Hi there! I am writing an Epic novel. Slowly, but surely. It’s been coming a while now. I am sharing with ya’all my prologue. I want to see if there is any response, and if so, I will share a chapter a week.
Elemental Magic
Illustration and prologue By Tevia Gray
Prologue
~* Me, Myself and Why *~
My home is different from yours, but it is also very similar. In fact, it could be said that your home is but a reflection of mine, or even the other way round. My home is a paradox in the sky; a mirror in the sky, if you will. Your home is earth; it runs the way the Skyward deems it to run. At a slow and steady pace your home spins its web, weaving fate on its very own axis. My home is your axis. Why do I live here, in the clouds, above and beyond space? That is a good question. And one I must deem with an answer, before I fall, bump my head, and forget.
I live in the Skyward because I am, in simplistic terms (for your convenience only) an Angel. I do not, however, have lovely white wings or a gleaming halo above my head. I am neither perfect nor all-knowing. I am nothing like the human race’s idea of an angel. But at least one has an idea. That is a step in the right direction. However, in some spectrum, I am everything like your idea of an angel. I do what you think I do, the deeds you praise us for. Only it is far more complicated and much simpler than that;
The Skyward is made up of SkyArks, (which is what I Am), SkyWardens and ForceArks. SkyArks have certain messages and destinies that need to be spun into the web that is Earth at very specific times. We bring forth the true light, so as to illuminate the drunken darkness that lies like smog in each and every one of you. This doom-smog was created by the ForceArks, the creators of Life and Death and all that lies in between. The control-keeper behind the game, and each and every one of you agreed to swallow the vile potion before beginning your time on earth. The Doom is a forgetful concoction, designed to give one the true human experience. The play of fumbling in the dark for a light switch. The test is whether one realises they are in the dark. One doesn’t know if one is already blind. Slowly but surely the SkyArks spread Awakening Sands of Time over your eyes, a little at a time only, because we do not want to frighten you. The SkyWardens make sure that the web, the axis that holds you, the Crystalline Grid as we call it, aligns with the impression your souls experience as you stumble along. They give you synchronicity, or ‘coincidence’, a foreign concept to me, but you live its truth every day: the book you happen to find in a dingy corner of a forgotten shelf. The song on the radio that makes you take a match to a little piece of yourself, igniting a spark, and revealing a new way forth. The SkyWardens also give us our instructions and lead us to our destinies, which lie like a great puzzle in all of you.
Skyward is beyond beauty; a great translucent dome in the clouds above and beyond the universe that gleam every possible colour, marking each and every soul under its roof. These small lights move constantly, dancing and bumping into each other. Creating beams and wisps that shine through our floor of cockleshells and clouds and touch your night’s sky at the furthest point and beyond. The interior of Skyward’s dome is a balancing act between the Earth and the Cosmic. Palm trees and fig trees float aimlessly about, water gushes the colours of the rainbow from waterfalls so high one would have to be able to fly to reach the top. Thankfully we can fly. Or rather, float. And sometimes we can beam-walk. This means touching the roof with the palm of one’s hand and appearing at the point one has touched. It comes in handy, as we’re a very busy bunch. Not all we do benefit the Earth. There are many, many galaxies to help as well as visit, but earth is my job, specifically. I have a very particular message to bring to the world, a little at a time, and sometimes an over burdening amount at a time. But I know who can handle what, how much and when. I am the spirit and teacher of truth, the gift giver of the prophets. I am the will of the Sky, I am the embodiment of annunciation, humanity, resurrection, heavenly mercy, death, revelation, and most importantly, hope. I bring news and heralds who reveal the answers asked. I am the weaver of fate’s changes and the patron saint of communication workers. As you can imagine, I am a rather busy SkyArk. We all are. Thankfully I am not alone. But alone is a paradox too. The word means you are all by yourself. But the letters say al one, which means we are all cosmically connected, all one breath. My name is Gabriele`, and I am almost out of time. Time is a funny concept in the skyward because for us everything exists all at once. There is no past or future, only the gift of the present. We call it Now, and in Now there are an infinite amount of choices to make. Space and time do not exist for me, but they soon will. I was created to go forth and give birth to a revolution. The world is teeming with DarkArk’s and soiled spirits that have oozed their way into power. The plan is set, but the course can vary. The path winds all the way to the finish line and there are dangers designed to make you fall. (How you rise is the only thing I play a part in…) and then it all begins again, much like your symbol of infinity… the course on par in the Now frightens the soul into hiding, and we cannot have that happen.. But there is only so much I can do, pulling the strings from way up high. A measly puppet master with sore hands. I must get them dirty. I must plunge into the earth and take root, if all is going to go smoothly. I was created as a messenger, but Now I am asked by the ForceArk, Mister Under-Stood, to be the message. And I may not refuse. Therefore, today is my last day in the Skyward. Soon I will fall through the Aurora to the earth, to be resurrected as a human. The irony does not pass by me, I assure you. Everything I am, will be everything I experience. The crystalline grid is tipping, heavy with the burdens of its soul populace. I must balance the scale. The see-saw that is life. Another whimsical paradox of a word. We see and we saw all at once. I only hope I am strong enough to keep my balance on this tight rope, ascended below an ocean of question marks. I will forget all that I know to be true. I will forget my self, the SkyArk that I am. I will swallow the bitter deadly brew of The Doom and forget all that I AM. I will have to leave my divine home, and my cosmic family, as well as my twin flame, for the murky waters of your skies. I will no longer see the colours, or hear the music of my people. For we are, in essence people, just like you, only without the hunks of flesh you call bodies, without the ticking time bombs you call brains. We are the crux and kernel to your popcorn.
