voice as soft as silence."

"The earth was a goddess, created from the mist of nothingness and the musing of those more ancient than she. They pressed themselves into the flesh of her and grew as trees, reaching up, always reaching, as if to embrace her. The rivers sprang from her tears, the flowers from the spilled blood of the first peoples, clouds from her dreams."

"The moon stood to guard her and the sun stood to warm her. The jewels in her azure hair fell to the earth, gems to bless her birth, a dowry to those who would come after her."

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?" she said, her small hand clasped in mine and her eyes roaming the rolling hills before us.

"Earth gives birth to earth, my love. Before this world there were others and many will be born after she ends."

Standing in silence, we gazed out across the emptiness, witnesses to the expanse of our existence. We watched the trees as they fell to the rhythm of axes. They cascaded to the forest floor like evergreen whales diving below the water. We watched as the torches set the grass to leaping red demons. Their destructive dance twisted and rippled across the fabric of the earth. Before we knew it, all that had been green and fragrant had been replaced by cold pavement and polluted air.

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?"

Temerity

If there was courage it seems to have fled.
Bravery is a drink best drunk by those who can hold their liquor,
not by girls with big hearts and bigger mouths.

The precipice is steep, a long fall, further than Alice's rabbit hole,
darker than a starless night.
Conjuring temerity is a lost art when facing the crypt.

She looks around, gulping the air as though it were water,
clutching the edge as though it were a hand to help her.
It doesn't pull her up and her fingers slip, dropping her down.

In Your Arms

I wish I was in your arms.
The smell of your skin,
the scent of your breath a whisper in my hair.
I dream I am in your arms.

I dream of kisses along my jaw,
I wish for your heartbeat in my ear,
I long for you to just hold me.
Hold me.

I want to bask in your sweetness.
I desire nothing more than you,
your arms protecting me from myself,
our lips tasting secrets and truths.

I want to be the prized flower in the garden of your heart.
I want to bloom in the soil of your arms,
watered with kisses and sweet words.
I want to be your favorite flower; roses, lilies, hyacinths.

I wish I was in your arms.
The taste of your kiss lingering on my lips.
Your breath mingling with mine,
your eyes asking me for my everything.

I dream of your heart, a pillow for my head.
I wish you would see all of the love I'm willing to bleed.
I long for the day you realize that I've stood here,
begging, for years, waiting to be yours.

I'm still waiting.
I am waiting for you to be willing to wait for me.
I am waiting to be your everything.
I am waiting for you to put me first.

I'm still wishing for your arms around me.

Lost in Mathematics

We're all evens and odds.
Can you divide me by two and come out even?
Does the Pythagorean theorem apply to my equation?
Am I greater than the sum total of pi or
am I trapped in the acute angle of this geometry?

I'm not trying to be obtuse, that's just how I'm calculated.
I'm a miracle of Fibonacci's spirals,
spreading further and further from myself,
juxtaposed so nicely,
but always parallel to myself.

I never meet myself,
except at intersections and y equals x.
Truthfully, I belong to the odds that one in a whole lifetime finds themselves,
polished by fractions and whittled down to decimal places.

We're all evens and odds.
Do I calculate properly?

Clara Bow

I may look like Clara Bow, but I have an "Exquisite Corpse" sense of
humor and I may look sweet, but honey, I can be oh, so sour.
There are methods to my madness, a verbal sputtering, trembling. You
may think you know, but you don't.
I'm made of jade, the veins show so clearly and I love them dearly. If its
a question you want to ask, I have all the answers: 42.
I'm practicing my telepathy and my teleportation devices.
I'm working on heading to Jupiter's 27th moon for a brief vacation. I was
told I don't need reservations on a Monday night.
I can be a sweet dream, but “I'm your nightmare. Did you think you
were done with nightmares, now you've become one?”

Rising Against

I am a tide, rising up, wild and free.
I crash into the hard truth of the shore,
bashing my skull against it,
trying to make some sense of it.

