North Star

How do you sum up the value of someone's life in a page of text? 

How do you quantify their worth and decide which colours of their stained-glass soul are for sharing, and what's best kept for yourself?  All of their smiles and tears, their hopes and desires, their desperate fears, and their masks not retired? 

How do you untangle the threads of a joint life that bound them to you, without letting them fall completely away from you?

 I don't know that I've ever cried so much in my life. 

Granted, I am still young - there is time for more heartache and sorrow - but when I heard that she'd died... when I learned how it had happened...

Her name became a prayer, a plea, upon my lips, and a tattoo emblazoned on my soul, as I whispered it into the cacophony of my child-laden car, and screamed it into the silent hollow of my mind. Impossible, I argued. Improbable, I reasoned. 

But in the end, pleading is where I sat for hours- days- as I waited for someone, anyone, to tell me it was a mistake. Dear, sweet Lords in all their faces, dear sweet Ladies and all their graces, please no, not Stacey, not Oz, not Ozara... but I'd heard too late for my heartache to matter, and my selfish desire to keep her bound in her body found no purchase so many hours after her spirit let it go.  

It's been 12 days that I've been asking myself these questions, trying to distract from what's happened. It's been 5 days where I feel like I may finally be able to start writing my eulogy for her, but every time I begin, I start at square one- How do I fit all that Stacey was, and all that I loved, into so small a space? I could write forever about her, and what she means (meant?) to me, the impact she had on my life in the 7 years I got to know, and grew to love, her, and still I would have more to say. 

It amazes me, actually, just how thoroughly she managed to secure herself into this journey of mine.

I always thought that, if we defined the roles of such a complicated and beautiful relationship, I was the "teacher", as she frequently came asking for reassurances, or to double check information, or to run something by for a second opinion to make sure she wasn't horribly off base. She'd constantly ask questions, ever-searching for hidden truths and secrets, and if I had no answer for her, I'd prompt her towards a new path down which to chase the ever-elusive white rabbit.

As always seems to be the case, it's only now that I am without her that I realize just how much and how often I was not the one who was needed, but who was in need. Subtlety and gentleness, two of her greatest gifts, wove seamlessly in with her friendship, and my reliance on her as a check to any arrogance or impulsiveness I showed in my words and thoughts has gone unnoticed by me until I, suddenly, lost her forever.

So, back to the original question: How can I even hope to squeeze her into such small parameters, and expect to do her soul justice?

Honestly, I don't think I can. 

Not for a lack of effort- as it is, this promises to be a lengthy statement on who she'd become, but to fit all of her in? No. Not in one piece, at least. It will take several, maybe dozens, but then you might begin to fall in love with her as I did. 

Oh, no. 

Not like that... not really. 

So much more than just that.

Stacey understood Love better than anyone I've met so far. 

She saw the highs as well as the lows- The glorious selflessness of it, as well as the selfish demands it brings on within someone, obsession for happiness, and obsession for possession. She adored the Greek views on such things- multiple words, multiple concepts, many relevant to any given relationship at any given time. So when I say that I love her, understand that it is not a romantic kind, but the kind that comes from allowing another person to see you when you've shed your masks and bared your soul for them to judge, only to find they still want you in their life, and so they gift you with the most precious of vulnerabilities in return- The unmasked version of themselves that's been deemed unlovable without alteration, unacceptable without pieces removed. 

I remember the day she admitted to actual belief in Faeries, an admission which started with: "I know I'm probably really silly for saying this, but...” I laughed, and half-joked that she was a witch at heart, and that there was nothing foolish about a grown woman believing in such things. 

I suppose this is where empowerment begins - though I'm not so vain as to assume it was solely my doing - when you stop lying to yourself and embrace what you are. For her... this moment, where she found external validation in something otherwise seen as a curious quirk, was an earthquake of roiling emotion and cracking mental constructs, a storm of crisp, clean air sweeping through a delicate, ivory cage she kept herself in. The more we spoke, the more she opened up about her "less acceptable" personal beliefs; the more inquisitive she became, the more she craved to know. 

She branched out in her desire to integrate this validation of who she was with the masks she wore. Slowly, she found people who did more than humor her impulses and outlandish, heathen beliefs. She found people who danced with the falling leaves in the autumn and sang to the flowers in the spring, those who would make diamonds out of fresh-fallen snow and hooded cloaks from a starry, summer's night sky. Stacey found people who believed in the God she loved, but who simultaneously believed in the folklore from which she bled forgotten truths. 

The more I got to know her, the more I commented on her being a witch. She fervently denied, right up to her death, that she was one, though more than once admitted to believing she was no longer a Christian either- Not in the modern-traditional sense, anyway. Her path, it seems, was forged of love, herbs, the arts, and the sands of her inner dreamscape- not so rooted in this world, as she believed.

Then again, many of her beliefs were in constant flux- especially those which were beliefs about herself. Despite years of validation, years of love poured into her from so many different cups, her shadow stayed strong and stubborn. Humble, friendly, full of outpouring Love as she was, Stacey's darkness never left her alone for long. 

