Remember

Remember sitting outside, in the cool of a summer night? Remember having no one, and no one having you, and all you want to do is scream but there is no one to scream to? Remember loving but never being loved back, and being unable to do anything about it because you were too scared and too afraid and too just too fucked to do the right thing, to take things into your hands and do something right just that once, just that tiny once, for the most important thing to you?

Do you remember a cool summer night, sitting outside on the curbside and just thinking, just being, thinking and being and not really living but not dying, a static state of absolutely nothing, and all that occupies your mind is WHY WHY WHY and you wish, oh how you wish for a cigarette, but really all you wish for is to drink and drink and drink until you cannot think because thinking leads to the one thing you don't ever ever want to think about is HER, because you've done everything wrong and don't know how to do anything right and Life is Misery and to wake up the morning after Miserable is the only way to live?

I do.

My Caged Birds

You never even look twice.
I gather my things,
Slowly, in a daze,
Prisoner of my own device.

The tears are there,
Flooding my thoughts,
Drowning my words,
The tears are there, I swear...

I know you can't see them,
I know I can't cry.
I just wish I could open
The doors and let them fly.

But caged birds often forget,
That it's in the open they belong.
The cage slowly dampens the regret,
And frees them from their song.

A song I've forgotten,
Don't you think I know?
That's why I'm standing here, broken,
Dreading to show
What I want you to know.

So I stand there and smile,
A smile as cold as ice.
But you give me a brief smile back
And never look twice.

Can't you see it in my eyes?
Isn't it as obvious as can be?
Can't you just look again,
One look will set me free.

And now I'm alone again,
No comfort in my own company.
Left alone to build the cage again,
Making sure the tears are never free.

Because caged birds shall never fly,
To friends or family,
And caged birds shall never cry,
For some hope or memory.

---

It has been a while since I posted here. I just had this poem in me somewhere, needed to get it out. One of my moods, yes. Heh. Feeling angsty. What can I say? Bio tends to do that.

Ode to Desdemona/Lament of Othello

There is something about the morning dawn
Where e’en the fields of blood, only hours ‘fore
Are turned to gardens of peace and idyll
A glimpse of something Divine, Heavenly
A hint of the Garden of Eden past
And my sword, slick with the blood of my foes
Is bloody no more; bright and beautiful
As the morning dew hides gory remains
Tears of angels shining with divine light
Captured, the glory of dawn’s early light
Liquid pearls, treasures of the ocean deep
And I can only think of you.

My love, my bright treasure
Do I imagine it, or do you not
Stare at me with doe eyes soft and wicked
With Mischief dancing behind the windows
To thy soul? Is the smile that charmed me, that wrench’d
My beating heart out of my noble chest
Still made in my direction, or has it
Found a new suitor? Am I no longer
Your heart, beloved above all and all?

The morning dew can only hide the sight
Of reeking death and intestine open
To the gory flight of vultures cov’ring
My personal Hell. It cannot hide
The stench of excrement, the purging of
The bowels, the putrid and sickly smell
Of decay. Is that what your beauty has
Done to me? Loyal, faithful lieutenant
Mine spins a tale of deceit and betrayal
Where, behind my bullish back you whore
Yourself and I do not want to believe
Show me proof, show me thy handkerchief
My love, please.

Please do not cry my love, my treasure
It will all be over soon. Please do not
Struggle, my flower, I would not have your
Lovely skin bruised – pale, like the coat of a
White ewe, that now turns rose-red as my hands
Curl around that perfect alabaster neck
Your hands, that clench together in prayer
I remember when they had clenched me
In the passion of love-making, digging
Into my flesh as a crest of climax
Consumed us both. Had those hands touched others
Beyond mine? Why, my sweetness, my strumpet
Whore, why did you stray from my tender care?
Black sheep, stray and lost from the shepherd’s care
Never again will other hands touch you
Except, maybe, Death’s cold and ending grasp
No help comes for you, so why waste your breath
No mercy comes from me, so why dost thou
Speak?
The Lord will cast thee into perdition,
Whore, so why pray?
You have betrayed me, crushed the heart given
So freely, so why weep as if I dost
Care?
Rest now, my love.
I will come for thee soon.

