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.

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.

In Blood and Bone

I asked my father, once, to tell me about my mother.

He said he met her one day when he was playing by the sea when he was just a little boy. She was swimming in a cove sheltered from the wind by high, gray rocks.

"Isn't the water cold?" he asked her.

She just smiled and answered, "Not to me."

They played together all that day, and before he left her, he wished she would come to see him again. Every day, they met at the little cove, and every day he wished she would come to see him the next. And she always did.

They were married by the sea, and my father built her a house on the cliffs where she could look out every day and watch the waves roll and crash. He said she was never so beautiful as when she stood at the precipice, the wind whipping her hair and the seawater misting her face.

He said the sea was her blood, but the land was in his bones. So she stayed because he wished for it every day.

And that was all he would say about her.

The people in the village, of course, were more than happy to indulge my curiosity with their opinions, though the things they said told me more about them than about her.

"The prettiest girl I ever saw," said most of the men, and their wives pressed their lips together and scowled.

"Wistful and sad," said the kinder among the women, while the crones mostly whispered that she was "fae and strange," before they crossed themselves and started discussing the best way to prevent the 'good folk' stealing husbands and babies.

The vicar's wife was the most helpful.

"Your mother was never meant for this world," she said, "and after you and your sister were born, she just started to fade."

My sister...

My twin...

I had no memory of my mother, but I can clearly remember looking into the little mirror she kept on her dressing table next to a pile of pretty shells and sea glass and seeing two pairs of identical blue eyes looking back at me. Two heads of dark curls. Two small, round faces with rosy cheeks pressed tight together so they could both fit in the mirror...

The gossip in the village -- my mother was a popular topic for gossip, after all -- was that after my sister and I were born, my mother became sadder and more wistful (or stranger and more fae if you prefer) than ever. It was said that she became so sad that, one day, instead of wishing for my mother to stay with him, my father wished she could be as happy as he was. They say she kissed my father with tears in her eyes, then took my sister -- we were still just toddlers -- and dove from the precipice into the crashing sea below.

"Suicide," most people whispered. "So sad that she took the babe with her."

"Returned to her people," said the old ladies who still believed.

I didn't know whether to believe the story, but when I asked the vicar's wife about it, she just repeated what she said before: "They were never meant for this world."

I often stood on the precipice and watched the waves roll and crash. As I grew to womanhood, my father said I looked just like her -- like them -- when I stood there with the salty air whipping my hair and the sea spray misting my face. I imagined my mother as I stood there: a girl swimming in the chilly cove and playing every day with the boy who wished for her, a young bride with the sea for her blood, a woman with two little girls at her side...

When my father died, we gave him to the sea. He said she stayed with him because he wished for her, so when he died, he wanted to go to the sea in case she wished for him.

The men who rowed him away from the shore in a fishing boat swore that as my father sank into the darkening depths, they saw a woman's arms reach up and carry him away. They said the waves that broke against the hull of the boat carried the strains of a lament sadder and sweeter than all imagining, and they were weak with the grief of it for days afterward.

The women crossed themselves and gave their husbands talismans or sewed iron buttons into their men's clothes in case my mother returned from the sea in search of a new husband. Or, perhaps, in case her daughters went looking -- one to lure them into the watery depths, another to draw them up to the cliffs. I was carefully watched in case their tokens and talismans didn't work.

I retreated to my father's house on the cliff. I stood on the precipice and remembered and imagined and listened to the sea until I started to hear it -- the song in the water. The sea singing in my veins. The voice of the waves echoing in my heartbeat.  I watched until I started to see past the surface of the waves and began to feel the flow of the sea in my breath.

But no matter how long I stood and watched, no matter how completely the song filled my mind, how fully the sea flowed through my veins, how deeply I drew the mist into my lungs, my bones would not yield.

The land was in my bones.

Cliffs near Giant's Causeway
Photo by Bobbi St. Jean

*   *   *

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 :)

***

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.