A poem inspired by the one and only Miley Cyrus, as her life and my own somehow seem very similar (minus the being ridiculously famous thing) and intertwined.
Destiny: Hope
Love is the blood in my veins.
The depth inside that almost drowns me.
The wind dancing at my shoulder blades.
The song on repeat on my tongue.
Love is the darkness looking beautiful.
Because love lifts me up where i belong.
Where the dream meets the song.
And the lyrics come true as i sing along.
Love is us.
We are love
There is freedom in the fight.
There is light…tonight.
I will try with all my might to take flight.
I am my journey.
I step into the world to question my destiny.
Answers grow like leaves on trees.
All i gotta do is remember to breathe.
To believe.
There is something deeper than the ground, something higher than sound, something colourful
Love
. Love is what surrounds us.
We just can’t have enough.
Love is ready, wide awake, love is warmth in the belly of the snake.
Sometimes i feel so caged.
Afraid to speak because i’ll show my rage.
Not right and not at home.
Not allowed to explore this earth and roam.
Trapped by demons dwelling in the past.
But the truth is it will pass.
And in suffering we grow, get to be a part of something we don’t know.
And finally I can show.
True colours collide inside.
i feel so alive
Just a little inspiration to keep me going.
A lullaby for when the nights are long.
A reminder to my heart that if I’m here, i belong.
Granted the curse of of growing up, i have learnt to be strong.
Cursed the gift of of growing up, i have fought to be strong
A young boy sits with his back against the trunk of a great and ancient Willow tree. No one can see his knobbly knees, drawn to his chest, his eyes skewered tightly shut, or his cupids bow of a mouth, muttering romantic prose and silent prayers to the silence surrounding him, because the willow’s bows have languorously bowed before him and down to the floor, and the leaves weep all around, creating a small but sheltered safe haven. A home away from home; a barrier between him and the outside world. A greenhouse all his own. No one can see him, but no one is looking either. He used to collect arrows, now he doesn’t know which way to go. The playful youth has dissipated, replaced by muddled, muddy, bloody tears.
No noise penetrates his safe space, but in his head he still hears the screams, echoing, as if he held a conch shell to his ear. Instead of the ocean, it stores his mother’s rage, and wish washes through the contours of the shell endlessly. His hands are glued to this metaphoric shell, no matter how hard he tries to drop it, and leave it behind. The shell is thick and too strong to break. It terrifies him, although he knows it is but an echo, and not the real thing. He left the real thing behind not ten minutes ago. A once upon a time he would prefer to never reread. His mother is drunk again, and he is the reason why. For she taught him to mix her a special drink eons ago, her lying on the couch, unable to move, moaning out of the corner of her lips, cupids bow in shape as well, aiming to hit and pierce the flesh with undiluted love, for she and her son are splitting images of one another; sweet to behold but bitter to taste. She cannot be bothered to move off the island that is a dingy couch most days, and therefore needs her son to concoct her medicine, which also looks sweet but is bitter to taste. Today he incorrectly mixes the substances, and when she brings the liquid to her mouth she spits it straight out and begins to yell. ‘You useless mess of a boy! Have I taught you nothing? Why do you punish me so? Why are you so wicked, when all I do is shower you with LOVE and KINDNESS? Have you no sense in that big head of yours? I shouldn’t have bothered bringing you into this world. You are godforsaken, rotten to the core!’ She tries to heave herself off the couch so as to hit some sense into him, but her body is weighed down by all the liquor she has already consumed. This frustrates her all the more, and she takes her cup and flings it into the boy’s face. It shatters on his nose and he tastes blood on his Cupid’s bow lips. ‘Get out, you wretched excuse for a son! Get out and stay out! God has thwarted my faith by giving me you.’ She begins to weep, fat golden tears spill from her red and bleary eyes. He tries to comfort her, takes hold of her hand, but she has strength enough to dig her nails in and pull at his soft, pale skin. He screams in shock and before he can stop himself he is out of the door, his legs sturdy despite his wobbling lips and his blurred vision.