I am a survivor, raising my fists, fighting.
I am crumbling flesh,
divorced from the traumas,
devoid of the reasons behind actions.

I am terrified.

I can make no sense of these realities.
I can't breathe the poisoned clouds.
I don't understand the reasons,
the misgivings, the belligerency.

I am simply a tide, rising up,
eager to devour the, hard won,
knowledge of the earth. Eager to be.
I am a survivor.

I am stronger than I believe myself to be.

The Box

You are a simple box.

You are not ornamental or wrapped in glitzy papers. You are small, but you can hold many different things. And, for ornamentation, you have a small red ribbon.

You are simple, but you yearn to be called beautiful. You long to be opened up and loved for all that lies within. So you wait for that one person who will open you up and realize that you hold so much more than you appear to.

People come and go, they pass you by without a second glance and others stay for a short while. Some people open you up and laugh at what you have to offer. Others try to force more into you, things you don't want to hold; hate, fear, self-doubt. Some can accept parts of what you hold, but they can't accept you as a whole being.

You begin to doubt that you will ever be given to the right person. After all, you are just a simple box, simple to the point of plain and stupid. You tell yourself that you aren't worthy of being given to someone who matters. You begin to lose hope that that one person will come along to love you.

You become ashamed of what is within you. You try to hide the pieces of you that people can't seem to accept. You try to change who you are to fit in to this world, so that you will belong to someone. You try to change your shape, change your color, change your ribbons and your spaces. You try to be everything anyone could ever want, but they still pass you by.

You slowly shrink, though you should expand. No one wants a big box full of life, they want a tiny box with a diamond or some other expensive trinket. They don't want you because you are too bulky, too plain, too full of things they can't comprehend. You begin to believe that no one could ever really want YOU. Not the YOU that you are.

Then the day comes when someone tells you that you are beautiful just the way you are. They compliment your ribbons and they look at your insides without flinching. You think that you have finally found a home, a place to belong, to be accepted. For a little while you are happy, but it never lasts. There is always that one thing inside of you that you can never express. Never let anyone see, because you are ashamed of it, because you have been made to be ashamed of it.

And that someone leaves you, open and exposed, abandoned.

You begin to believe the lies that have been told to you. You are ugly, you are useless, you are too empty or too full, you are worthless. You have no value. And you try again to make yourself useful, beautiful, lovable.

If you are not unlovable, why does no one love you? If you are perfect just the way you are why can't anyone accept you? Why does everyone try to make you fit into the ideas they have for you? Why?

You continue to wait for the day you can say all the things you need and want to say; a day when no one walks away from you. And, though you begin to lose faith that that day will come, there is a tiny bubble of hope building inside of you. A tiny butterfly of hope, waiting for a Pandora to set you free.

Awaken September's Gods: IX

IX

Once they were deep inside the bunker, Kean began preparations for a fight. She knew it was only a matter of time before the deconstructionists discovered they were gone. And, if this Archivist was anything like previous Archivists, they would be hunting her more than Lorcan and Niamh.

“What are you?” asked Lorcan. He had been quiet until now, obedient and thoughtful, but silent. He no longer held Niamh’s hand and was standing in the archway looking as though he were prepared to run.

“What do you think I am?” she countered, stopping to look at Lorcan. Her silver eyes bespoke centuries of existence and pain.

“I know you are not human. I know that you are, at least part, gynoid. You are not other as Niamh is other, but you are just as alien, foreign.”

Pulling herself up to face Lorcan, Kean allowed another glimpse of what lay behind the mask. It did not surprise her when Lorcan took a step back.

“I am ancient. I was called an ‘elemental’ once. I was also called a witch. At the time I was created the Archivists were at war with a group called the Septemberists. The Septemberists were not quite human and not quite other, but they had power. The Archivists wanted this power for themselves and began kidnapping Septemberists for experiments.

“One of these victims was a young woman with oddly silver eyes. She did not fight back, simply allowing the deconstructionists to take her hostage. She believed she could kill the Archivist and escape. As powerful as she was, she was wrong. Torture and mutilation break you.

