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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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Chapter 2

Moon-Flame had been chasing her for a while now but the Khari had still not been kind to them. Adorned in chinking mail and heavy boots, they struggled with the sands, which did indeed seem to melt almost too easily. Stubbornly, they pursued, and the desert punished them for it. "Fire!" Bows clacked and twanged and a flock of arrows flitted carelessly - she didn't even have to dodge. "Aim! Aim!" Perhaps, if the captain had not been so impatient, they all would have ridden well atop the mounts they left behind. Yet it was this impatience that whipped his division into speed, though, clearly, that too had betrayed them.

With ease, she fled. Her light leathers did well to keep her agile, clinging lightly to her slender frame as if it were she who protected them. A scatter of scratches dulled the material and the once greenish-brown had faded to a scuff of dirty grey. The leathers had served her well before and still. Cropped above her elbows and just below her knees, they exposed a skin of oily brown, toned by toil. She ran as wildly as her matted hair, slashing at the wind, and though she was quick, Moon-flame left her vastly outnumbered - sixteen pairs of legs to her one, she couldn't beat them all - not here - too much space - nowhere to hide.

“She’s slowing! Aim! Aim!” “Out of arrows, sir,” one soldier panted, his chains rattling with each jog. “Then grab some on the way! Use your heads if you have to! AIM!” “It’s a dune, sir.” “What?” “A dune. Sand dune, sir. It’s why she’s slowing.” “What? WHAT?” “Well, we’d have to climb it, sir.” “Then we climb!” The first officer stooped to swipe an arrow from the sand, wincing as grains lodged between his nails, “We won’t make it to the top, sir,” he said as he caught up to his captain, “They’re too tired. Our armour, sir.” “Are you suggesting we strip in the middle of the Khari?” While a few soldiers forced breathy chuckles, the rest threw glares, like daggers, deep into their captain’s back. But the words of the officer twisted and twisted at the captain and suddenly the distance between Moon-Flame and the girl grew. “A dune that steep would never let us pass,” the first officer added softly, smiling at his captain's troubled brow. "Oh, shut up,” the captain retorted, smacking a flat hand into his officer’s rattling chest as he slowed, “Easy, boys. We’ll let the Khari do the rest.” Moon-Flame slowed to a stop. The captain lumbered forward, panting tufts of steam into the chilled air. He was a chubby man with a chubbier face, reddened by activity, glistening with fresh sweat. His mouth balled into a tight knot as he bit on his lower lip and squinted at dune. The girl had stopped too - she was sitting and she was probably staring at them. “The nerve…” the captain growled to himself, and then he turned to his regiments and pointed towards the dune, “The nerve, eh?” Moon-Flame replied with a series of grunts. Most of them had already begun setting up camp, untying pouches of kindling and scattering the sticks upon the sand to build the fires. The great dune stood like a mighty door against the furious wind knocking behind it. But still, silky slivers of a whispering draught found the regiment and sent a ripple of shivers across. The soldiers were tired and hungry and cold, but it was an anger that woke, fed and clothed them. They knew that they would never catch the girl on foot, and that running deeper into the Khari not only took them further from their mission, but was an absolute waste of spirit. So they grumbled and grumped as they curled by the fires, lying as still as possible to prevent the chilled mail from touching their skin. The captain stood stubbornly, carefully watching the girl. “She wants to slit us in our sleep,” he mumbled, holding a section of bottom lip between square molars, “Look at her, sitting there. She could keep going if she wanted. She’s waiting for us to sleep.” “I doubt that, sir,” replied the first officer. He seemed to be the only one with enough patience to muster some words for his captain. Almost cheery, in fact, given the circumstances. “She’s probably as tired as we ar—,” “—Nah. That’s a stern seat she’s got there. A stern seat for stern business. There’s nothing more stern than a dirk in the gullet - that’s for sure.” “I’m sure it’ll be fine, sir. If we plan to head out early, we’ll all be needing some rest.” “Rest? With that wicked grin she’s got brewing?” The first officer gave a smiling frown - the kind a mother gives her stubborn son when she realises just how alike they are. “We’ll take shifts,” he said, “I could stay up with you now - then maybe Mod or Sterry could take over?” “Shut