He wishes he could fly away, and reach a place in the clouds where he could look down and see the bigger picture. He wishes he could ask God why he is the way he is. He knows this much; everything happens for a reason. On days when the fire of drink does not scorch but soothes, his mother tells him as much, beseeching an unforgiving god in the sky for a sign she is on the right path, whilst simultaneously clasping her sons hands and begging forgiveness. ‘Forgive him his ignorance, my Lord, for he knows no better.’ But he cannot for the life of him fathom the reason behind his mother’s fiery hatred in the first place. He must be a wicked boy to deserve such manhandling. He whispers his question to God over and over. It is a simple question, with a complex answer. One he will never receive, as his whispers go unheard by him or this almighty God his mother speaks of with such high reverie. Perhaps the answer is to BE a god? Only then will his mother praise his existence. But how to go about being a God in the world of the nitty-gritty? He opens his eyes and wipes his tears away. He gasps when he sees his tears are not translucent opals, but crimson rubies, and begins to panic. His heart contracts and squeezes, making itself small in his chest, he cries out in pain.
A yellow dragonfly hovers in front of him. It silences his cry immediately. He cocks his head and observes its luminous wings, which whir gracefully, the dragonfly is unafraid. Maybe he fears nothing because he always has the option of flying away? The boy stays still, and the dragonfly lands on one of his bony knees. He can almost feel its weight. It is an incandescent little entity. At first, only awe enters his heart. But the awe grows hard and cracked and it cakes his heart in jealousy. The jealousy hardens his heart, and his thoughts harden with it. They race one another, in two lanes. Good and bad. But the lines are blurred and he doesn’t know which lane he is running on anymore. He doesn’t care. He must reach the finish line either way. All he knows now is that if he possesses the dragonfly, in all its peaceful glory, he will be light and he will be loved and he will be able to fly up, up and away, into the clouds, so as to ask God ‘WHY’ and also ‘HOW’.
In the blink of an eye he grabs the intricate, luminous wings between his thumb and forefinger and yanks them free of the dragonfly. The dragonfly topples from his knee without a sound and lies motionless at his feet. He gazes at the wings in wonder, innocence gushing from him like the blood from his eyes. He decides then and there that he will sit under the weeping willow, weeping no more, until he has enough wings to make his own pair. And then he will know God. Then he will hold all the answers in his hands, just like he holds the wings of the dead dragonfly. He feels no remorse, only a sense of relief. For he has found a way up, and out.
Days go by, hunger sets in, fear of the dark humbles the boy, and he misses his mother. He draws up images of them together, laughing at all this fuss they had once made over the big questions. Perhaps one day, he reassures himself. But still he sits beneath the willow tree, perfectly still in stature, perfectly mobile in mind. He waits for dragonflies of assorted colours to mistake him for a part of the weeping willow, and when they find a spot to rest, he pounces, and steals from them their flight, their light and their life. His sadness confuses them into making the assumption that he too is a weeping willow. On the seventh day, when he can take it no longer, when the hunger has driven his hard heart miles from home, and the luminous wings of the dead dragonflies have blinded him to the wicked truth; that he will die before he gets there, he leaves the willow behind, his hands and pockets full of wings and makes his way unsteadily back home.