Balance

I missed my post yesterday because I was finishing up with moving, but I want you to know that I'm still around.
A friend posted this on Facebook, and I saw a lesson. I think it is slightly different for anyone who sees it, but to me it's all about balance.
Balance is something I'm always working on in my life - family, day job, editing work, writing, fun... The lesson I saw in this video reminds me that it's important to keep all things in balance and in their proper order and place. When one thing it's taken away from that balance, the whole thing is undone.
Even when you think the thing you took away is the least important or will have the least impact on the whole.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6rX1AEi57c&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Flash Fiction - Spectre

Oh, dear. I've had this post written for days, and I was really excited to share it with you. Unfortunately, I've been distracted lately because my husband and I are enduring the nightmare that is the home-buying process and preparations for moving house.

Better late than never, I suppose...

I hope you enjoy my little flash fiction. I would very much love to hear your opinion on it.

*     *     *

Spectre

Image copyright 2012 by Stacey Brewer

Trust.

How can you ask it of me after all this time? Every night you call me down the light-tunnel, and every night I fly to you only to be banished every morning. You swear you won't, but we both know you will call me again and again with the same words and promises and the same request: Trust. And you know - we both know - I will come.

Every night I come, and every morning I ask myself why. Why do I keep coming back? Why do we do this over and over again?

As I stand fading like a wraith in the brightening dawn, I have only one answer:

We... were...

                       ...

                             ... so...

                                           ...

                                                  ...

                                                          ... happy...

                                                                              ...

Wishful Wednesdays: Trapped!

This week, we discovered the illustrations of artist and author Elizabeth Mueller.

Here's our favorite:

Go say hello, and tell her the girls at Dreamers Imaginarium sent you!

http://www.elizabethmueller.com/

Disclaimer: We at the Dreamers Imaginarium neither support nor condone the practice of faerie trapping. No faeries were trapped or in any way harmed in creation of this post.

Sister of my Soul

We all have moments in our lives when we question what we believe in and how we have come to see the world. For me, this moment occurred while simply looking for a way to communicate more purposefully with the Faerie people that had become part of my life. Instead, I experienced something I will never forget.

During meditation, I went to my usual place: a stone staircase near a waterfall in Kilkenny, Ireland. I took in the beauty of the area, and was preparing to climb down the mossy rocks to the edge of the falls, when something stopped me.

Copyright 2013 to Bobbi St. Jean.

I turned around and saw a very tall, very dark Faerie walking down a set of steps towards me. Oddly, I was not fearful even though I knew she was not the kind to be hospitable with humans. There was something familiar about her, something my soul seemed to recognize even though she was physically hard to see clearly.

"You are here." She stated simply when she arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Then, she reached her hand out to me. This Faerie woman was roughly a head taller than me, and I could feel magic emanating from her. I knew better than to refuse her, though I did not touch her either. I simply took a step forward, and found my scenery changed immediately. 

Instead of the calm serenity of a forest with a lazy waterfall, I found myself standing in front of a wall. This wall, unlike those we see in our world, was made up of vines and plants that were thickly knit together. The outermost layers had brambles and roses growing, with poison Ivy and poison Oak interlaced throughout. Every few feet, I saw towering trees with platforms and doorways, presumably guard towers, and little glowing crystals dotted the wall at regular intervals.

As I looked at the wall, I noticed that it was moving, growing, knitting tighter together with every second. I looked to my Faerie companion, but she didn’t seem to notice the wall at all. She led me to the left until we reached an Oak tree tower. This tower had outgrown roots, the trunk’s base was lifted roughly 15ft off the ground to show off its elegantly twisted mess of roots. We walked under the roots, and a set of doors materialized (or I hadn’t noticed it until then. Both are equally possible). They were silver filigree, the pattern depicting the moon phases, the seasons, and many flowers and herbs. Several gemstones, pearls and other precious metals were laid into the doors to accent the metal work. To this day, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

My escort pulled a large, matching silver key from a cord around her neck and, instead of putting it into the keyhole, she ran the key along the seam where the doors met. They opened, and we went through, she in her detached air, and myself in awe and amazement.

Photo Copyright 2013 to Bobbi St. Jean

"Your doors are beautiful." I said to her after a moment or two.