it, Atuah!” Sterry spat, sitting up and jerking his head behind him. “Att-i-ah,” “Atteo?” Mod joined. “Att-i-ah!” “Enough!” the captain roared, “Squabbling parrots. You’d do good to save all your squabbles for the journey back." "Journey back?" Sterry said, frowning hard, "Back home?" "Is that a problem for you, officer?" Sterry sighed and stood up, "Sir, what about the mission?" he said. "What about the mission?" the captain snapped, "Don't you see the mission sitting over there?" He jabbed a finger towards the dune as he spoke. "We don't need her, sir,” Sterry said. "Oh, we don’t?” The captain moved closer, “Why didn't you tell us this before we left?" Sterry knew a loaded question when he heard one, "Because I thought we'd have caught her by now," he said, facing the captain squarely. “And whose fault is it that we haven’t?” Mod sat up now, wrapping his arms around his legs, “Stez…” he said quietly, watching his friend. He nudged Sterry’s boot with his own, “Stez,” he repeated, louder. Sterry’s face was firm and chiselled - not so much as a blink livened his stony stare. He side-stepped Mod and stared hard. The captain smiled, “We’re going home,” he said, “Go to sleep. You can complete your mission there.” Sterry cocked his head slightly, “The General won’t be pleased.” The captain’s smile burnt away, “STAND DOWN,” he ordered, “YOU WILL STAND DOWN.” Sterry gave a stiff bow. The rest of his comrades now sat upright, watching every move. “Yes, sir,” Sterry said, still staring. “GO - TO - SLEEP,” the captain barked and whipped his head away to look, once more, upon the great dune. No Soscelli grew on its surface, but the moon’s glow was enough for him to see - she was still there. He shook his head, “You stupid, stupid girl,” he whispered, “Do what you’re told. When will you ever learn to do what you’re told? Stupid, stupid, stu—.” The captain couldn’t finish, Sterry had moved too quickly - his jagged blade had soared and now it remained stuck in the captain’s throbbing throat - its tip clawed right out of his neck, lit with blood. With bulging eyes, the captain choked and clutched wildly at his face. Bubbles of blood and phlegm frothed at his open lips before quickly bursting into dangling sinews of red and yellow slime. Sterry left his arm to linger in the air as he watched the captain fall to his knees. The soldier’s eyes seemed to smile as the soft glimmer of campfire danced in them. All the soldiers were standing now, silently listening to their gurgling leader scrunched upon the ground. Attiah had been standing near the captain when the blade span past him, and he remained frozen, watching the shivering body. "Captain?" He whispered hoarsely, though such a whisper was enough to rattle the din, "Captain?" "Yes?" came the reply from an approaching Sterry. He had a slink to his walk and a grin in his words, but his mouth remained stern. He looked upon the trembling body, softly, as if it were a child shifting in troubled sleep. Placing one hand on the polished wooden hilt, he yanked the weapon free from the captain's hold. "Dirk in the gullet," he said, flicking the dripping slather of blood from his weapon, "Or close enough." He looked to the dune. "She's gone," Mod said gently, for the silence was sensitive and Mod was fearful of irritating it. "When?" Sterry asked. "Second ago." Sterry grinned and turned, "Got something else on your mind?” “Naw.” “Good - then we head South. And we don’t return home until the job’s done,” Sterry flicked a look at Attiah who quickly averted his gaze and trudged towards a sack on the ground. The new captain smiled, “Didn’t think so.” he said.

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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i started because my cousin needed a song for her fashion exhibition.

she told me nomad vibes, desert, silks and scarves..

and i came up with a melody

which i took to ben de vries

the magician

he weaved together some serious sounds

then i went away

a story, about the desert sending a love message to the moon through a traveller on its surface, came into my head.

during this time away my sister was diagnosed bipolar

... during this time away i declared myself gay.

when i returned i found mr larry lasisi, kldaproducer

a wizard

he took the makings of the track and flourished them with vibes

and introduced me to the mixer-man-of-much-magic, darryl, from organic studios..

who mixed the track.

i summoned my partner from many crimes, tara, of ataranoia, and she helped me film some footage.

then i edited it all together.

thank you for listening and thank you for watching

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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Entry 1

I don’t know where to begin. It’s fucking crazy. I don’t know where to start.