As a result, she often put the desires of others above her needs, catering to their whims instead of caring for and healing herself. She believed she was the replaceable one, the friend that was less important than the rest of the people in a group. She believed she'd be set aside when someone better came along, that she'd be easily forgotten- her impact minimal in the lives of those she loved and cared for. She couldn't have believed something farther from the truth. 

And so to her I speak now, through the eyes of those who reads this and love her. To her I speak now, so she knows that she will be remembered. She will be missed and grieved, her absence like the tremors of aftershock, the stormy winds now rushing through my life as they once did through hers.  

The "Ceremony in the West" honors a person who has died by unloading all the things left unsaid in life, and allowing peace and resolution to flow between a living soul, and the soul of one who's body has returned to the ground. I performed this ceremony the night of her funeral, and transcribed it here to (hopefully) bring comfort and peace to those who read it and love her.

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Ceremony in the West.

The West, where the Sun sets, is said by many cultures to be the direction to travel if you seek the gates of the Otherworld. So, I sit in the West to offer what peace I can. 

Stacey Marie Haggard Brewer

Named Resurrection at birth,

Ozara, 

Star Dancer.

She, born of dreams and angels,

Child of the apple and the poppy.

Mother of mandrake and mugwort and magic.

Stacey Marie Haggard Brewer

Named Resurrection at birth,

Ozara,

Star Dancer,

Named Sister and Heart by Willow and Ivy.

Beloved of ink and lens,

Earthly source of hope and love.

Come, darling, and sit with me. Bear witness to the love you seeded, grew, and inspired as you wove your way inextricably into my life. 

Come, dearest, sit with me, and let me take you through the smoke and splintered moonlight of my broken heart, through the love I've held, always, for you, even when we drifted apart.

You were my North, steady and constant.

My one fixed point, no matter where I wandered- and I did wander, a lot. Far and deep, into myself and into my imagination, into dark woods and deep waters. Always, though, you were the brilliance that led me out, just a keystroke or a heartbeat away. You helped me believe, by boldly stating so yourself, that writing could be more than a pass-time hobby. Your bravery in declaring yourself a writer and author before me, a stranger at the time, inspired me to take it seriously, and now without you, that belief is wavering- to be fair, I didn't realize you were ingrained in the foundation of that dream until my world folded in on itself, and that foundation crumbled away. I'm finding this to be true in so many places, Ozara. Rebuilding will take years while I figure out how to orient myself without my North, without your magnetic pull keeping me on the path ahead. You probably see it clearly, and I look forward to discussing it with you in dreams when my nightmares subside. 

Your words of inspiration, encouragement, and admiration are so incredibly precious to me, I wouldn't want to let you down by keeping them hidden forever. I still need you, though. I've never not needed you. Your perspective on the world, your ability to see magic in the mundane, is something I've always admired and envied, and something I'm not sure I can see on my own. 

You are my Morning Star- Venus, and Agape, Philia and Pragma.

Ozara, you brought me from a place of skepticism into a galaxy of possibilities. You expanded my horizon on what to expect in a friend, and were the first one who didn't give me cause to wonder and worry if I was good enough, if I had to be better. Of course, that doesn't mean you didn't change me. You led me to understand how to be a better on my own, without expectation for results or conditioned loyalty. Love, in all its many and varied forms, ran through your heart constantly. I don't know how many of those veins I tapped into along the way, I don't know how many variations I absorbed from you, but I feel their absence as surely as if the stars abandoned the sky, with only moonlight left, dim and growing farther away, to guide me on. 

Your capacity for agape, and your trust in humanity was refreshing and needed. When you spoke of Faith, when you questioned yours, it was never with certainty and absolutes. Instead, you saw it as ever-evolving, ever growing. You believed that humanity ought to strive to understand agape and philautia to better understand the image of the Christian God you knew- not the one commercialized and clothed in hate. You provoked me into examining my own biases where your God was concerned, provoked me into confronting the prejudices and stereotypes I'd built up of what his followers are. 

Ozara, it is because of you that I stopped resenting aspects of my heritage and upbringing. It's because of you that I found flaws in my chosen practices, and still strive to smooth over the edges of old and broken bridges to re-establish those pathways- not as opposing forces and ideals, but as ones that can walk side by side and make each other stronger. In the end, darling, it is because of you that I stopped hating your God, and for that I owe you a debt of gratitude.

You are the void between the stars, deep and endless, distant but full of promise. 

I will never be able to explain how incredibly sorry I am for the miscommunication we had that led to a wasted year.  Darling, please know that I meant what I said when I approached to apologize- I never meant for the distance to be so deep, and I never wanted to lose or to hurt you- especially not when I knew your history. Please believe that I never wanted you to feel like a burden, and I never intended to cut open the wounds that I did with careless wording and withdrawal. You'd simply needed so much of me, and I gave everything I had to the point where I had nothing left at all. I needed to recharge, I needed to replenish. I did enjoy my time of rest, but the cost was too high. I should have known such tranquility comes with a high price.