"They are not ours. They are yours." I waited for her to elaborate, but she said nothing more. She led me to a garden a few feet inside the doors and we sat on a carved stone bench beneath an apple tree.

I looked to her for a moment and realized she had taken her shroud off. I could see her clearly now. Her hair was curled and dark, black like the deepest winter’s night sky. Her skin was creamy, pale, but reflected a slight golden hue that spoke of time spent in the sun. She had rounded features, not the sharp ones I had always envisioned Fae would have. Her lips were a soft pink, her eyes a vibrant violet. She wore no make-up, yet she was more beautiful than any model found in our world. She was tall, graceful, but not as lithe and thin as I had always believed Faeries would be. She had curves to her, though the long dress and satin cloak she wore did a good job of concealing them. She bore a circlet of silver on her head, and wore pearls, moonstones and sapphires in a beautiful floral array at her neck and ears.

"You are new here, new to us. You wish to see more of us, but it is we who need to see more of you first. You have opened yourself to us, but we are not so trusting. You should not be either. Sidhe and humans have long had rivalries, be wary of this as you progress in your journey."

I nodded, then asked, “If I should be wary of the Sidhe, why should I trust your words, why should I trust you?”

A smile broke on her lips, the first real sign of expression I had seen from her so far. She looked at me then, meeting my gaze for the first time. I felt my heart lift, fill with joy and peace. My stomach fluttered, my skin began to tingle and I could feel the crackle of static in the air, the feeling of Magic.

"Because you and I are twins. Trust me because I share your soul."

Introducing Sofiana Rich

I have always been interested in all things mystical. Tarot, numerology, astrology, palmistry... In the hands of a skilled reader and insightful interpreter, they can each offer a fascinating way to look at yourself. I have had several such readings from several different sources. I initially approached the exercise as a skeptic, but I was surprised at how accurate and helpful my readings have been.

Through the magic of Facebook, I have met a lot of really great and interesting people. One of those is Sofiana Rich - a professional name she uses for privacy purposes, but I am blessed to know her personally as well. She offered to give me a demonstration numerology reading (my first!) to share here for anyone who might be as curious or fascinated as I am.

There are several ways to approach a numerology reading. Numbers can be calculated based on a person's name or birth date. For this demonstration, Sofie chose to read my Life Lesson Number, which is calculated by adding together the numerals in my date of birth then adding those numbers together until you arrive at a single digit number (there are cases where a two-digit number is used, but I'll leave that to those who know much more that I).

My Life Lesson Number is 7, so here's what that means straight from Sofie:

Your Life Lesson number is 7. This expresses traits that you are here to incorporate into your being and, therefore, will be tested on them often. At least until you've learned the accompanying lessons.

You have strong intuition and insight. When you choose to honor that intuition, your words are full of wisdom, which they are meant to be. You are a person who ought to strive to remain silent unless speaking from Wisdom. You are here to develop your mind, so you need to read, think, and meditate. You must embrace spending time by yourself, preferably in nature. Quiet, natural places will be most helpful in delving into your deepest thoughts, which is where/how you will uncover your destiny.

This is the number of the dreamer and the philosopher. You are likely drawn by the mysterious and mystical. If you believe in, and practice using, your intuition it can be developed into an effective tool in helping other people.

Pythagoras considered 7 the most sacred of all the numbers, and in ancient times children born under this number were trained from childhood to serve as priests or priestesses.

It can be easy for you to see through the outer masks that people wear, straight into the truth of their motives and being. This can make others uncomfortable around you, especially if their motives are suspect.

You like the quiet life, preferring the country to the city. You have a love affair with words, being a person of the mind.

You should develop selflessness and compassion, which will help you to create the world you know could exist. When the world doesn't match your ideal you may become frustrated and depressed. Developing your mind, your intuition, compassion and selflessness will help you combat the depression as well as help you manifest a better world.

Overall, you have a sound, creative mind.