I was walking through the forest?

But that doesn’t explain anything - I should probably get to the point.

I saw something.

I don’t really want to start writing too much, because I don’t want someone to think I’m crazy if they read this.

UGH, get to the point.

A thing. A small thing. Like a human? Or a fairy? I don’t think it had wings though…

Listen, I don’t fucking know. Just small.

It was maybe as far as the old boulder, like, right beside the stream, between the streams? The streams of water that trickle from beneath the boulder. You know what I’m talking about.

ANYWAY.

IT LOOKED AT ME.

Like, that’s how I KNOW it was fucking real.

I don’t know what it was doing - it was holding something in both hands, maybe an acorn? I DONT KNOW!!! It was gone by the time I blinked.

lol.

I’m not mad.

It stood there, on the moss and stone, between the trickles of water, shifting about. Then it LOOKED at me.

Then I think I saw it crawl through one of the gaps beneath the boulder - like, UNDER it.

I was actually stunned. The whole thing probably took a couple of seconds, but my mouth could have been open for a minute or so.

I might actually ACTUALLY be losing my mind.

(It’s what you get for coming out here.)

I should get to back to the desk. -___- But I hate using the laptop. Why did I even bring it? Don’t know how long I can do this for - need people!! or a hobby … lol, might go looking for that thing. loool.

definitely mad.

:/ hmm. but it could be a something to do? Like, a project?

I’ll probably end up calling this “Entry 1”. :)

————

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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Summerstone

“What a pity thing to occur, Maryt,” sang Esmie and Relda, the Lovley twins of Summerstone. “I know,” Maryt said, “He was a good man.” “SO WHY DID YOU KILL 'IM?” yelled the Mayor though he was standing right behind her. “You’re standing right behind me,” she thought, The Mayor stared at her imploringly. "And no, I didn't kill him," she said through her teeth. “Oh," the Mayor said with a growing smile, "I thought you said you did." “Someone rang the bell!” rang the town. “YES!” said an exasperated Maryt. “You look exasperated, Maryt,” said the Mayor as he widened his accusing eye. “Oh look, he widened his accusing eye.” “Said someone in the town,” said the town…

Then there was a pause; and it was almost as if there was no one in the Town of Summerstone… But of course! - there was no one in the town itself - because they had all gathered here, to the wide, wooden pier of Port One. “It’s time we named this port,” sneered the Mouse Woman. “You’re right,” the Mayor agreed, “And so shall it be.” He turned around (though slowly as he was fat) and faced the might of the crowd. “In honour of the dead,” he boomed, “We shall name this port -

Port Broom!”

The town cheered, and threw up their hats. “But we don’t know who rang the bell!” said Maryt with a moan. “Stop moaning, Maryt,” the Mayor bellowed, without turning around, “Or we shall call you - Moaning Maryt!” “And I wouldn’t mind either,” she said, as the town continued their cheers and jeers. An evening breeze tinkled the wind-chimes hanging from the frames of the port house doorway. “But aren’t you cold, dear?” said Farmer Wool, “Would you like - wool?” He held out a rough bundle of frayed, grey wool. Maryt winced at the sight of it, “No thank you,” she said politely. “As politely as she could,” muttered the farmer’s wife from behind him. “BUT WHO RANG THE BELL?” “Said someone in the town,” said the town. “I did,” said Hero. The town gasped. “You rang the bells?” said Maryt. “No,” said Hero, “I did ask - ‘who rang the bells?’” “We don’t know who rang the bells,” said the Mayor, “And we haven’t known for years.” “No, Mayor,” said Maryt, “The bells just rang.” The Mayor blinked. “Then, we haven’t known for.. a while.”

What a strange evening this was.

And as the crowd grew silent, the lapping of water on crab-pebbles made them clack like marbles.

“A strange evening indeed,” murmured Boot the Beggar. “That those of Summerstone would leave behind fork and knife, mill and well, horse and stable, brush and spade; to attend this very, very strange day at Pier Broom. The crowd stretched back as far as the the very beginning of the pier; about as far as a strong, fat child could throw a lump of cheese. If that lump of cheese was round, then perhaps, with enough force, it would roll unto the spread of grass, on its way to the opening between the hedges, where the Grey Road slicked like a slick of dark oil. And across it? The Ridge grew as a mesh of grass and rock that wound and wound and clawed up and around the Great Hill." Somewhere in the chest of that Hill lay Summerstone.