“They cracked open her skull and inserted the probes. They stripped skin off one of her arms and replaced bone with mechanized rods. True to their names, she was deconstructed to her base components before being rebuilt. They tried to bind her in the form of a gynoid.

“They discovered, after they rebuilt her, that they could play God with her. They had created her, they would enslave her. They used her, never knowing what her powers were. The Septemberists were destroyed and the Archivists had the last of them as a pet. They may not know what powers they had, but neither would anyone else.

“However, they had left no reason for the girl to live. Her entire world had been destroyed and all she knew was revenge. They had stripped away her identity, had transformed her into this being, this monster. So she sang the wires to life and she woke the fires beneath the earth. The wires moved, like snakes, into the houses of the Archivists. They electrocuted and strangled everything in their path and the fires burned everything.

“The deconstructionists used the scanner hooks to capture her and they brought her to the Caverns. They tortured her with water and electricity. They peeled the flesh from her body so that she was more than naked. They burned her with cigarettes and heated glass. And they reset her.

“She knew only that her name was Kean, a name they gave her, and that she was more, but she was less. She served for two centuries, yearning for a part of her she could not remember.

“At the end of the second century, the Archivists grew lazy and began an experiment. Believing that I had no emotions, and no awareness, they released me into the human world to see if they could make me human again. What they had forgotten was I was never human to begin with. I rediscovered myself in the Caverns, the tapes and records of my existence kept in the open. They believed me docile, what need was there of lock and key?

“Again I awakened the wires and the fire. I called the winds and the oceans as well. This time they were completely unaware and I ravaged their numbers. When they began to fight back, I disappeared, leaving only my name behind. The new Archivist is led down to the Caverns each summer to learn why I should never be forgotten.”

Lorcan was silent for a long moment, just looking at her. She did not move, only watched for him to come to his conclusions. He glanced at Niamh, who looked chilled, before looking back at Kean.

“Can you raise the wires as you did before?” he asked.

“I can.”

“Can you raise deactivated androids and gynoids?”

“I can.”

“When do we attack?”

Kean smiled, feral and wicked.

A Glimpse of Paris: Chapter Five

Chapter Five

She experienced the rest of her stay in Paris as glimpses. She experienced everything differently after Sebastine. She felt colors more than she saw them, she tried to see everything in details instead of large pieces and she lived between the moments. In many ways she became a better artist after that night under the Eiffel Tower. She felt her drawings and paintings with everything inside of her, laying her soul bare on her canvas.

She never saw the young priest again, though she revisited his church numerous times. Another priest seemed to have taken his place over night and the only response to her questions were that he had returned to his father's home in the south of France. He had not left the priesthood, however, he had only gone to minister over his hometown's church.

The day before she was supposed to return to the U.S. she visited the Louvre. She had been many times before now, sketching Michelangelo's David, Rodin's the Thinker and Venus de Milo. Every time she came here she thought of Sebastine, wishing that he had come too. She thought she saw a glimpse of him, but discovered it was just another beautiful Parisian and not the priest.

Leaving France was like death to her. As she had been newborn from the heavens into France so she was taken back to the heavens at her death. She knew it was only the first of many deaths she would experience throughout the years. Any time she left France behind it would be as a knife plunged deep into her heart.

As the airplane rose higher, she caught one last glance of her beloved Eiffel Tower. She was not sad to die this way, metaphorically speaking. She was actually happy to be going back to Indiana. She had missed her family and her friends. She thought about all the friends she had made in France and how she would miss them also.

Wasn't that the way of the world though? You tasted sweet and bitter, sometimes you tasted both together. Sometimes you tasted perfection, as she had, and sometimes you tasted nothing at all, only what had always been. France tasted like a bittersweet spice on her tongue, full of sweet memories with a bitter undertone of reluctance to leave.

She knew, however, that nothing would taste nearly as sweet as Sebastine's mouth.