While we drifted in that limbo, I thought of you often, and wanted to reach out long before I did. I assumed you'd found a new normal, much like I will have to do now, and I didn't want to disturb your veneer of happiness. Of course, I didn't know it was veneer at the time. I wish I had, so badly. But, for all that unintended pain, and for all your (arguably deserved) swearing at me, I am glad we found each other again. I am glad to have had time to repair some of the damage done. All of your light cast a heavy shadow, and I know the burden of walking that shadow alone. I never wanted that for you either, and I'm glad that now, at least, your shadow and light are finally in balance. 

My only real regret for you, Ozara, is that you never got to finish casting off the masks you wore in your mundane, physical life. I know you tried, and I feel somewhat responsible for that not working out. I know, I know- it was your decision, your choice- but where you were the heart of the Triumvirate, I was the sword. Instead of using it to cut away your fears, I cut into your joy and gave your darkness a foothold. Forgive me, anamcara, for the carelessness. Forgive me for not being there when you still needed me; a promise early made and late broken. 

You are the melody sung between leaves, and the rippling voices of trickling streams. 

My dearest, I see you in everything. Music and movies, dance and art... all ruined for me, at least for a while. Hell, I can't even garden without finding you amongst the greenery as I recall herb and flower medicinal (or poison) properties you've shared with me over the years, or consider the colour of a flower I think you'd enjoy. I never told you, but each year when I plant my garden, I choose at least three plants you've mentioned that you have in your own beds. I'm not sure how I remember them, I certainly cannot recall the specifics now, but somewhere in my subconscious, your voice lives to dictate the future of my shrubberies. Only now, of course, have I identified it as yours, and where it once went unnamed and made me smile, now it is known and beautiful and met with sorrow.

It's less bad at present, as all things are bound to get with time, but it is still an impossible distance away from "better". So many tears are sown into the soil alongside the foxglove and lavender and salvia. So many splotches in books I've tried to read, so many stains on my pillowcase, so many dead spots in my heart. Eventually, I'll have to cut it out completely, but this time I'll replace it with an apple wrapped in poppy petals, for never again will I let you doubt that you are, indeed, my heart and its rhythm both. 

And speaking of poppies... I try for them next year, with seeds from my grandmother's garden, and seeds stolen from a heritage garden in my home province (Don't look at me like that, Ozara. I'm not the one who had the dream where we were trying to steal a queen-sized mattress by taking it through a cow pasture. At least poppy pods fit in pockets.). I hope they take, I know both you and Morpheus are fond, and with you now travelling beside him, I feel I should get to know him better. Please visit. I wouldn't mind seeing you in action with your dual blades and black leather. 

One last installment before you leave to find your peace, Darling. Because I am not great at poetry, but you suffered through anyway, you get one more for the long road ahead while we wait to see each other again. 

Dance for me, Angel in the Afterlife, prematurely displaced.

Draped in garnet and soft, antiquated lace.

May Fae kiss your soul, and bestow complete control,

Denied you in this lifetime.

Read for me, Angel in the Afterlife, your fantastical tales.

Calm the chaos inside my nebulous mind.

In the Dreamscape of Time, where all you want, you can find

With gossamer, call us to you.

Speak to me, Angel in the Afterlife, guiding my way,

Leave your imprints on all of my pages

Somehow, this wrong turns to right in celestial light, 

Just wait, I'll see you in the next life. 

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Somewhere in this black hole her death has made, there's got to be a star to follow, a trail of apple blossoms or poppy seeds, to lead us forward as she walks the void between the stars- no longer confined to being simply a nomad. 

Somewhere, she scoffs that so much fuss is being made about her, that she really is not so important to disrupt so many lives. 

Somewhere, she will continue to debate with me about whether she is, in fact, a witch or not, with semi-solid reasoning and a multitude of excuses. 

Somewhere, she watches and waits, soothing our hearts between sobs, when we are silent enough hear her voice through our pain. 

Somewhere in time, she waits patiently until we no longer need her (hah, joke's on her) before she wakes and walks again.

Somewhere, she nudges and pokes as we pour through her works, decided and determined to see them finished for her; a commitment to fulfill one waking dream for her, and remove one last mask.

For now, though, we go to find a new normal, or at least as normal as she'll allow. 

Sweet Sleep, my ashen angel, my earthen faerie, my North Star.

Darkness Comes

I am the one who rapes your daughters. I am the one who shoots down your sons.

I am the one who forces your fathers into submission. I am the one who prematurely kills your mothers.

I am the one who looks away out of convenience, and the one who takes away with impunity, not care.

I am the one who's atrocities are too numerous to count, too details and varied to tally, and too widespread to stop.

I am the one who haunts the dreams of the oppressed, the voiceless, the hopeless.

And yet, why shouldn’t my eye turn to you, those who have unleashed me? Why should I stay my hand for you, those who have foolishly freed me?

Do you not also have daughters?

Do you not also have sons? 

Will your fathers not crumble beneath my greed?

Will your mothers’ wombs not still bleed?

