The Four Riders

Conquest invaded and usurped me. He was an irresistible force that I was unable to ignore, unable to stop, unable to turn away. He bent me to his will, he reframed my body and twisted my mind, he pushed and pulled and wrestled me into place, and moved me to his desires. No care was given; there was no gentleness in his touch. There was only brutal demand. It was entirely about him: his need, his pleasure, his to take and break.

War punished my body. Every infraction I committed, she repaid me in full and then again, and once more. For all my sins, I was punished, severely, threefold. She beat me until I was tender, and she raked at me until I was raw. No part was safe from flail or claw, no portion off limits for the shock of the wand, no place sacred against pain. My flesh burned and flushed and throbbed and ached.

Famine was pure, unadulterated torture. After I was ravage and flayed, naked before them, mewling and pathetic, panting with exhaustion, they soothed me with soft words, with light touches and gentle kisses. Soon they were pulling me up to the edge of the cliff, feeding my need with a flick of a finger or touch of their tongue, and then they pulled back, and left me to shiver and writhe, starved for death. Over and over they took me just to the teetering edge of a magnificent precipice, and then withdrew. I sobbed with hunger, begged for mercy, pleaded for death, my muscles tensed and aching, my belly hollow, and my mind far, far away…

And at last, there was Death. He is my Master. I knelt at his feet, suppliant. He rewarded me with himself, and pushed me, pulled me, dragged me to that liminal cliff, and then, finally, together with my Master, I plunged headlong over the edge and fell through endless space. He shattered me over and over with the most exquisite precision, until there was nothing but a pulsing wave of pleasure humming through my bones, an endless, little death.

…and my prayers and pleas are answered -- my mind fades away, and I melt into him, and my self becomes nothing but a vehicle for his pleasure, safe because I know he will always lead me back…

The Old Man Who Tends the Cloud Trees...

There is a place in the world that few persons know; it is a place high on a mountain that no one climbs, deep in a wood no one travels. It is not on any map; as Melville says, true places never are.

High on this mountain, deep in this wood, there is a small house. An old man lives there, has always lived there. As long as there has been this wood on this mountain, there has been an old man living amongst the mist and trees.

He lives a simple life deep in the wood, high on the mountain, tending the trees that grow up around his small house.

Every morning, he rises with the sun and goes to the well. He sits on the edge of the well and drops all his hopes and wishes and dreams into the water, pieces of his soul, falling like pebbles from his mouth to splash down at the bottom. He then draws bucket after bucket of water from the well and pours out his wishes and hopes and dreams at the foot of each of the trees that grows around the clearing where his house sits.

When the sun climbs high into the sky, in the clear mountain air, and the mist dissolves, and the thirst of the trees has been quenched, the old man goes to the shed next to the well and takes out an odd looking knife. The handle of the knife is white as bone, smooth and shiny, and moulded to fit his hand. The blade is long and thin and bent at an odd angle. One side has serrated teeth, the other a straight, sharp edge.

While the sun finishes its arcing journey across the noonday sky into the evening, he takes his odd knife and he trims the trees, pruning away leaves and branches, smoothing them, shaping them. While he cuts at a tree, he whispers to it, telling it all the dreams he has for it, all the hopes, and he pours out his heart to each tree as he grooms it, filling it up with love as he pares away the parts of the tree that are not suited for its purpose.

When the sun sets, the old man’s work is finished, and he retires for the day. The mist returns as the sky darkens and the leaves of the trees shimmer and shift in the fey light of the gloaming. As the moon rises above them in the dark of the night, the trees inhale as one, and exhale as one, and they release into the sky great puffy clouds. Once the clouds gather above the deep wood, high on the mountain, the west wind comes and carries them away.

beginnings...

Once upon a time, there was a jumping spider named Parallax.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Paraselene.

Once upon a time, there was an antique watch that never kept time right.

Once upon a time, there was a dog with white stripes on its tail.

Once upon a time, there was a cat with a secret name.

Once upon a time, there were stars in the sky.

Once upon a time, the oceans rose up and drowned a city.

Once upon a time, there was a ship with red sails and a silent crew.

Once upon a time, there was a river that ran through a haunted wood.

Once upon a time, rain fell on a cloudless day.

Once upon a time, the gargoyles spoke.

Once upon a time, the churchyard lay empty.