He trips and falls, grazes his knees, sees white, stumbles and bangs into stairs, but still continues. His mother lies motionless where he left her, her snoring is the only sound. And what a comforting sound it is. He smiles, and his vision returns, tenfold. Everything has sharp edges and brilliant colours never before seen. His stomach rumbles, begging for nourishment but he has no time to care. He goes about gluing all the corpuscle wings together. Gently he constructs wings of his own. The only noise he hears are his mother’s snores, and they act like a prayer, guiding his every move until he has constructed the most marvellous pair of wings. He fits them to his back carefully and takes a look at himself in the mirror, which is cracked, with shards missing. His mother couldn’t stand the sight of herself any longer and therefore threw her head into its shallow depths. He has lived with this mirror as long has he has lived with his mother. He is distorted in its reflecting surface. And a mirror never lies, because it never thinks. Only reflects. To think is to be wrong. He does not notice the cracked mirror however, he never has. He only sees that his wings are complete, ready for flight. Soon he will arrive on cloud nine and find God. Soon he will have his answers. He tip toes up the stairs so as to not wake his mother. The bay window that overlooks the lone willow tree is wide open, and wind makes shapes in the Muslin drapes. He tentatively steps onto its ledge. The sun is a brilliant glare on his brand new but second-hand, luminous wings. He holds his hand above his eyes so as to better see his destination; the clouds. All thought has now drip dropped from him like spirits down his mother’s throat. He is excited and drunk on the idea that freedom awaits. He jumps, knowing his wings will not fail him, knowing he will reach the top. Instead… he drops, and upon hitting the cold, hard ground, his soul, surprised and groggy, slowly rises to the warm, soft clouds. His questions stay behind, encased in his lifeless form. Now he is truly at liberty, for he does not need answers any longer. Here, they are null and void. In death, one does not ask questions. He needs no solution. He is whole, for he is welcome here, received warmly by the luminous abyss.
Approached by a wise man in a sparkling bowler hat, with live butterflies using its rim as a resting place, I was given an invitation to join a tea party, beyond the mountains but below the clouds. I accepted, of course, and spent my time sipping tea, dancing with jelly fish and falling through portals. I found wonder land! And she found me.
The bar wraps around the edges of my world and zooms off into the next room. Empty drinks scatter its gleaming polished surface. My face is reflected as a blur in the mahogany. The room is crowded; people sit and stand in twos or threes. Everyone is hot and bothered, pulling at their collars, pulling at their partners, pulling at their seams. A din of noise makes its way across the room like the glug of a beer down a parched man’s throat. We are all dehydrated, thirsty. Thirsty for drink, thirsty for air, thirsty for closeness. Thirsty for care. Glazed eyes everywhere.
I am alert. I sit alone at the mahogany bar, studying the grains in the wood, fingering the rim of my glass, half full. Or half empty. It would depend who was looking at it. If I were to look at it, however, I would say it was half empty. Drained of sustenance and taste. The ice cubes have melted, but I am still on the rocks. And they cut into me, jagged and uncaring. I am searching for something. Perhaps a jug, so as to full my drink once again. Quench this thirst that parches me. The thirst of desire. Many men have come up to me tonight, offering to fill my drink, my bed, my desire. I have coolly declined. No balding man with thinning blood and a desperate tremble in his lip can fulfil this deathly hollow. I am looking for someone specific. How to find him when all I do is observe the ground. I shake myself out of the reverie that clings to me like wet clothes and scan the crowd of expectant, slurring ghosts. A man walks through the door. He wears a black fedora, a gold watch and a hard jaw. I am glad I have taken my eyes on the journey, for he is a sight to behold, and exactly what I have been searching for. His eyes are shaded by the brim of his smart hat, but I still see him looking around. I gather he is meeting someone, and that he cannot find them, because his shadow eyes glance at his gleaming golden watch and his broad shoulders heave a sigh. Perhaps he has been stood up? Poor thing.
~*~
I scan the crowd for an easy lay. They all look the same to me. Mutton dressed as lamb. I don’t have much time before I must get back to work. Energy builds, brick upon brick, one wrong move and my tower will topple. My confidence will waver, and I will go back to the grindstone more frustrated and let down than ever before. I am weighted by the world, which rests squarely on my shoulders. I am weighted by the gold and leather of my belt. I am weighted by the money I seek, make, spend, and make some more of. I am weighted by my clients, who ride me all day for the best deal THEY can get. And I? I am left saddled with nowhere to go. So I have come to this bar, on the corner of the street I work on, to find a place to unload all my weight. I am here to find, fuck, and finally forget. But everyone is coupled up, sweaty, smiling. In no need of a tall, dark and handsome stranger, If i do say so myself.
I look at the time, which trickles away too fast. Like sand through a broken hourglass, I am. Riddled with holes, punctured by invisible shards of glass. Empty.