When your victims are gone, fed to me by your fury, I will be too large to contain, too powerful to be tamed.

Will you then look at me with fear and disdain as you try vainly to kill me with your weapons? 

Did no one tell you that bullets cannot defeat ideology, that violence does not destroy itself? 

Did no one tell you that all those who would have stood to protect you now lay slaughtered at your feet, at your behest and ever urgent request?

When I come for you, do not look on me with surprise and outrage. Do not look within me for mercy and compassion. You, my liberators, have shown me the way, and it is my joy to reap what you have sown. 

The Old and Noble Art of Necromancy

They are all around us; hiding in the shadows of once-busy streets, clinging to objects from the past, and unsettling us in the small hours of the night. They hover, seen and unseen, around us, and send chills when their matter collides with ours. Many disbelieve, but that doesn't change the reality of the situation.

The living need Necromancers just as surely as the dead do.

Necromancers of benevolent alignment dispel spirits and help them cross over, make peace with their deaths, and forgive those who wronged them, and so keep them in this plain. They wish to ease the sufferance of those past, and reconcile the dead with those who continue in their stead.

Necromancers of malignant alignment bind and hold spirits here, using them as guards for place or objects, using them for personal vengeance, and as sources of energy for other magickal works. It is highly irregular for malignantly aligned necromancers to hold power for long, as Spirits do not suffer the living to mistreat them without repercussion.

Rarely, we find a Necromancer of truly neutral alignment, one who plays by both sets of rules, yet is owned by neither. These folk tend to be rarer solely because they do not advertise their skill. Often, these types are seen as selfish- binding and releasing spirits as it suits their purposes, calling back those who have gone on for information unobtainable through more conventional means, and crossing over spirits who cause more trouble than they are worth.


The Old and Noble Art of Necromancy is often seen with fear, misunderstood in it's greater aspects by those who wish to believe the dead loath the living and envy them their mortality. Those who live in fear of the Art of Necromancy fail to see the practicality, and indeed, the beauty of bridging the plains between physical and metaphysical.

Rare a gift in the olden days, Necromancy has been watered down through the ages to be commonly known as mediumship. While not as potent, it is none the less useful a tool for those following a benevolent path. Few are gifted with true control over the spirits, however, and it is perhaps for the best.

None the less, those wishing to follow the path of the Spirits need simply atune themselves to the hidden rhythms of the night, when spirits more comfortably roam our cities and poke at our dreams.

The Snakes of Ireland

I saw him, and immediately I panicked. As he passed me on the busy street, he smiled and nodded, completely oblivious to what I was feeling. Why should he care, though, when he was likely unaware of who he was?

I smiled back nervously and tripped, sending my purse flying. He stopped to see if I was okay. I cringed instinctively from his hand as he helped me back to my feet.

"Thank you for your help." I said. He handed me my purse.

"You're welcome. Are you sure you're okay? That was quite the tumble."

"Yes, I'm fine." I pulled my purse against my body, hoping he would just leave. Thankfully he did, somewhat reluctantly, and I escaped the street. Ducking into a cafe, I hoped the caffeine would stop my trembling hands. I had an important presentation today, I didn't need him to destroy it.

"Patrick?" The barista called. My head shot up, searching the crowd. A middle-aged man claimed his drink. My heart-rate lowered. It wasn't him. I retrieved my coffee, and pulled out my phone. Dialing, I heard a familiar, comforting voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello?"

"Annie, it's me. I saw him. Maewyn. He's come back."

Silence, then finally, "is he aware?"

"No, I don't think so. He was wearing a collar though. He's a priest."

"Always with the priests. I suppose his job isn't done yet."

"We can't keep this up. It's been centuries, and he still comes back. I refuse to die again, because of him."

"You won't."

Annie hung up. I took a deep breath. Annie always had a plan, and this one had been in the works for over a decade. This time, we'd get him first.

*****

She looked so innocent, so young. Such a shame, really, that it always came to the same patterns. The snakes had to be eradicated, though.

She was the first. Always the first. I suppose switching it up would keep things interesting, but ritual was important. Killing was unfortunate, but necessary. Those who wouldn't convert had to be killed. God demanded it. Or, at least His earthly representatives did.

I flipped open my phone speed dialed. Two rings, and the line was open.

"Found one. The Blue Robin, east side of town. Approximately five minutes."

The call ended. I began to backtrack leisurely, following her as she exited the cafe and spoke on the phone. I smirked. It was always the same game. After centuries, they should have learned, but alas, simple minds for simple folks.

Her call ended, and she rounded a corner. A taxi pulled up beside her as I came up on her, and the door opened. She looked at me moments before I pushed her into the car and shut the door. Terror splayed across her pretty face before a black-gloved hand pressed a cloth to her face.

"The pit awaits you, Snake."




This is a work of fiction. It does not reflect the ideas or views of the contributors to the Dreamers Imaginarium. In fact, there is an awesome article that explains why the Snakes=Pagans idea has no actual basis, despite attempts to connect symbolism.