-Lawrence Wang

Look at the wand

Look at the wand.

Such a simple, plain, innocuous thing.

And yet, with this simple instrument, a shortened stick really, with its oak handle and tail-hair of unicorn or feather of a phoenix or maybe even frog’s eye, anything is possible.

It could save a life. A simple flick of the wrist, a latin word pronounced just right, and a life threatening wound becomes a scar, maybe not even that. A decrepit, crumbling room becomes a grand library, with velvet curtains and redwood shelves and perfect, exquisite stained glass windows while a fire crackles merrily in the fireplace. Glasses broken? A wave and a whispered word and voila! Fixed. Hungry? A swish and a flick, presto, a three course meal. It is a doctor’s Elixir of Life, the Holy Grail of architects, the Philosopher’s Stone of all decorators everywhere; the perfect solution to man’s woes and ills.

It can kill a person. Rotate the wrist, whisper the hated word, and a green flash; the stench of death. A father rapes his twelve year old daughter, who drools as her mind goes the same path to nothingness as her voice, and the father is screaming and crying and screams Stop, stop, but he can’t because watching is a jilted lover with a wand in hand and a Cheshire grin. A woman is violated again and again and while inside she screams and begs and whimpers outside she is moaning like a whore and enjoying herself like a slut because the man and his friends all have wands and are forcing her to do these things that she doesn’t want to do but cannot stop. A man is burnt inside out, screaming as his intestines broil and his fluids dissipate and flesh sloughs off while a party of drunk warlocks laugh and giggle and be merry. The mind breaks as the wizards coldly whispers again and again and a rock hard secret agent breaks and cries and pleads and begs. It is a terrorist’s dirty bomb, the crack of rapists and murders, the atom bomb of dictators; the Final Solution for the black hearted.

Save a life. Take it. Make a house. Blow it up. Grow a tree, cut it down; make a dead baby’s heart beat again, or wrench it out of its chest; enchant a car or bike or motorcycle to fly, curse it to become a mad killing machine; a little charm to make her beautiful, a hex to give her the pox; hold in mid-air a falling cat, turn it inside out and scare the little child as blood and guts pour down in gory rain.

This is the wand.

Hunt

Breathe.

That’s all he had to do.

Breathe.

He mustered the strength and took a breath.

Pain.

His vision exploded into stars as the air, chilled by the temperature and just a smidgen of something else scraped the inside of his mouth, chilling the flesh and teeth and blood welling in the corners of his mouth, before scratching the insides of his windpipes on its long way down, blood streaking up into his throat, before striking his lungs, sending icy sensations all across his body.

Then: blessed oxygen flowing into his pumping heart (babumpbabumpbabumpbabump) and then into the chugging steam engine that was his body.

Good boy. Now, exhale.

He didn’t know how long they had been running. Judging from the position of the moon, long enough. Long enough to have been attacked twice, once by a pack of goar-dogs and another by mutant once-men, twisted abominations with impossible physique and worse, impossible speed. Long enough to have fought through a legion of the decayed, hacking and skewering while limbs flew through the air and the unfortunate died screaming as hungry dead mouths reached down and bit. Long enough to have burst through a shield-wall of hired help and into the darkest part of the forest, and there within encountered something even the Hunt commander hadn’t ever even heard about.

The Hunt commander was dead.

As were Hunt novitiates Djoestvy, and Kierran, and Flo, and many others who he did not remember, or would not remember. Hunt thanes Borderrick and Hash had fallen as well. As for the officers…

He was the last officer.

The rest had been claimed in the forest, with the…the…

No!

No time to think about it now.

Don’t think of the horror, the thing, that monstrosity with barbed tendrils with sprouts of moving pincers that went snickety-clack and needle-filled jaws hidden in the trees and the sword-nests that awaited the unwary.
Think of the now. You are the only officer left. You must finish the Hunt.

They burst through the forest edge into white clearing. They had escaped the forest. Huntsmen stopped in their tracks, exhausted and scarred by their experiences. He knew he could not let them stop; if they rested, they would think, and they would remember, and then they would break. This was not acceptable.

