Severed Hand

A sleeping road wraps itself deeper into the realm of night. Screwtape giggles under the highway bridge. He squats deep in a corner; trash, feces and used condoms float in the green puddles of his cave.
He's holding his hands clasped tight together. He first glances up, then down the canal. He's alone. His mad chuckles grow louder. Like a blooming flower, he slowly opens his palm. Cupped in his hands is the severed hand of a man. Screwtape runs a claw along the fingertips. His eyes glow. He feels the lifeline across the palm of the hand.

The fool never tried. Never expected this. Brought it on himself...yes he brought down his own life. Destroyed it. Sealed it. The coward. He never used this hand for himself. No. Gave all he had for fear he'd fail. Fear, yes my beauty; Fear is why I took you. The man will rot. No one will find him. Fear crippled him in the end, now his corpse is crippled for eternity. Yes my precious. Be thankful for it. Fear brought you to me. Let mortals fear. Maybe I'll use you to shake their cowardly hands.

Screwtape flicked his tongue, tasting the night.

Memories

What a strange thing: memories. They reach for us from such a great expanse. They are the only thing that tells us an event really happened. We may look at photos, we may watch a home video, hell me might be sharing them with family or those who were with us when the event happened. But photos can deceive, movie's degrade, people forget or pass on.
So what are we left with that tells us something happened? The memory. But how can we relay on the truth of our memories? We can't. Only you, yourself and your memory, can confirm that the memory did exist. But if the only alibi to the memory, is the memory itself, then what? What do we do?
Enjoy. Simply enjoy. For I believe it better to remember, whether it happened or not. Really, you are the only one who can recreate this.
So when life is grim and the shades of pain slip in through our dreams, remember. Hold tight, ride the wave, carry the tune....because whether or not the event or existence of something really happened, only you can revive it. Revive the memory...

"When those who knew him descend into shadow, he himself will fade from the pages of time."

Cathedrals

Through the mists of a time lost to civil war, a simple chant echos through this valley of clouded dawn. The fading glow of the mother'ed Lady Moon fades into shadow over this place. It is a place of ancient spirits and gods. Decades of conquest forced these beings into this tiny haven. Despite the silohets of ominous towers, the gods retire among the trees quietly waiting.  Light from the cathedral sifts through the mist. The glow from the fortress welcomes travelers on an abandoned road. The market now returned to nature shadows the foot of the Cathedral.

Remembering Bast

Summer Morning. My windows are open; I listen to the world below me. My bobcat sits on the windowsill calmly watching the swirls of the modern world that devours us humans. His green eyes drink in our mortal chaos. SUV's, iPhones, computers, thundering music, grills, crowded buses, money exchanging the 7/11 clerk to the starving prostitue. He grins at it all. I wonder if he thinks this society is foolish or seflconsieted. Yet here he is watching us, our auroas...he sees our true secrets. He knows we are prey to the demons we've created. But he, this ancient god of fire and sand, is unmoved by our self consumed Jones' lives. He is the hunter reaching down through the ages; an image fearfully worshiped by such an intellectual and complex culture. His mother, the lustful combination of cat and soft human curves, tempted us. She ruled us. She kept us safe. Rats strained their ears when she stalked the night. Starvation was never know, disease never plagued. As long as the priestesses sung their offerings, we as a nation were safe. A nation thriving for centuries. Their survival gave us the existence we have now. Without them our modern gods of electronics, sex and vehicles would never exist. My bobcat turns his head to watch my reminecenses of our ancestors. I am able to write these words for you because he helped pave the culture I live in. Now the memory of his dead goddess lays buried under crumbled temples, her being conquored by the Lion's blood. I look up at my bobcat as I finish my words. He's eating what i think was once a wasp! 

Shifting

The night lies in the hands of the coming dawn. No glows appear to the east, but in these quiet breezes I can feel the world shift from the witching hour to the rising hour. The sun waits for the moment when lady moon descends into the dawn's twilight. And here I sit. A simple mortal among a world of chaos and new gods to the society ruled by twisted pleasure...converted emotions. Resting on the windowsill, rose buds silently shift in the fairy breeze. They too feel the world moving. A movement not from night to dawn, but from season to season. If you stop...feel....listen...the shift is moving in you too. Its a gentle tug, a weight in your heart or a scent reaching for you from across the universe. Nature is ready to move...so shift beloved, shift.