Month: April 2014

What else is there?

“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.”  ~Isaac Asimov


I sometimes wish I’d died that day.  But I didn’t.  My Aunt and I both went on, but how does one go back to their normal life after seeing something like that?  After feeling the the very bone chilling and empty touch of death itself?

She took care of me the same as she had always done, but she looked at me differently from that day, almost as if she was afraid; of me, or of what our world had become, I’m uncertain.  What I am certain of, though, is that when she looks at me she sees something that she didn’t see before, and that frightens me.

And that day, it had only been the beginning of the ‘rifts’.

The cults and their creatures and creations pour through the rifts in numbers so great, and so frequently, how are they to ever be stopped?  I am told not to worry about such things but how can I not when they are the reason for my stolen childhood, for never being able to settle in one place, for me changing.

I must do something.  I must find my way, I must step forward out of this purposeless existence and do something, be someone.  If there is something different about me than before the day that death rift came, I will find out what it is and I will find a way to use it to my advantage.

After all, what else is there?


The day the rifts came

Death Rift


She heard her name being called.  It was the third time now, but she would continue to pretend that she hadn’t heard a thing until the older woman would be forced to come all the way down the hill from the house and find her.  She wasn’t ready to go in just yet.

“Look, Violet!” The doll dangled from her hand by one arm as she scrambled from her knees to run forward and pick a small bunch of the bright red wildflowers for her Aunt as she heard the woman call her name yet again. She was getting closer. The flowers would soften the scolding she would no doubt receive as a result of not returning to the house immediately.

Plucking the flowers quickly, she had a small fistful of them by the time she heard her Aunt’s footsteps running down the hill behind her, and she giggled as she reached to pick just one more.


She didn’t sound angry like she usually did now, but something else. There was panic in her voice, a shrill, hurried tone to it, and the girl frowned and turned to look up at the woman’s face, feeling frightened as soon as she saw that she had gone pale, and she followed her glance up at the sky, not even noticing that the flowers she had just picked had instantly wilted and now lay limp in her hand.

Had she been paying attention to anything but what was right in front of her all of the time she had been down by the river, Solara would have noticed that while she played the sky had slowly begun to grow darker and the atmosphere itself had grown thicker with it. Though it shouldn’t have. It was barely past midday. The only time the sky ever grew so dark was when a vicious and sudden storm was just on the horizon.

“Come, child, take my hand, hurry!”

But she was swiftly and a little roughly pulled by her arm and onto her feet before she even had a chance to do as she was told.

It had hurt her, and she began to cry.

“It’s just a storm, Aunt Raine…”she sniffled, her small face red and wet, her voice shaking and full of confusion. The grass rustled behind her as a sudden cold wind whistled through the valley, chilling her to the bone, and leaves from the trees showered over her onto the ground at her feet. Leaves that should have been hues of red, orange and golden yellow for this time of year, but they were dead, and crunched underfoot. Her little eyes widened at the sudden and complete blackening of the sky then, and the first bolts of lightning started.

At least, it looked like lightning, but it was much larger, louder, grander than anything she had seen before.

“Come now, Solara! Run!”

Her Aunt tugged at her arm again, and for a moment, she resisted as she stood and stared up at the sky, both horrified and mesmerized at once, for she knew that this was no storm, not when the lightning turned to tentacles that grew and moved and reached down from the very sky itself.

Sounds, too. They were whispers at first, and she couldn’t tell where they were coming from. They seemed to be coming from everywhere. The very air groaned and whispered and taunted her, but there were no words, just terrible sounds that made her head ache and her legs feel heavy and it wasn’t until the sharp sting of her Aunt’s hand to her cheek snapped her out of it that she saw it.

No less than a foot in front of her, the creature cocked it’s head to one side, and grinned at her as it hissed her name, reaching out for her with it’s bony hand. She stumbled backwards and landed heavily on her backside right after it’s clawed hand brushed her stinging cheek.

“Get UP!” She was pulled onto her feet again, and all she could hear was screaming. Her own. And then Aunt Raine was in front of her, a shield between her and the creature and she shoved the girl roughly, a look of pure terror in her eyes.

“Run, Solara. Run and don’t stop. Go now … GO NOW!”


I’ve seen and heard that carrying a child is no picnic.  Far from it, in fact.  It’s the reason, or at least one of the reasons why I have vowed to never put myself through it.  That, and let’s face it, I am no mother material.

It isn’t like Ana to be so clingy and needy, but she has requested that I be nearby while she is unwell, and so I will be.  I’m not sure if Mister Stormblood has taken so kindly to my constant presence, but I will not go unless and until my sister orders me to.

She sleeps.  She sleeps unnatural lengths of time, and often, and when she is awake she looks as if she hasn’t had a wink.  I remember only once before she looked this way, and she very nearly died.  The mental toll on her in that case was more prevalent than anything physical, but this … this is different.

This is worse.

It is nothing but a parasite, a leech, in the truest sense.  Every day, every week that goes by, it drains her very life right before our eyes.  I fear … I fear that neither she nor the parasite that she carries will make it, but I keep that to myself.  I do not speak of such things with her husband.  I can already see the worry in his own eyes.  I might not like the man, but there is little sense in making an already fragile situation worse.

What else can I, can we all do, but endure, until we must not?

You lied, Mommy

She was inside a child’s nursery. The walls papered a pale yellow, furnished with a bed, a sofa, a toy chest, stuffed animals and a huge ornate chandelier, and there, in a crib, draped with soft white curtains lay a tiny, red faced, howling baby.

“The child cries for it’s mother’s touch, Lady Stormblood.”

She’d been here before.  He would reach down to scoop the tiny creature from it’s crib and hand it to her, smiling, now.  She was dreaming.  She knew it.  This was all too familiar.

“Mommy?”  Eyla stared at her now, and she was not standing in the nursery anymore, but sitting, upright, in her bed.  “I’ll always be your favorite, won’t I, Mommy?”

Squeezing her eyes closed, confused, she shook her head and then actually pinched herself. 

Wake up, Ana. 

She opened her mouth to answer the child, but on opening her eyes again, she found herself standing barefoot in the middle of the forest. The moon shone through the treetops, fragmented, yet still bright as it hit the forest floor around her.  Closing her eyes, she inhaled through her nose, taking in the familiar scent of the place.  She knew exactly where she was.  A bird cried out somewhere in the distance and she startled as she heard the sound of wood breaking behind her at the same time as if she wasn’t alone.

“You lied!” 

Wincing, she pressed her hands to her temples as her ears started ringing, and the very ground beneath her feet began to feel unsteady as if she might pass out.  The voice was filled with so much rage.  She’d heard it before, right before …

“You lied to me, Mommy!  You LIED!”

The words reverberated in her head and Ana cried out in pain as her head began to pound, dropping to her knees, mouthing the word “No” right before everything went black.

When her eyes opened again, she expected to be awake, or at least somewhere else, but all she felt was the cold forest floor beneath her cheek, the smell of the dirt and foliage fresh in her nose and she moved a hand to brush her hair from her face, but another hand was already there, doing it for her. 

“You lied, Mommy.” 

The words were the same, but the voice, different.


She cried out as she sat up, in time to see the shock of long flowing red hair disappear into the thick forest ahead.  

And then blackness, again.


“I don’t gi…

“I don’t give a shit what the world thinks. I was born a bitch, I was born a painter, I was born fucked. But I was happy in my way. You did not understand what I am. I am love. I am pleasure, I am essence, I am an idiot, I am an alcoholic, I am tenacious. I am; simply I am…You are a shit.”

– Frida Kahlo, from an unsent letter to Diego Rivera