The Hero, cont.

I have pasted the previous episode first here for continuity.

 

When she stands before the empty spaces, astride the Foundation Stones, the Wind-of-the-Cosmos goes out from her, calling on her behalf.

“O Powers, hearken to me! I come here to make in this space! And I know you, capacious Gods! I know you, Sons of Chaos, destroyers! So I come to parley, or to fight! The choice is yours!”

She waits.

The worlds gasp at her humming magic.

Soon, a resonant sonorous wonder bounds across the ether. She braces against it. She readies herself.

The Gods are coming, and the Sons of Chaos are with them, behind.

“Who speaks thus to the Gods, with such pride and hubris?”

“I speak thus.”

The Sons of Chaos slavered at her. She did not quail. The Gods shouted and brought them to heel.

“Our sons do not know you as we do,” said the Gods. “Why do you come? What is your parley?”

She stepped forward, her shoulders square to the Gods, an oaken cudgel she carried on her shoulder.

“I will make in this space. I am willing to pay, with tribute, or with battle, you choose.”

The eyes of the gods wandered over her. they did not hide their designs, their eytes glassy with loin-burn. The heady scent of their lust filled the room.

“What is your tribute?” they smirked.

She saw right though them, and the stink made her dizzy. But she laughed at their farcical attempts.

“What I make shall be yours,” she said.

“Ha!” quoth the gods. “There is no profit for us. Do you forget who we are? What pittance could you make that we should desire it at all?” The sons of chaos began to grow restless again, pacing to and fro behind the gods. She protested.

“Save your churlish words for lesser women. You know well enough the value of my making. You still take pleasure in my last creation. oh, do not look askance, capricious ones, for I have heard you humming that tune in the cosmos every dawn.”

…to be continued.

Espresso

Dark and sultry, the goddess finds me every morning. Her sinews draw upon her tight etherflesh an erotic dance of order and chaos, so that I do not know myself.

Every morning it is like this.

I rise because I must, not because she insists she is only there to insure I do not embarrass her. Vertigo is her name in the morning. Her names change as the Greater Sun marks the time in obedience, spinning out slowly on the world pole.

She leads me to the chamber of The Dragon, her true son, who swirls and steams and hisses like jealousy at me. She scolds him and I am glad. But he sees my cathartic eyes, and marks them for later. She beckons him to a cup and decrees her will to him. Without hesitation or protest, for it would be foolish, he spews forth the dark bile that will be life to me for the next few hours. But always I see in his eyes, in his rapacious eyes, the markings on a tally sheet too long for my purse.

“Never mind that,” she says in a voice I will never disobey, a voice that stirs my oedipal loins. “Drink.”

I drink.

I drink and the dragon’s milk electrifies my plodding soul. I become rigid as the arclights leap across my dreamscape, my day keeper. My mind, like a millstone, lurches and heaves, the gears synchronize and lock together.

Momentum builds.

The goddess smiles. Smiles her new name at me.

My jealous dragon brother slinks off, scheming.

I touch my finger to my temple, acknowledgment of the self within, and I relax, watching the sun climb, rung by rung, up the cerulean heavens, like the list of making conjuring in the goddess’ mind that she bequeaths to me.

I rise, clothed in light and armed with greed, to slay her foes.

The Hero

When she stands before the empty spaces, astride the Foundation Stones, the Wind-of-the-Cosmos goes out from her, calling on her behalf.

“O Powers, hearken to me! I come here to make in this space! And I know you, capacious Gods! I know you, Sons of Chaos, destroyers! So I come to parley, or to fight! The choice is yours!”

She waits.

The worlds gasp at her humming magic.

Soon, a resonant sonorous wonder bounds across the ether. She braces against it. She readys herself.

The Gods are coming, and the Sons of Chaos are with them, behind.

“Who speaks thus to the Gods, with such pride and hubris?”

“I speak thus.”

The Sons of Chaos slavered at her. She did not quail. The Gods shouted and brought them to heel.

“Our sons do not know you as we do,” said the Gods. “Why do you come? What is your parley?”

She stepped forward, her shoulders square to the Gods, an oaken cudgel she carried on her shoulder.

“I will make in this space. I am willing to pay, with tribute, or with battle, you choose.”

To be continued…

On Shopping

Electric phantoms from the hinterreach sparkle in ether-gowns of plasmotic brilliance.

Quasi-gods of fiat power display them like parrots; azure, yellow, and green jewels of the tropical welkin.

Mind-slaves, agog on cue and in key, illuminate the scene with chants of adoration and praise, their group-think offering.

My eyes hurt.

The light of stupidity, and laziness, and hedonism scratches out the slate of my mind and I cannot evoke, I cannot articulate.

I fear the compacency that gallops hard on the heals of fear, dragging the chains of my captivity with it like an avaricious, slavering rapist.

Maybe a little darkness, I think, just a little so that I can have an anchor point, a context.

I throw the switch and turn out the light,

Better.