The Temporary Widow

... And so she loved him like none before, accepting with him all the flaws and graces that made him uniquely himself. She stood stubborn and steadfast in the face of tribulations, faltering no more than any other woman who'd made up her mind, and in the end she, in her love for him, was victorious.  And through her love, he came to love himself as well, and one day realized that she'd opened the door for him to love, to truly love, another, and he showered upon her the most glorious of gifts, the sweetest of kisses, and the most tender of affections.

Image by Michael Vincent Manolo

But like most great loves, happiness is tenuous, for there came a day when he had to leave her with nothing but promises of a swift reunion. Though she knew his words were said in truth, her heart broke for fear of being separated from that which brought her so much joy. Even the smiling face of her child was but a distraction, as she saw that he too missed his father deeply, and the rifts in her heart tore ever wider at the sadness trapped in those innocent eyes.

Days passed, and their reunion approached with each, yet it seemed like every night stole away with a little more of her heart as it melted from her body through streams of tears shed in lonely, dark hours. Surely she would be cold and distant by month's end, her heart hardened against the softness and vulnerability of love's embrace, and yet with each correspondence between them, she felt a bittersweet sadness rise and take root in her chest. She was not, after all, processing a betrayal as all other heartbreaks had been. She was processing something new, something never so profoundly felt before, and as she realized this, her heart's grief became bearable.

This time, as she went through a period of mourning, she wept not for a corporeal loss of love, but for the senseless loss of time shared in love's good graces. She wept for time lost in her lover's arms, and for laughter's absence in her child's days spent with his father. She mourned not a death, as she'd done previously in life, but for the presence of a void which, in its inherent misery, took joy from all other things and tainted them with the bitter taste of patience.

Tyra's Heartbreak.

Gazing over the frozen plains, an odd sort of sorrow overcame her. Hoof-prints visible in the dusting of snow revealed that they had gone, and that he had left with them. She was alone now. The camp her people so recently abandoned still held evidence of their betrayal. Fire pits still warm and smoking, and the rocks from the lodge still red with heat, gave them away.

She should have known better.

Her brand of love wasn't acceptable to them. Instead of her husband, she honoured the other women; Men had little regard to her, with their arrogance and tendency to be all hard lines. No, she preferred the subtleties of female bodies, with their curves and softness. Though she laid with her husband out of duty, they both knew he didn't truly please her.

Being faced with their departure wasn't as hard as she expected. She knew it had only been a matter of time, but being the Spiritman's granddaughter, she'd assumed they would wait until he died before shunning her. Perhaps they knew now about the Chief's wife and niece, or the series of women she'd entertained during the last hunting excursion. 

Whatever caused this, her heart felt sad only for them. She could make-do, she was used to being alone, but they would never change. They could never change. And that, above all else, broke her heart.  

Gavin, Master of the Winged Ones

He always envied butterflies, with their wings so bright, and the simple joy they brought to everyone. He wished he could be like them, wished he could fly away and make a lonely girl smile, or bring comfort at a funeral. However, he was nothing like a butterfly.

It seemed they started out just like he had. Small, chubby, and vastly different than they would become when they grew up. People always killed caterpillars in their gardens, they were an unwanted nuisance after all, but killing unwanted children was frowned upon and so he was left alone instead, free to wander the confines of his estate home with no hope of venturing into the town just down the road, much less escaping to see the world.

Caterpillars cripples plants, and he crippled faces. When his parents had visitors, they confined him to his bedroom, lest their guests catch a glimpse at the horrific thing they'd created. Few times had he been seen, and each time he bore the shame of witnessing polite smiles distort into melted expressions of disgust and horror, so now he listened and stayed secluded.

But whenever he caught sight of a butterfly, or found a cocoon ready to be evicted, he was overcome with a sense of envy and anger. Why could they change to become beautiful, while he was doomed to grow ever more distasteful as he aged?

"Butterfly Man" by Tariq Shishani

Rage had never served him well, so he turned his emotions into something he could use. He spent many nights wandering the estate, gathering twigs and fallen branches, leaves, moss and sap. He snuck about the manor house and re-purposed colourful fabrics and images left in boxes from times when he'd been a child and wasn't yet bitter. He hoarded his construction materials greedily, and his project became his solace.

Years passed, and his parents grew old. Now well into adulthood, he was finally ready to be free of this perfect cage that kept him so efficiently confined.

An hour after high moon, he stood on the roof of the manor, clothed in nothing but a colourful drapery fit snug about his hips, and a mask across his face. No one would be disgusted now, they would see him for what he knew he was: A butterfly emerging from desolation to stand in beauty and perfection.

With a deep sigh, he turned and marveled at his creation. Even in the pale glow of moonlight, the colours were vibrant and luscious. Nothing, not even the dark, could deny him now. He stepped forward and pulled up his wings, attaching them securely around his chest and shoulders. They were heavy, but he barely noticed. The burden he'd been carrying for so long trained him well.

He faced the moon again and breathed deeply. For the first time in decades, a smile graced his lips, and with one last exhale, he ran and lunged off the roof.

