• Vignettes,  Works

    Arhat

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “Welcome to the Archive. I am Arhatta, but if it suits you call me Arhat.” Stillness kept the calm soothed, stillness of my heart, untouched by calamity, vice, or vitality. Death not kin, but rebirth conquered by the brahmacarya, by the culmination of life. “I have peace, I have harmony with all things, and with the upward twist of my lips the world shall know me through my visage. For I am neither what I was nor what I am. I am the visage. I am Lohan, the Arhatta.” “You will begin to know us. We are the Archive. We each have our tale.…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    King Bamci

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. My palace has fallen, my subjects gone, but my family is with me. At least I have solace. I was from the Singa Raja Palace. I was King, I am King, but with no throne. “Call me Bamci.” He scratched his shoulder, his eyebrows turned inward with annoyance, the never ending kind. “Sorry it itches. It always itches.” He stole a glance upwards and smiled at the ceiling above. “At least I need not fear more of the white bombs from the sky.” Bamci went silent as if confused or lost, thinking on some minor thought. “The itching, it is so much at times it…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Cikopich

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “Ha, I escaped the flame and the bity ity tatanua floats away. No harm to me. The soul whispers death to ears. I’m Cik.” Rattling in place, as he shifted from foot to foot on the paved floor, Cik broadened his smile to a splendid row of teeth. “I’ve many things to do. I’m with the Archive you see. I’m Cik. Nice to meet you. You ask what I do or where I’m from. Ha, I care not what brought me here. I’m warrior, Guardian Against the Flame. I control the Sacred Red Box. No flame can lick, our flesh unscorched.” These questions flicked in…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Ana Deo

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. We are united, we are one. We are neither nor the either. We are the tutelar, we are the ana deo, the ancestral pair. We speak as one, without loss of the other. We are one. Our home, off on misty shores, broods in our mind, thinking upon how fair they fare without us. We used to guard and protect the house of spirits, the heda. We lived at the greatest heights, not in flight or size, but in other things of much more concern. You may not understand this, for we are one, and neither are we whole or together, but we still stand…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Iyo or Tena

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. What is the place you call the Archive? Hmm, I like it not. Easily broken. Too astir, too active for the likes of me. I’m from afar like us all, but I find myself more content than most. I’m almost a thousand years old. Pity those years steered by so fast. But, this is splendid company I keep. Many tales they have, which are worth your ear. I advise, listen, and learn, but keep calm within for the unsteady heart cannot bend ear to good use. Oh, have I forgotten to introduce myself. Pity on me, time sure does move fast. I’m Iyo if you…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Kala

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “So you want to know something about me? Well, what fancies ya?” Kala sniffed, his lava rock nostrils flaring. “I’m from Bali, but not originally mind you. I’ve been many a place and Bali wasn’t my favorite. Not a bad sort, just not my favorite. No, I’m from Java, the old Java when times were dust and people vain. Eh, things probably haven’t changed much have they?” Kala’s eyes ground in circles, itching the ear. His eyes stopped, he crunched his teeth together, and let his stone tongue run across his lips as if parched. “You know what, I could go for some greens. Do…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Tatanua

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. The Malagan is a story. It is a telling of times which were; a telling to guide the spirits to the beyond. It is a celebration of unity and a blessing for those gone. I’m that memory of a tale, which should carry the wild spirit of he who has passed. Yet, my story is forgotten, I’m not a tale, nor a memory or a thought. I’m haunted by the tatanua I’ve betrayed, the spirit which doesn’t see the land of the golden sun. I see him walking amid the tall pines, a wisp of smoke in the twilight breeze. I see him skidding over…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Kelirieng

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “I am Kelirieng, I was and always will be Kelirieng, no matter what tongue twists the words of my name. Death be to those who defy me the honor of my name. I am Kelirieng and always will be. I want you to remember. I want them to know so I don’t become forgotten.” Kelirieng felt adrift, weightless, but not like floating on a cloud of glee or lifted in a spring breeze. He felt apart, separated, because he was in six pieces, to be precise. He thought it would hurt, the axes chopping away at his feet with sweat and bitter spit till he…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    drool

    he lay broken because he must being so torn of flesh and mind how could he do else yet ponder the pitfalls of his twisted and muddled mind yet our Zea is struck with the difficulty of his lack his room stuffy and hot with not a small dose of irritating humidity and he screams how the hell am I supposed to get out of here but that does about nothing to calm the unrest they call his heart and somehow there is little else he can do in the confines of his self made sterile entrapment so he screams and screams as the chilly night blankets him in deceptive…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    What is Fear

    Fitful, he ponders its meaning. John hasn’t moved it from his porch in three days, fear being his master. The package would seem normal to most people but our dear friend is rather terrified. Now this might be perplexing, unless you understood the horror this box causes dear John, while he locks himself in his house for days. The food dwindles as apprehension rises. “What can I do,” he thinks. On the fourth day the answer seems as evasive as the rat he tried to catch last summer. He wearily sits down on his front doorstep, staring at his intruder with no less tension. Finally, he dares a peak at…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Coffee Thoughts

    Martha yawned, stretching her arms as she sat up in bed and tried not to wake her husband, who’s gotten distinctively grumpier in his old age. She stood and shuffled over to the door, down the creaky stairs and into the kitchen. Blinking through the oblivion of a fog filled head, she pushed the little black button. This button was simply the wonder and gift of her life. According to Martha, it was truly the greatest invention of man and her only necessity in life, except for dark chocolate with the girls on Sunday, but she wouldn’t talk about such things. Alfred isn’t supposed to know. Besides she was on…

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