And here, on the deck of the very first pier, huddled quite closely together - Summerstone's inhabitants, crowded around Maryt the Woman who had clearly had enough. "I've had enough," said she, This isn't getting us anywhere!" "Well it got us to the pier," said the Farmer's wife from behind him. "What good is a pier when we still dont know who killed Father Broom?"

Hero was confused.

"But how do you know he was killed?" he said, frowning gently. "Because Maryt confessed, "said Farmer Wool. "I didn't confess!" "Oh..

I thought you did."

As Maryt shook her head she caught the eye of the Farmer's wife, who quickly coughed and hid behind her husband. Maryt sighed, "If we're going to find out who killed Father Broom we're going to need to find Father Broom." "Don't be ridiculous, Maryt," the Mayor guffawed, "Broom is most probably in Heaven by now. Did the bells not ring at noon? He should have at least made it to the gates, MARYT." "What?" Maryt spat before the could begin their cheers, "The bells rang..at...noon?" "Why, yes," said the Mayor with a shrug, his wide back still turned to her. Maryt looked at it., "Do the bells not always ring twice - at noon?" she said. The Mayor paused and blinked, "Um..." he began, trying to be discreet as he cleared his throat. Slowly, he turned around, and as he did so he made sure to smile at each person is round eyes could find - as if a smile alone would answer Maryt's question. "MARYT, REPEAT THE QUESTION," the Mouse Woman screeched. "I heard, Mouse Woman," the Mayor snapped, then, composing himself, he cleared his throat, "Ehem - Women and Men of Sumzy," he sang, "How do we KNOW Broom is truly dead? HMM? Why, he could, as I speak, be laying comfortably on his bed - kneeling at his bedside, perhaps - for evening prayers! "The man is a holy one - he could be anywhere knocking his knees for evening prayers. "The Mayor huffed and blew as he spoke, "Who are YOU to name him deceased? HUH? Who are YOU? Who are YOU? Who ARE you? WHO - are YOUUU? WELL? WHOOOOO? WHOOOOOOOO?" .. As he wheezed, he took a feathery hand to wipe at his beaded brow, eyes as bulged as boiled eggs, the Mayor coughed hard to banish the sinews of mucus from his throat, "AGHEM." "AGHEM," said the crowd.

There was no way of knowing who killed Father Broom, because he was absolutely nowhere to be found. “So how do we know he’s dead?” said Maryt the Woman. “Stupid Woman,” the floch of Elder Hens squawked, bustling towards her, “Are ye deaf?” One Elder Hen hobbled to the front and gave Maryt a swift kick to the rump with her walking stick - THWACK! “ARE YE DEAF?” she cawed, “Did you not hear the bells toll twice?” “Bells toll twice?” the entire town echoed at once. THWACK! “Stop it!” Maryt mooed, and gave the Elder Hen a quick bump to her dome. “A quick bump to her dome!” said the town. The Elder Hen squawked and scrabbled at her head, the rest of the floch grabbing at her arms, pulling her towards them; and together they shivered away. “What a pity thing to occur, Maryt,” sang Esmie and Relda, the Lovley twins of Summerstone. “I know,” Maryt said, “He was a good man.” “SO WHY DID YOU KILL 'IM?” yelled the Mayor though he was standing right behind her. “You’re standing right behind me,” she thought. The Mayor stared at her imploringly. "And no, I didn't kill him," she said through her teeth. “Oh," the Mayor said with a growing smile, "I thought you said you did." “I didn’t.” “Someone rang the bell!” rang the town. “YES!” said an exasperated Maryt. “You look exasperated, Maryt,” said the Mayor as he widened his accusing eye. “Oh look, he widened his accusing eye.” “Said someone in the town,” said the town…

Port Broom!”