The Last Farewell

Of all the things I want to say,

I'll simply ask you stay away.

What's past is gone,
I have moved on.
You sought release
And made your peace
But now please move along.

I know that you may need a friend
But I am not the one you seek.
Though things had an abrupt end
I saw that you were weak;

Fear was there where love should thrive
Tests were failed, though I strived
To stay afloat, I drowned too
Though much earlier than you
And in your fear, you were blind-
Left alone, I survived.

Now it's time you do as well
I wish no ill, but hold no love,
No friendship lasts to take hold of.
There's simply nothing where once you dwelled; 

Consider this my last farewell.

Wishful Wednesdays: Peter Hollens

Recently, a friend turned me onto this man, Peter Hollens. He does A Capella music, and he is amazing. From folk songs to pop, he does a little bit of something for everyone. This song I love in particular. It speaks to the innermost fantasy lover, and inspires so much emotion (much like it does in the movie).

Enjoy!

Within the Mist

 

Found on Google, no artist listed. If you know who it is, please let me know so I can credit them.

What things hide within the Mist
Hidden, cold and shadowed,
Rolling over the hills and sea
The place where Faeries can exist
Without fear of bearing harrow.


What things hide within the Mist,
The shroud that blankets the Night
Hiding stars and moon above,
Mountains hugged and rivers Kissed
To comfort Dawn's feeble light.


What things hide within the Mist,
Laughter like bells rings clear
Music, haunting, surrounds
Drawing all to a fanciful tryst,
Begging for fresh volunteers.


What things hide within the Mist
That sweeps the forest's trail
And caress bare skin so softly,
Powerful...Dangerous... None can resist
Sweep us now, across the Veil.

The Succubus and the Queen

Hello. This week, I've decided to give a glimpse into one of my WIPs (work in progress).  This is rough, unpolished, and unedited. I hope you enjoy it regardless :)

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Burgundy liquid filled a cut quartz glass with a thick gush, like fresh blood being let loose. The fire crackling in the hearth a few feet away lent life to the distilled liquid, and Nicnevin paused to admire the effect. Fire gave life to many things, it would seem, things that ordinarily would be lifeless and cold.

A pile of books, maps and loose papers floated around her on the woven willow lounge chair as she looked through them, trying to find a clue to where her mother was hiding. She'd won the west and southern parts of Summerland from the Eilis Grove, but the Sidhe were loyal to a fault. She took a sip of wine and smiled. Elderberry, the liquid of Magic.

Nicnevin ran a hand through her hair and sighed. She hated uncooperativeness. Thinking up creative deaths and torture methods may have been a favorite pastime of Sari's, but she'd rather not kill the people she wanted to rule over.

A pair of slender hands slipped over her shoulders and began to rub the muscles there with practiced motions. Nicnevin's head rolled to the side subconsciously and a silent sigh escaped her lips.

"No luck with your search?" Sari asked in her velveteen voice.

"No, though we should move north before going further east. The Grove's seat is in the east, it will be hardest to penetrate."

"That depends entirely on how you plan to go about it. Direct assaults, like you've been using so far, would be useless. It's a massive fortification and was built as a fortress to protect its people and its secrets. More subtle ways can be effective in these scenarios... ways my people specialize in."

"You would have me use the Succubi to penetrate the Silvermount?" Nicnevin turned her head a fraction and Sari's hands descended further down her shoulders, pushing fabric out of her way. Nicnevin felt her heart beat faster with every inch the purple silk slid down.

"I would have you use your resources to their fullest, my Queen. It's something you should consider now more than ever."

"Are you speaking in terms of my army or referring to yourself?"

"I don't see why both cannot be true. I am, after all, your General. You should be using me, and my many talents, to their fullest." Sari's lips descended on Nicnevin's neck, and her skin tingled.

"Perhaps we should discuss this... later."

"There's no better time than the present, my Queen." Sari said a moment before brushing her teeth along the curve of Nicnevin's collar bone and biting down on a soft spot. An involuntary moan escaped her lips, and she took a sip of wine, hoping to distract herself from Sari's advances.

"There's no point in distracting from this. I've always wanted you." Sari said, reading Nicnevin's movements without pause.

"I've always known." Nicnevin breathed as Sari slid around front and kissed her lips. Searing heat erupted between them, then Nicnevin pulled Sari into her and engulfed the succubus in magic.

Have a Very Faerie Holiday.

Sparkles. Music. Glitter. Singing. Baking. Twinkling. Revelry. Laughter.

All of these things attract and tantalize Faeries, good and bad, in the winter months just like the spur our own emotions. Nothing revs them up more than the sight of twinkling lights and perfectly wrapped packages, tins full of sugar cookies with icing or maraschino cherries, and rum-spiked eggnog. Oooo, the temptations!

It's hard for the Faeries to stay good at this time of year, especially if they're the mischievous type. So, I offer this wisdom for keeping them entertained and away from things you want left alone.