Once upon a time, there was a child without a name.

Once upon a time, there was a mystery...

Heart of Fire

Listen to the MUSTN'Ts, child, listen to the DON'Ts.
Listen to the SHOULDN'Ts, the IMPOSSIBLEs, the WON'Ts.
Listen to the NEVER HAVEs, then listen close to me:
ANYTHING can happen, child, ANYTHING can be.

The old woman sat in a chair with a blanket over her lap. She stared into the fire and did not move when the girl walked through the door, setting the bell tinkling. The girl approached the old woman, her footsteps muffled by the dusty carpet. She knelt beside the chair and clutched at the woman's thin arm. Her skin was papery and soft, and the girl could feel the warmth that emanated from the crone. She looked up at the wrinkled face, cast in inconstant shadows from the flickering light of the fire in the hearth. Saying nothing, the girl just waited for the old woman to acknowledge her. They sat in silence that stretched longer than the girl thought she could bear. A single tear ran its course down her pale cheek and dripped off her chin. The tiny droplet landed on the arm of the woman, between the girl's fingers. As if a spell were broken, the old woman turned sharply and looked down at the girl, her eyes flashing red in the firelight.

She stared at the girl, her red eyes boring into the green ones that looked up at her with such pleading, such pain. Then she lifted her other hand and traced the track the tear made on the pale skin. ‘So you have come,’ she said in a voice that sounded as dusty as her carpet, ‘At last, when there was nowhere else to go.’ She continued to penetrate the girl with her gaze, cutting through her defences as with a knife, and seeing into the heart of the matter. ‘It hurts, doesn't it?’ she whispered. The girl dipped her chin in mute assent, and the woman nodded as well, turning back to the fire.

‘It will lessen,’ the woman said, her eyes mirroring the dancing flames, ‘but it will not go away. You have a heart of fire, child, and that is a terrible burden and a great gift. Do not be discouraged, though. You must try a little harder than others, and it will take you longer to get there. That is part of the price of fire. We who are gifted with fire burn hotter than the rest, but it happens in its own time. The world will heave and turn, spinning on its axis, spinning through space, and the years will pass, but that means little to the Fire. The Fire comes when it will, as it will, and does not take notice of such trifles as time.’ The old woman closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could have been asleep, or dead, but for the warmth of her skin and the very slight sound of her breath. Then she continued.

‘Your heart is young, child, and it is still kindling. The pain you feel is it coming alive. Life is pain, child, and we come to this world in pain, and we live all our lives in pain, and someday we escape that pain, but only in death. Those with the gift of Fire feel more than any other. Pain is ours to bear, and ours to cherish. It is our life that we feel pulsing within us, and the way we know we are still moving forward. I will not lie, child, it is a terrible, wonderful thing to have a heart of fire. But you must accept that it is your lot in life. You must accept the gift.’ She paused as the girl gave a barely audible sniff. ‘But pain is not all we are gifted with, child.’ She lifted the girl's chin so she could look her in the eye. The old woman's gaze softened, and the light that gleamed in her eyes blazed forward with warmth and comfort. ‘Pain is what keeps us grounded, but that does not mean it is all we have. We also have greatness. You must seek out what your fire wants to give you, and you must pursue it with all your heart. You will be rewarded for that, and well. It is only when we understand great suffering that we can truly appreciate the world; it is only when we make great sacrifice that we can truly treasure that which is good. It is not an easy path, child, but it is yours to take. And if you do, I promise, it will be worth it in the end. I know you cannot see it now, you can feel nothing but the pain of the new fire inside you. But fire is cleansing. It is pure. And it will never lead you wrong.’ The old woman let go of the girl's chin and turned to the fire once more. When she spoke again, her voice was thin and distant, like it came from very far away.

‘If you accept your heart of fire, it will serve you well, child. But it must be accepted freely, without reservation. Otherwise the fire will die. The pain will leave, if that happens, but everything else will leave you as well. Your life will turn to embers and ashes as the fire in your heart dwindles, until one day it is snuffed out completely. Your body will still live, your mind will still function, blood will still pump through your veins and breath fill your lungs, but you will love none of it. You will feel none of it. So you must ask yourself if you can accept the gift and the burden that have been given to you. They are yours alone to bear, but if you accept them, you will not be alone. Fire gives life even as it consumes. If you accept your heart, you will find greatness. I cannot tell you more, for I do not know your path. But the reward always surpasses the sacrifice, and you, child, will burn brighter than any I have ever seen.’