The town cheered, and threw up their hats. “But we don’t know who rang the bell!” said Maryt with a moan. “Stop moaning, Maryt,” the Mayor bellowed, without turning around, “Or we shall call you - Moaning Maryt!” “And I wouldn’t mind either,” she said, as the town continued their cheers and jeers. An evening breeze tinkled the wind chimes hanging from the frames of the port house doorway. “But aren’t you cold, dear?” said Farmer Wool, “Would you like - wool?” He held out a rough bundle of frayed, grey wool. Maryt winced at the sight of it, “No thank you,” she said politely. “As politely as she could,” muttered the farmer’s wife from behind him. “BUT WHO RANG THE BELL?” “Said someone in the town,” said the town. “I did,” said Hero. The town gasped. “You rang the bells?” said Maryt. “No,” said Hero, “I did ask - ‘who rang the bells?’” “We don’t know who rang the bells,” said the Mayor, “And we haven’t known for years.” “No, Mayor,” said Maryt, “The bells just rang.” The Mayor blinked. “Then, we haven’t known for.. a while.”

What a strange evening this was.

And as the crowd grew silent, the lapping of water on crab-pebbles made them clack like marbles.

“A strange evening indeed,” murmured Boot the Beggar. “That those of Summerstone would leave behind fork and knife, mill and well, horse and stable, brush and spade; to attend this very, very strange day at Pier Broom. The crowd stretched back as far as the very beginning of the pier; about as far as a strong, fat child could throw a lump of cheese. If that lump of cheese were round, then perhaps, with enough force, it would roll unto the spread of grass, on its way to the opening between the hedges, where the Grey Road slicked like a slick of dark oil. And across it? The Ridge grew as a mesh of grass and rock that wound and wound and clawed up and around the Great Hill." Somewhere in the chest of that Hill is Summerstone.

And here, on the deck of the very first pier, huddled quite closely together - Summerstone's inhabitants, surrounding Maryt the Woman, who had clearly had enough. "I've had enough," said she, "This isn't getting us anywhere!" "Well it got us to the pier," said the Farmer's wife from behind him. "What good is a pier when we still don’t know who killed Father Broom?"

Hero was confused.

"But how do you know he was killed?" he said, frowning gently. "Because Maryt confessed, "said Farmer Wool. "I didn't confess!" "Oh..

I thought you did."

As Maryt shook her head she caught the eye of the Farmer's wife, who quickly coughed and hid behind her husband. Maryt sighed, "If we're going to find out who killed Father Broom we're going to need to find Father Broom." "Don't be ridiculous, Maryt," the Mayor guffawed, "Broom is most probably in Heaven by now. Did the bells not ring at noon? He should have at least made it to the gates, MARYT." "What?" Maryt spat before the could begin their cheers, "The bells rang...at...noon?" "Why, yes," said the Mayor with a shrug, his wide back still turned to her. Maryt looked at it, "Do the bells not always ring twice - at noon?" she said. The Mayor paused and blinked, "Um..." he began, trying to be discreet as he cleared his throat. Slowly, he turned around, and as he did so he made sure to smile at each person is round eyes could find - as if a smile alone would answer Maryt's question. "MARYT, REPEAT THE QUESTION," the Mouse Woman screeched. "I heard, Mouse Woman," the Mayor snapped, then, composing himself, he cleared his throat, "Ehem - Women and Men of Sumzy," he sang, "How do we KNOW Broom is truly dead? HMM? Why, he could, as I speak, be laying comfortably on his bed - kneeling at his bedside, perhaps - for evening prayers! "The man is a holy one - he could be anywhere knocking his knees for evening prayers. "The Mayor huffed and blew as he spoke, "Who are YOU to name him deceased? HUH? Who are YOU? Who are YOU? Who ARE you? WHO - are YOUUU? WELL? WHOOOOO? WHOOOOOOOO?" ... As he wheezed, he took a feathery hand to wipe at his beaded brow, eyes as bulged as boiled eggs, the Mayor coughed hard to banish the sinews of mucus from his throat, "AGHEM." "AGHEM," said the crowd.