1) Keep broken decorations. Something about the crash and crunch of glass baubles makes trouble-makers giggle, and if you think plastic is safe, you are wrong there too. My suggestion to prevent breakage is to keep broken ornaments in a vase (out of reach of pets or children) so they can crush those bits instead. Besides, the Faeries like to use the bits as mirrors, or for their own decorating.

2) Always keep a small plate of sweets for them in every room. Yes, every room, or at least the ones that have other things the Faeries are attracted too. Providing them with their own treats is a preventative gesture- Your cookies may disappear slower from your cookie jars this way.

Art by Amy Brown

3) Leave wine with the sweets. Faeries love wine. It doesn't really matter what kind, though they do prefer Elderberry and fruit wines over all others. Wine will ensure that you have less spills over the holidays, and your other alcohol will be safe from their prying hands. Use wine when all else fails.

4) Don't leave wrapped gifts in unlocked areas. Fae, like puppies and curious children, tear through wrapping paper and ribbon like its their job. Creative gift hiding may work on the kids, but don't be fooled. The Faeries are watching, and that perfect wrapping you did won't last more than a second once you stash it in a place no one will find (that includes you, and when you go to hide something there next year, you'll suddenly remember why there was one less gift). The best way to keep Faeries out of your gifts is, ironically, to lock it away. Faeries are honour-bound to respect boundaries set by locks (even a simple slid-lock). Setting up a closet with a lock on it can be an effective way of keeping both the kids and the Faeries out of your holiday wrappings.

5) Don't use tinsel. Tinsel provokes cats and Faeries alike. Nothing says "destroy me" like the reflected light of twinkling, blinking tree lights or candles off the shiny surface of tinsel (as if the tree wasn't tempting enough). The last thing you need is a Faerie pulling your tree over because they went into a tinsel craze. Use garlands instead, and on the inner parts of the tree. If you really need tinsel in the house, string it up on the mantle, over a railing, or tape it to the ceiling fan.

6) Don't forget to set holiday rules. Along with the normal rules, be sure to set an extra layer of protection against Faerie mischief. With family and friends inbound, Faeries have great times toying with new arrivals. Make it very clear that they are not to bother anyone, nor are they to sabotage anything (electronics are a favourite) until after the holidays are over. If you're travelling instead, be sure to set rules that protect you from having stowaways, and rules that prevent the house from becoming discombobulated while you're gone.

7) Never leave an electronic device unattended while turned on.  This is like a beacon to them, it calls, and they will do whatever they can do mess it up. Electronic energy disrupts the natural flow of Magical energy, so as much as the Faeries may love the lights and music and all that comes with the Holidays, they will sabotage your decorating if its running too often. The same applies with your TV, your computer/laptop, and even simply keeping lights on in the house. The more electricity you use at once, the worse it is. So do them, and yourself, a favour and limit electrical use this holiday. You don't want to find out that Christmas Eve, your tree lights aren't working and you've "misplaced" the replacement bulbs.

8) Don't forget to give them something too. After all, Faeries can be quite spiteful. Regardless of leaving sweets and wine, the Faeries will expect all these rules and restrictions that come with good behaviour to be rewarded. Gifts can be something as simple as a bottle of glitter, or a packet of their favourite seeds or spices. You can also try small tumbled gemstones, or building a Faerie house or garden for them to pamper. Showing gestures of appreciation to them helps to keep them kind towards you as well, and much of that helps in avoiding holiday mishaps.

"How do you do it?"

Last night as we lay in bed, my hubby turned to me and asked, "how do you do it?"

I had to take a moment, then ask what he meant. "How do you do it day after day? How do you be a mother, a wife, a housekeeper, and still stay so happy?"


I proceeded to list off reasons why.

- My life has been defined by being a mom, being a wife, and keeping the family together, and while I wasn't given much choice in the matter, I choose not to resent it.
- I choose to see the happy moments in ordinary things, like watching my son learn to count on his fingers, and laughing when he dances with the broom.
- I told him that being a wife was no different now than before our son was born, and that while it can be stressful, I don't regret it. After all, things could be much worse, my life could have turned out much differently.
- Why shouldn't I be happy when I have a life filled with family and love? Etc...

However, beneath all of this is one reason I failed to mention. The reason that, even though things went far askew from my original plan, I've remained happy in my life is something bigger than small joys. It stems from a desire I've had my whole life.

As a child, I struggled with body image, like most chubby girls do. While my friends were all pretty and outgoing, I considered myself plain and was the shy, supportive one. My first crush (which lasted for four years through elementary school), rejected me at a dance once, and that's what sealed my deepest desire.

All I've wanted through life is to be happy with a man who loves me, and start a family.

Shallow for modern dreams, I know. Women are expected to want so much more these days, that the idea of happiness coming from settling down is almost embarrassingly under-achieving. However, I've achieved my deepest desire, and considering there are women who have everything but the family they wanted, suddenly that dream doesn't seem so minimal.

Wishful Wednesdays: Mistress of Autumn.

Art by Augusto Peixoto.

Not much to say today.