I look up once more, still hearing the metallic tick tick tick of my wrist watch, mocking me. A time-bomb ready to explode. I make my way to the bar, wheedling through the flock of sheep, baaing in protest. I reach the oasis without much fuss and to do, and order a whiskey, on the rocks. I sit down and swivel my stool around, nursing my drink in one hand. Next to me sits a young woman. And she is alone. And she has a pussy and a glass half full of clear liquid. I decide she will be my prey for the night. I close my eyes to channel the charm I once had, before I sold it to the devil, along with my soul, for the chance to make my weight in gold. I didn’t know then that the gold would take the form of chains. Shackled, I am. To an empty cause. I clear my throat and pour out my words carefully, equally measured and as smooth as my drink ‘May I refill your glass?’ she eyes me sceptically, her grey blue eyes darting around my person. She seems nervous. I introduce myself ‘Let me introduce myself, so we are strangers no longer. I am Wallace Greene. Would you tell me your name, and perhaps join me for a drink thereafter?’ she smiles, and her posture relaxes noticeably. And what a posture. Slim in frame, with long black hair overflowing like gossamer about her shoulders, tickling her half moon breasts. I watch them move as she breathes a, ‘Nice to meet you, Wallace Greene. My name is Jennifer, and I’m parched.’ She smiles sweetly and I am taken. I signal for the bar man. He takes her order and refills her glass. It overflows and spills onto the bar, sticky, it drip drops to the floor. She leans over and takes a sip without picking up the cup. I admire the curve of her back and her audacious bad manners. ‘Thanks’ she salutes me, and we chink glasses. The sting of whisky is welcomed by my empty belly. ‘My pleasure. I couldn’t help noticing you, all alone at the bar, and looking so lovely. I thought to myself, now what’s a nice Jewish girl like that doing sitting alone at a bar on a night like tonight.’ ‘What’s tonight like?’ she asks ‘A beautiful one.’ I reply stoically ‘I hadn’t noticed whether it was beautiful or not. And how do you know I’m Jewish? Or nice, for that matter?’ her voice is a soft, sweet melody, and I know she is nice just by hearing her ask the question, as if it were a song I had known in adolescence. I ignore it, nevertheless. I do not want to waste my valuable time using our mouths to make small talk. I want her mouth around my cock. I feel it throb angrily at the thought. ‘You haven’t noticed how beautiful tonight is! Why Jennifer. That will not do. Finish your drink and I will show you just what you are missing!’ ‘Now I am intrigued.’ She giggles, and blushes, and I can almost see her as a school girl, innocent and fresh, not knowing how much pleasure her body can withhold, still oblivious to her curves and her giggles and what they do to men such as I. sick men who long to fuck the innocence right out of girls like her. She gulps down her drink, makes a face and stands to go. I am almost surprised at how easy this has been. I came, I saw… and soon I shall conquer. I down my drink too and offer my arm to Jennifer. She takes it, blushing all the more and we head outside. Soon she will have my head inside. I snigger at my inside joke.
~*~
The night is fresh and clean compared to the dingy bar, with its dark orange glow. Outside, everyone and everything seems alive, awake and enthusiastic. And I too feel the same, for I have a man at my side. A stranger, so he is. But I feel no danger here. I know he is about to full my thirst and therefore I feel safe, content even… he guides me around the corner and into an alleyway. I am pleased that we are alone. No more noise. It is blocked out by trash bins and thick brick walls. I sigh in relief, relishing in the silence, my eyes closed. He comes closer still and brushes the hair away from my eyes. I see his eyes are no longer shadow, but substance. Warm and brown and creased with age. His breath smells of spirits, ghosts that haunt me, beckoning me forward. I lean into his hard form and kiss him sweetly. He moans, pushes me against the wall and has his hand up my skirt all in the flash of a car driving past. I am so thirsty. I am so whet. I let him push his fingers inside me. I give him that. I have been waiting so long to relieve myself of this ache; I can wait a moment longer. He is so close we could have been one fat mess of a man. Perhaps, to cars passing by, that is what we looked like. One lone man, leaning into the wall, too drunk to stand up straight. Moaning to high heavens, cursing his luck. No passer-by would be the wiser, or want to stop and help. After all, as a rule, we humans are a self-involved bunch of sour grapes, ripe for the picking. I put my hand into my jacket pocket; feel the blade press against my fingertips. They shake with antici…pation. I take the hilt of my knife in my grip and at the same time, bite his lip, tugging at it, emitting a sigh of relief, release. At this, his go-ahead, i plunge the sharp point into the soft flesh beneath his ribcage, lovingly. He moans ever louder, his lips still glued to mine. I dig the blade ever further until heartfelt, wet and sticky blood starts to pool in my hand. Warmth envelops me. I yank my trusted weapon from his heart and feel his body crumble, lifeless, at my feet. I kick him away, as his soul darts forth, shocked and wide-eyed, and lick my fingers clean. I am thirsty no more.
Fiction This 