Here is a direct quote about Key VII "The Chariot", your corresponding Tarot card: ""The Chariot represents receptivity to the will of the one Source. The keyword attributed to this card is fence or enclosure, and its sense function is speech. Every word we speak is a fence enclosing an idea or thought. An eloquent vocabulary is a powerful tool for protection and preservation, as well as advancement. When we speak we set in motion a vibration that acts upon the ethers, space, and akasha...It is only when we become still, quiet and receptive that we can be victorious. Then the primal force can work through us." (Numerology and The Divine Triangle by Faith Javane and Dusty Bunker, p142)

* * *

Wow! Thanks, Sofie. That was awesome! I really do see a lot of truth in this reading and a lot of things to think on.

If you're as interested in this sort of thing as I am, I recommend you visit Sofie yourself. You can find her Facebook profile HERE and her Facebook page "Delphic Pandora" HERE. Tell her I sent you. ;)

Wishful Wednesday: Meet Annah

“Even a girl from a distant world can dream of reaching for the stars.”

We recently had the pleasure of visiting with author Clay Gilbert and the subject of his most recent novel, Annah, available now from Rara Avis, an imprint of PDMI Publishing, during Annah's blog tour.

(Looking very comfortable as they lounged on our office sofa, we began to probe them for extremely privileged information.)
 So, Clay, what were your initial thoughts towards Annah when she approached you?

Clay: She tried to approach me when I was very young—in my early teens.  We wrote a story together called Anna, which was about a man from Earth—whose name wasn't Holder, although he was middle-aged like Holder is in the current novel—who crash lands on a planet, which didn't have a name in that version, and meets a disembodied alien being, whom he never sees, but who seems ancient.  There was no romance in it, and not much conflict.  It was kind of like a science fiction version of The Giving Tree.  But by contrast, that had a point.

(Annah interjects)
Annah: You were not ready.  You did not have the language, or the ability to understand.  You were a seed-youth, barely more than a bloomling.”

Clay: I seem to recall your parents said something like that to you.  And I thought you told Holder that age is only a number.

(Annah smiles.)
Annah: Hmmph. You are too much like him sometimes, you know.

Clay: Yeah, she says that a lot.

It sounds like that's a good thing, Annah. Is that why you choose Clay to write your story out of all Earth's possible biographers?

Annah: Yes, somewhat.  He knew someone once who reminded me of me, and in fact, together, they reminded me of Holder and myself.  And I thought, because of that, he would be someone who could tell my story—and help me to be better understood, too.

Clay, I understand Annah is impatient for her story to be told. How would she prefer you to record her story so it's done faster?  

Clay: Maybe for me to sleep less?  Not write books besides hers?  I don't know.  Maybe you should ask her.

(Annah makes herself stop laughing, clears her throat, and sits up straight, but can't resist smiling.)
Annah: Honestly.  You make me sound terrible.  It is not really that bad.  I know you have other responsibilities.  I am only excited about telling the story—but I know you are too.

Does that mean, then, that Clay has been given creative license with your biography, or are you strict on accuracy?

(Clay answers first.)
Clay: Annah herself doesn't care—any more than I think Selya, the first Shaper, and one of Annah's people's other spiritual figures, would have.  But it's important to me to get things right.  I wouldn't want someone botching my life's story, just because they thought another way of telling it sounded better.

(Annah steps in, looking somewhat annoyed.)
Annah: I am not a 'prophet.'  I am a teacher and an Elder of the path of Shaping.  I am not special—not any more than others.  The First Ones are special.

So then would your people call Selya, the first Shaper, a prophet?  Would they say she was special?

(Annah replies, in a quiet, calm voice.)
Annah: They might.  But she would not.

Annah, you mentioned the First Ones. Are they forerunners in your race, or are they a collective term you use to refer to in your telling of God?  

Annah: For one thing, I do not understand the singular language that many humans use on this subject.  My people say, and I understand many humans think in these terms as well, that the beings who brought the Sea of Stars, and all the worlds in it, into being are many, and varied themselves.  We call them the First Ones, because they came before us.  But we do not kneel before them, or consider ourselves unworthy to approach them.  We are their children, as we are the children of our world.  And we thank them for our lives, and for their love—and they are, or should be—the center of our lives, not distant and unreachable.  Not separate.  We are a part of them, if we will only open our eyes and see.

