Untitled

What is his name? The creature (dragon?) who sits on the beach of the sunset shoreline. What is his purpose? Is he the guardian of this realm, or does he guard the people who are (trapped?) here? Is this hell? Is it purgatory? Just some sunset bay on the river Styx? Do these souls wait for the ferry? Or is this some eternal sunset beach where these souls stand waiting? Some of them in the sand, some in the water. All of them facing (west?) the sunset glow of the horizon. “You’ve been here a long time.” The guardian (dragon?) says; “You should go back, before you forget how.” Suddenly you wake, drenched in sweat. Was it a dream?

So I came across a post about electricity and soft magic and bad writing essentially; and I’m here to tell you that electricity is hardly soft magic. Electricity is a foundational, powerful, universal, deep magic. It’ll literally kill you for your hubris. Touch it and see. In its every form from lighting to mains power to batteries, electricity is conjuring, and alchemy, and ancient rocks imbued with the very power of the stars. Why your pathetic meat suit would be nothing without a fearful and wonderful ablility to generate and harness electricity. So be you witch or faerie or wizard or warlock or alchemist or scientist or whatever form of magic you wield, electricity is one of the basest and arguably most powerful forms of spell casting.

Recently in an @itsapmseymour binge compilation I saw a tidbit about someone mistaking a lamp for a teapot. But, stay with me now- what if, just what if, mind you, during the collection of artifacts from around the world, some brilliant but otherwise misled explorer of ancient worlds brewed tea in a lamp? Because it had a practical shape for pouring, and it was metal and could withstand the heat? In essence, the lamp was the forebear of the teapot, and to mistake one for the other is merely the perception of your experiencing one or the other ~first~?

The wild one stood astride the hill. We marked him as he stood, that we might give him the berth his presence demanded. My companion, secure in his standing, spoke to him in the voice of old. The song sung by his people since the first notes were struck generations upon generations ago. The wild one did not answer, but his confusion was evident. His ways were the ways of his life and his people. Curiosity though caused him to follow us carefully, at a distance, that he might better understand the life of my friend. Perhaps, if he could have dreamed of game in verdant fields, with a full stomach by the warm fire, he might have been convinced.

In red cloak with thorny back he stalks her. His cruel claws clack as he makes his way to her through the thicket. The safe color does not protect her. She is in his wood. The sting of her hand burns yet his face. Only the power of love can save her from him.

The night nurses here are like badly written vampires. They wait in the shadows until you fall asleep. Then they pounce. Always wanting blood. Always two vials. Then they apologize and scuttle back into the darkness.

Have you ever imagined a coworker’s head exploding like a rotten watermelon? No? It’s just me then? Okay…