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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Women of Whall

The fire crackled and the wood broke, spilling embers into the night. Eight logs lay flat around the flame, seats for the attendees. One stood up, thin and dry and old like tangled branches. Her joints jutted and curved as if each limb planned to ambush the next. "Women," she cawed, loosing her crooked arms above her head. A great chorus of shrieks rang in response, with each attendant flailing their arms in a similar fashion. "Naughty knots and basil pie," she continued, spitting the words out like seeds as she suddenly grew very serious, "Crumpled sheets of paper, lime and juniper." The women hummed and nodded. The fire made silhouettes of them all, casting strong light from their knees downwards. A starless sky spread above them to a moon, shy and dim, far, far away. "Indeed Agha," a seated attendee called out, nodding furiously as if desperate to keep her head balanced on such a thin neck. Her name was Emphat, but the others called her The Madamè. "Don't be fooled by the quiet hills," Agha gnashed, "We are being watched as we speak!" "Straight to the point, why don't you?" A plump woman, wearing a large frilly dress, jabbed a fleshy finger into the air as she spoke, "Didn't even let us settle for a moment - just STRAIGHT to business. Always Agha!" "Always Agha!" the others chimed and giggled.

"There is little time," Agha said, chewing on each word as small bubbles of freckled froth gathered between her thin teeth. "We must discuss, then we must depart." The plump woman watched Agha with sincerity. "I say we eat first," she began, "THEN we discuss. We drink, THEN we depart." Her name was Babanda, but the others named her One Spell. The giggles continued to ripple around the fire. But there was one who did not share in gigglement. A young one, pale-skinned, with long, puffs of deep brown hair. It fell to her hands, which lay buried between her thighs. Gophie, they called her - for she did not desire a spare name. Her wintery eyes, grey and full, watched the fire waft in the wind, like a hand waving from a pier. "If all you wanted was a bite to eat, then why - come - at all?" As Agha spoke, a smile crept along her lips and spread across her face. "Why, you could have stayed home and had a merry old time, just eating. Alone." One Spell crumpled her brow into an ugly frown as the others lifted their chuckles - they knew it would not end there. "Yes!" Agha continued, her voice becoming deep and growled, "Home. You could have let down your hair from those buns; put on your finest frock and wiggled down to a nice, warm leg of ham." As she performed, she let her shoulders roll with her words. The others roared and shrieked, and the hills cackled with them. But One Spell closed her eyes in defiance and lifted her hands to tighten the two balls of knotted hair on her head. "To business!" Agha hissed, growing serious once more. "Always Agha," the others hummed. "In belly flutter and dune of sand swam the town of Hsrelgan." "A quake?" one woman asked worriedly, "A ground storm on Hsrelgan?" "I have said," Agha replied. The others became quiet, save for a few whispers - muttered blessings to free them from the omen that they all felt. Even Gophie, still lost in the fire's trance, murmured, "Ezalphae" - a common word for women as shaken as these.