‘Keep moving!’ he ordered, hitting the more relactricant of the Huntsmen with the butt of his bow-rifle. ‘Don’t stop! Keep moving! Cowardly dogs, remember your oaths!’

There was grumbling but his company got onto its feet. He was behind them, urging them on. ‘Faster! Faster, oath-breakers!’ The insults worked. They ran faster.
He was worried. He could only see fifty, maybe sixty men with him. There should be more, he thought. His ruminations were quickly interrupted. ‘Hunt maester!’

He turned to the voice behind him. It was Rolesch, the deceased Hash’s dreamer. His own dreamer had been eaten by the gore-dogs.

‘What is it, comrade?’

‘I see…motes of light! They are being drawn towards the Blasphemy…like a sun,’ Rolesch gasped out. ‘It is gathering magick, and quickly. We must hurry!’ he stumbled, kept his feet, continued. No man had moved to help him. He could see how badly Rolesch was faring – he had been wounded earlier (a near-miss encounter with the once-men) and on top of that had to concentrate on locating the exact location of the Blasphemy. Didn’t matter. They could not stop for anything. If Rolesch fell now they would continue on without a backwards glance; the Blasphemy was too close to accomplishing its goal, and he could not allow it. They had sworn it.

Over four thousand Huntsmen had assembled outside the Andrejken tundra and had sworn a blood-oath to end the Blasphemy’s plans, and the Blasphemy itself if at all possible. Four thousand men were divided into four Hunts, which were further divided into four Chases of two hundred fifty men each – these were then split among the officers.
Four Hunts had entered the forest at different points, to ensure that at least one Hunt would make it through. Now, out in the clearing, he could only see his own company. Fifty men against only the Lords knew what. More than two hundred men had died or become lost in that forest – the Blasphemy had undoubtedly even more surprises hidden ahead.
Common sense dictated that he and his company rest here, wait for the other Chases and Hunts. Fifty men could not hope to overcome the wicked and terrible defenses that the Blasphemy would have erected around its person, and even if by the slimmest of chances a Huntsman made it through what could one man hope to do against such a creature?

There was never an option. Time was of the utter essence. Every second wasted was a second that the Blasphemy was using to draw in even more magic, to what nefarious purpose not even the oracles they had contacted knew. The result was the same, however: devastation, destruction, death. They had to stop the Blasphemy, at whatever cost. If his fifty men could even manage to distract some of the defenses around the Blasphemy there was a possibility that succeeding forces could complete the Hunt.

That was, if there were any others left.

‘Contact!’

A scream came from ahead. The whistle of crossbow and bow fire could be heard distinctly from the copse ahead. The forward elements of his company were already retreating, turning occasionally to fire back. Malkryn, the orc squad leader, ran up to him, an arrow hanging out of her arm. ‘Maester, we have enemy elements ahead, unknown number. They’re not undead or mutants, though.’

The relief was almost palpable. Finally, a foe the company could bite into.
‘We do not stop! I repeat, we do not stop! Send some men to the edges, I want complete fire superiority, but we do not stop!’
The orders were carried out quickly. Men charged towards the copse, firing arrows and quarrels from bow-rifles and crossbows. The enemy response was fierce; men were cut down by multiple shots. Their resistance was short-lived; a resounding boom echoed across the field. A tree exploded into pieces, sending slivers of wood into unwilling flesh. He turned and nodded gratefully to the dwarf brothers, who were already reloading their cumbersome matchlock. The enemy fled, were quickly cut down by mass arrow fire.
‘Push on! Do not halt!’ he harried his company on, enfused as they were with the adrenaline of their small action. ‘We do not stop for anything!’

I'm Sorry, Harry

(Another HP fan fic. I do have an original fic in production, but this one just caught me by surprise: that is to say, ambushed me, dragged me into a corner, and proceeded to bludgeon me until I finished the tale. Then bunked off.)

‘Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville and run!’

I don’t even have to look back, I know he’s gone. Good boy. Smart boy. So much like James.

No, it’s wrong to think of him that way. He might have James’ looks, but he has Lily’s eyes. He’s his own man. Harry is no replacement for James, as much as I sometimes wish he were. Damn you, Molly, for being so insightful. You were right, I do think of Harry as James. It’s not fair, not right. I will have to make it clear to him when this is all done.