The woman stopped speaking and grew very still. The girl stared at her, watching her pulse flutter in her throat. After what seemed an eternity, she rose from where she knelt by the chair. She stared into the fire and saw shapes appear in the flames, dancing and whirling. Pressing a hand to her chest, she felt the warmth radiating from her, calling to its own. She took one last deep breath, then turned and left the room. The door tinkled again as it swung open and she was blasted with a gust of cold air from the street. She squared her shoulders and pressed her hands together, as if in prayer. And in the moment of acceptance, she felt the warm glow in her chest spread throughout her entire body. She sighed, and began to walk down the street.

Listen to the Mustn'ts © Shel Silverstein

The girl with the generous heart

Once upon a time there was a girl with a very generous heart. She was not very pretty, nor was she very lovable, but she was clever and loyal. However, she was not wise. And so she gave her heart away too often and foolishly.

One day the girl met a bird. The bird was very pretty, but he had a crooked wing and could not fly. The girl with the generous heart took the bird in and fed him and protected him from the things that prey on the weak and the lame.

The girl kept the bird near her, sharing everything she had. Many people asked the girl why she cared for a bird that could not fly, and the girl with the generous heart always responded the same way: ‘This bird is my friend. Yes, he cannot fly, so I protect him. His friendship is more than enough repayment for the little things I share.’ The girl with the generous heart worked hard, making sure that there was always enough so that the bird with the crooked wing was well cared for and happy.

The girl saved every penny she made and eventually she had enough to buy the bird a new wing. She went to a shop where she could purchase a new wing, and she picked out one that was beautiful, like the bird who was her friend. The new wing was very expensive, but the girl with the generous heart did not hesitate to buy it. It was perfect and she was so excited to get home to show the bird his new wing.

However, when the girl with the generous heart got home and showed the bird what she bought, the bird with the crooked wing flew into a rage. He said terrible, hurtful things to the girl with the generous heart. The bird with the crooked wing accused the girl of secretly hating him, of being ashamed of him, and of wanting a new friend, because the only reason to give the bird a new wing would be so he could fly away. The bird said that the girl with the generous heart must not really love him, and that she must think he is not good enough to love with his crooked wing. He said that if she really loved him she would accept his crooked wing and that the new wing she bought for him was just a way of saying that he would only be lovable if he were not broken.

The girl with the generous heart did not know what to do; she had only wanted to give her friend a gift, a beautiful gift that would make him happy. She left the new wing on the table near where the bird was perched in the corner, glaring at her, and she left the house. She hid for a time in the woods and she cried. When she could cry no more, and the sun was starting to set, the girl went back to the house.

The bird with the crooked wing was gone. As was the new wing the girl had bought for him. There was no note, no explanation. The girl with the generous heart would never see the bird again. But she could not forget all the terrible things the bird had said to her.

The girl with the generous heart was clever enough to know that it was her heart that had gotten her into this trouble. And so the next day, the girl with the generous heart went deep into the woods. She took her heart from her chest and buried it at the foot of a tree.

Ever since that day, the girl no longer had a generous heart. She became reclusive and lonesome, and she always remembered what the bird had said to her. She never looked for the tree where she buried her heart, and she lived a long and lonely life, her one small comfort the knowledge that she could never be so foolish again as to give away her heart where it would not be reciprocated.

Fear is the mind-killer

What it all came down to was fear. She was so dreadfully afraid. The fear pressed itself against her chest, a hot, heavy weight that crushed her, making it impossible to breathe. It wrapped itself around her fluttering heart, infecting it, poisoning her blood as it wended its way through her limbs, causing them to tremble and weaken. Slowly it reached her brain, infecting her mind and paralyzing her thoughts. As the poison seeped inside, coating her brain like an oil spill, all hope seemed lost.

The fear made it impossible to distinguish truth from lies, and it made her completely vulnerable. It stripped her of her defenses and laid her bare to the lies that were constantly whispering, whispering, whispering in the back of her mind. Fear disabled the filter she developed to silence those voices, ghosts of the past, and the whispering became an unbearable roar, screaming in her mind, drowning out the clear soft voice of reason in the deafening crescendo...