That is a very lovely vision of creation. The First Ones obviously play a large part in your culture. However, what about other phenomena like, for example, the idea of  "Sacred Geometry"?  

Annah: I believe that it is so.  I believe that the First Ones have left their fingerprints; their signatures, on all of their work, even as the Shapers of all worlds do—for Shaping is only a shadow and a symbol for the work of the First Ones.  But Holder and I are—researching--this very idea.  And there will be stories told about that, down the path a bit.

That sounds fantastic! We can't wait to hear more about following additions to your story. Unfortunately, that's all the time we have for today. It's been lovely hosting you both, thank you so much for visiting.

Feel free to visit Clay and/or Annah at her website, where you can read more about Annah via her personal blog, see the entirety of her blog tour, and stay updated on future book releases in her series.

The End of a Bad Day.

Bad days suck. Especially when they start at 4:15 am, and don't end until 11:30 pm.

 

This weekend, the hubby and I decided to venture to the Fraser Valley to visit my dad for the long weekend. I started freaking out a little before we left - My dad is notorious for being anti-technology, and I'm in the middle of trying to complete in NaNoWriMo. However, things were going much better than anticipated. In the evening, I'd sit down and write a couple thousand words (staying steadily behind on my daily quota), but I was determined not to let it get away from me.

 

Then Sunday happened.

 

Firstly, we woke up at 4:15. 'We' includes a 2 year old, which as any parent will know, is the furthest thing from ideal. Despite my growing headache, I was optimistic. We took a couple rifles, packed a cooler for lunch, armed ourselves with warm beverages, and were off. 2 hours later, we arrived at the very broad area of Boston Bar.
 

We proceeded to spend the next 11 hours driving up old logging trails as we searched for fall deer, grouse and quail. In the front seat, my dad drove and my hubby sat shotgun with a rifle, prepared to leap from the car in the event a bird was spotted. My son, his car seat in the middle of the back bench, and I were left to our own devices. Mostly, we slept and cuddled, but over all, our presence was greatly unnecessary. In 11 hours, I spoke a total of twenty-five words, most of which happened when we stopped for lunch.


The drive back in the dark allowed for some time to contemplate my day. It left me with a sour taste in my mouth. All I'd done was watch my son, sleep, and take up space in the back of a truck when I could have spent the day still watching my son, but also writing, doing laundry, packing for our departure back home, etc... .

We finally arrived at my dad's house, and I was irrationally angry - the kind of anger that draws unwarranted tears. After unpacking, and refraining from scolding my hubby for allowing our son outside in his soft-soled slippers, I secluded myself in our bedroom and took a breather.




Copyright 2013 to Bobbi St.Jean

I was projecting my negative emotions, and letting some of my fears get the better of me. Perhaps my hubby thinks my dream of becoming a published author is a waste of time. Perhaps my dad agrees, or thinks I should spend more time advancing my education to get a "real" career. Maybe I was afraid that if I failed in my personal goals now, I'd continually fail and not achieve the dreams I've had since late elementary school.

Regardless of what caused my mood, it had nothing to do with my family. It was all on me. In my own perceptions of what I should have been doing with my time, I let myself become unable to enjoy the day I'd spent with them. I, like so many people in this day and age, had become so focused on my own little world that I'd neglected to find the joy in being with people who love me, and whom I love back.

So, at the end of my terrible day, I decided to stop and re-centre myself. Instead of  allowing everything bad to crowd my mind, I focused on the best part.

 We'd chosen a gorgeous place for lunch; It was just to the right of an absolutely breath-taking waterfall. We were stopped for nearly an hour, and I let the sounds of the waterfall soak into my being. Even living on an island as I do, hearing running water is rare, and waterfalls have always been my weakness. The serene scene was augmented by my son, who enjoyed his first time in "real" outdoors, and the laughter of my hubby and father as they shared funny stories or jokes.

Looking back to this weekend, I know I won't be remembering how horrible I felt, or how I hadn't written my daily quota of words. I would remember watching my family interact beside a beautiful natural setting in my home province with nothing on their minds except being with each other.