Not if, when.

My dear cousin fires several spells in my general direction. I dodge them easily, returning several of my own. Whatever you say about my cousin, and there are so many things to be said about her, she was an accomplished duellist. She parries the spells, simultaneously launching a few more at me. My wand is a blur as I counter.

I haven’t felt this alive in months, years. It feels like years since I left Grimmauld Place. The worries, the brooding, the depression all fall away like so much unwanted clutter. I hear laughing from somewhere far away. No time to think of that; my wand a blur of sparks as I duel furiously with dear Bellatrix. I’m rusty; in my younger days I could’ve taken her quickly.

A hex manages to breakthrough her defenses. She doesn’t miss a beat, already dashing towards the dais in the middle of the room. I don’t relent, furiously blasting away. Laughter. Something about it nudges at my mind. I realise that I am the one laughing. It isn’t the laughter of late: dark, bitter, angry. It is the laughter of old, like I used to laugh. Before Azkaban, before Harry, before their deaths.
I will avenge you, I promise them. One little step at a time.

Something smashes against the dais. I don’t dare look. Not Harry, please not Harry. Can’t look. Must look. I roll to the side, avoiding a barrage of hexes and spells, and take a look. Malfoy lay against the dais, groaning and delirious. Thank God. I’m up and countering another series of spells, making up for lost time. Can’t afford to give Bellatrix the upper hand, need to end this quickly. Harry is in danger.

There is a sudden outburst of cheering and screaming, but I don’t know what is the cause, nor do I care. All thoughts focus on my insane cousin. Have to concentrate. I can sense her breaking, sense the weaknesses in her defense. She might be a brilliant duellist but she doesn’t have the stamina to keep it up. Twelve years of surviving Azkazban will do that for you.


Desperate, Bellatrix fires a jet of red light at me. Pitiful.
I don’t bother countering, simply duck underneath it.
It’s over, Bellatrix. It’s done.
Lily, James, this is for you.

‘Come on, you can do better than that!’

A flash of red light.

Oh.

No.

Stupid, stupid man.

Got all cocky, didn’t you? Thought that it was all over. Didn’t think it through. Stupid. The mad cousin took advantage of you. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I try to regain my footing, but the force of the spell, as well as simple gravity forces my body down. Damn my body. I can do this. Can’t fall. Bellatrix just waiting for the opportunity to finish me off. Won’t give her the satisfaction. Mad, insane bitch.

Then I feel ragged cloth against my back. It is the archway, in the middle of the room, with the veil. But it’s not just that; something is dragging deep into my chest…my heart…my soul. Pulls at me. Hurts. The archway is not just an archway.

Lily, James, I lied. I promised to avenge you.

I failed.

Falling, falling.

The last thing I see, before the veil consumes me, is Harry. He’s running towards me. I cannot hear anything, there is a roaring in my ears, but I see him mouthing my name. Can’t die. Not with Harry watching; too many have died on him. He needs me. He needs me. I’m his godfather. I can’t die now, but I am. I can’t even smile for him.

As the veil descends I have one thought left to me:

I’m sorry, Harry.

sickly

Looking out the window and seeing the day go by
Blue skies and open land beckoning
Unable to answer nature's cry
Due to my frightful reckoning

An evil malady keeps me at bay
And leaves me weak and withered in my bed
while outside there lies a great day
Sunny climes and rainbow hills,where no sneeze mounts or cough to dread

It really is quite annoying
What power sickness rules over my pain-wrack'd body
Why, I should be out in the sun enjoying
not in here and feeling shoddy

But that is why we get sick, I guess
Because when we get better
We enjoy life that much more.

(crap, I know, but I felt that something had to be said.)

To Raffy

What's this?
A two-legs!

Fascinating, fascinating

Let's start lower down.
Sniff, Sniff
Phwow, that's smellier than Jeb's butt.

Move up a bit now.
Sheesh, what's with these two-leg's obsession with this 'jeans'?
Me, I like a good furry coat any time.

Hmm...oh! oh! What's this?
Smells very interesting!
Right between the two-legs!

Let's put the nose right there!

...


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mmm...