I'm afraid I have precious little to say. Holiday preparations have taken over my brain, and my creativity is being siphoned off slowly as I realize Yule is only 20 days away, and I will have family flooding my house. 

Today, I'll leave you with a simple piece of art that previews things to come this month. 

Trimming the Tree, by Amy Brown. 

'Tis the Season to Trash-Talk Christianity.

As a proud pagan, I really enjoy the time before the Winter Solstice. I just love everything about this season. Making preparations for the rebirth of the sun, wrapping gifts for friends and family, baking cookies, listening to festive music, and my personal favorite holiday activity: Christian Bashing.

This glorious tradition has been gaining popularity over the years as Paganism is becoming a recognized and accepted religion in many parts of the world. Combined with freedom of speech and a misguided need for Pagans to "put Christianity in its place" (for all the wrong its done to us over many thousands of years), Christian Bashing seems harmless enough to most, who tend to see it with humor and bringing holidays "back to their REAL roots".

Let's take a look at some of the cheerful things that I, as a Pagan, will have to endure on all social media for the next month as we prepare to love our neighbours, celebrate new life, and share joy and happiness throughout our communities.

The "your story isn't as original as you think, you copyrighting cult!" argument aid. 

The ever lovely breakdown of common days through the calender, complete with mixed-cultural origins.

Possibly the only one of these that is actually not bad.

To the new or particularly wounded Pagan, these images are empowering and a way to deal with deep-seeded issues Christianity brings up. After all, most pagans these days are converts from Christianity, and what better way to show full support of a new religious choice than to actively trash-talk the previous one followed?

Before some of you jump down my throat for being insensitive, let me say this. Yes, historically, Christianity has done some crappy things to Pagans, and we are not their only "victims"- if we go back to the very beginning, Judaism was really their first target.  Every religion has suffered at their hands, either through crusades, missionary works, or blatant slaughter.  Some pagans have a more personal issue with Christianity, like I do, and choose to work out their issues negatively instead of constructively. 

The biggest flaw in the Pagan plan to Christian Bash society is also what makes Pagans just as hypocritical as some of Christian, and indeed any other religious, zealots. The trait that Pagans are most proud of is their downfall and takes away all credibility to their complaints about Christianity.

Our faith prides itself on accepting individual spiritual paths. It even, to some degree, encourages eclectic practices to customize spirituality for each person as much as possible. But within this, we are facing HUGE faults.

Firstly, honouring everyone's individual spirituality INCLUDES faiths that are not pagan at all. Every faith deserves the same respect, that includes Christianity. That includes Judaism. That includes Islam, and Shintoism, and Hinduism, and any other religion the world has. You cannot expect the world to respect your spirituality and spiritual rights if you cannot respect theirs in turn. 

Secondly, Christianity did nothing to Paganism that it didn't do to itself first. What, you may say? Back before Paganism became the umbrella term for all polytheist faiths, each "sect" of paganism belonged specifically to one culture, and we are naive to believe that these cultures got along without issue. Pagans killed, raped and plundered other pagans long before the Christians came about. Christianity stole our holidays? We stole holidays from each other. Christianity stole our myths? We stole and interchanged deities from each other long before they did.  Christianity stole our symbolism? Please. There's a reason a lot of animals and symbols share meanings cross-culturally, and it isn't because pagans held conferences and decided on them. 

The term "Eclectic" itself should shame any pagan who uses it and still insists on Christian Bashing.  As the Calender meme above pointed out, the days of the week are named mostly after Norse Deities. However, the generic "Moon" and "Sun" are in there with no specific ties, and just to mix things up a little, lets throw in "Saturn"- a decidedly Roman deity. Talk about stealing for convenience.  Add to that Valentine's Day accusation, and suddenly Christian-bashers have no legs to stand on without being hypocritical to the core (For those unaware, Imbolg is a Celtic term for a holiday in early February that celebrates newborn lambs, and the Goddess of Light/Fire, Brighid. Where does the Valentines association come from then? A Greek/Roman 3-day Festival of Love, totally unconnected to the Celtic tradition in every way.).

As if Christmas wasn't bad enough, here are my "favorite" Christian bashing memes that take this lovely part of the Holidays above and beyond Christmas:

First up, we have the Easter meme. It isn't even trying to be passively aggressive, especially since Easter takes place the month after Pagans celebrate our "Sex day" (also known as Ostara).

I don't even know what to add, this speaks for itself.

The one below is possibly the best one I've seen yet. It points out that America shouldn't love Christianity as much as it does simply because its modeled after Ancient Greek politics, and at the time, those the Greeks were pagan. Good job, whoever created this useless meme. This is REALLY the way to gain respect for our religion.

Pointing out that no matter what, America is wrong for being primarily Christian.

All I've really got left to say is that for the upcoming holidays, be it Yule, Christmas, Ramadan or Hanukkah, I wish everyone the joy and happiness that this season inspires, and I hope that one day, the love at the centre of all religious teachings will surpass the hatred and distrust, and we can all appreciate each other's spirituality without judgement or preconceptions.