Agha placed a veined, blotched hand on the shoulder nearest to her, for support. Her face softened as she looked to the worried woman. "But what does this mean?" the worried woman asked. One Spell, who was still working the knots of hair between thick hands, grunted with contempt. "It means, Tulip, that there was a ground storm on Hsrelgan," she huffed, "Still confused?" The worried woman narrowed her eyes, until her lashes curtained them completely. She was NOT Tulip, nor was that her spare name. One Spell merely had a habit of mocking those who did not eat...'normally'. No, her name was, in fact, Lozrelli - named Loscenta by the others, partly for the strong perfume of crushed rueberries she always wore. With thin, diamond-shaped spectacles of a dark red, and slanted lenses that squinted her eyes, she always appeared unimpressed. Her lips remained small yet firm, with the slightest lick of dark balm, to match the shade of her glasses. She smoothed down the creases of her gown - slowly. It was a long, faded thing of black, with a large, purple triangle-pattern rising from her ankles, bending across her knees and peaking at the thigh; where it met the cleanest of hands. Loscenta locked on to One Spell with a glance. "Is that you, Hoggums?" she asked sweetly, in that delicate voice she was often noted for, "Is that you, Hoggubub?" She sat straighter and gave the slightest of smiles, "Is that you, my dear Hoggaboo? Aww, Hoggaboo." The others were much too distracted by the recent news to join in with hoots and giggles. They merely watched, as a baited One Spell also sat up straight, widening her eyes until there were no lids left. "Calling me a pig, Petal?" she growled. Loscenta's faint smile quickly disappeared, "I called you a hog," she replied, just as quick, "They're wilder and terribly daft. The poor things can't even tell the difference between hogs and pigs." One Spell grabbed a nearby rock, "Try me again," she snapped. "Breakfast already?" Loscenta sang, eyeing the stone. "Enough!" Agha barked. She pointed a finger at One Spell, who now had the rock clenched high above her head. "Enough," Agha said again, quietly. One Spell dropped the weapon to the ground and the grass around it shrivelled brown. "Yes, a quake has drowned Hsrelgan," Agha began quickly, shifting her weight unto her right leg, "Which means that it won't be long before--" "--The gloom of babies born to mothers old with lust and scorn." Gophie's eyes did not waver as she spoke the words. The Madame perked right up, "The Words!" she shrieked, "Agha, she said the words!" She grabbed her top hat from her head, revealing straggles of grey hair, and marched around the fire until she stood a few paces in front of Gophie. "You don't say the words!" she screamed and threw the hat down at the young one. But instead of hitting her, the hat span past and whittled into the darkness. Gophie stood slowly and smiled at the dishevelled woman, before placing her pale hands on her shoulders and seating The Madame on her own log. She then hoisted up her ice-blue skirt, shuffled towards the fire, gave a gentle leap across and took The Madame's seat instead. Once sat, her silvery-grey eyes settled on the flames, and her face became transfixed once more. Agha's head was low and heavy, "Yes," she said, "The gloom is soon to come. What shall we do, women of Whall?" "Pray," came the voice of Mugheg, another aged woman, on whose shoulder Agha rested. She spoke as if dust swirled in her throat, "Pray that Whall remains hidden - that the gloom passes by without a second glance." Mugheg wore a loose shawl around her head, patterned with curls of burnt orange. It billowed slightly about her, making her appear even more foreboding. "Prayers..." One Spell huffed, "Prayers cannot stop the gloom. It is prayers that bring it upon us." Mugheg shrugged and returned to cracking roachnuts into the murky-clay bowl between her legs. "Then we flee." Loscenta said, straightening the folds in her dress, "We flee to Whall?" "No," said Agha, "We can no longer be apart." Mugheg smiled to herself as the silence set in. Agha also felt the fear that had crept up on her fellows. She nodded, "Now we move as one." Perhaps she could have reassured the women if not that her face betrayed her. "Move where?" One Spell tested. "We move towards." Agha's eyes were soft and knowing. "Towards?" One Spell flared, "Are you mad?" "Indeed!" The Madame shrieked and rolled off her log, laughing. "Don't doubt our strength," Agha spoke over the shrieks, "It is all we have, and it is, I believe, our only chance this world has." "This world?" One Spell shot, "This is the world you're worried about?" "One Spell..." "No! This world, Aghaba? Where you have to sneeze to be blessed? You're very sure?" One Spell snickered. "This sorry world would see us burned," she continued, "Impaled on the stake and burned. We'd be ash before the wood cracked." It was Mugheg's turn to chuckle, though that sounded more like two dry leaves rubbing softly together.

The next morning, the sun was white behind an icy sky; the air was crisp and chilled like winter-apples, and the ground was brown and firm. The ashes had become trapped amongst the frayed hairs of honeygrass and the dying flame had begun to exhale its last slither of smoke. Agha and Mugheg lay seated, with their backs against the same log. The other women were strewn upon patches of grass, in sleep. Poor One Spell - her frock had flapped up to her chest, exposing her belly to the morn. Mugheg cracked another roachnut and dusted the scene with knowing eyes. "We won't be able to run, should they give chase," she said quietly. "I know,” said Agha. "So we do fight?" "I wasn't joking, Moo." Mugheg gave a slight smirk that deepened her wrinkles and darkened her features. Agha massaged her jaw with her fingers and shifted her position against the log, "Have you been up through the night?" she asked with a grunt. Mugheg didn't answer, and instead nodded towards a sleeping Gophie, cross legged on a log. "When did she sleep?" Agha asked. "Maybe an hour ago," Mugheg replied. "Strange." "Why?" Agha squinted, "Well, for one, does she always sleep like that?" she said. Mugheg glanced at Gophie; she seemed entranced, caught in a moment that seemed to last and last, "She's alright." "Nonsense," Agha grumbled, heaving shakily to her feet. She rolled her shoulders and stretched - a multitude of cracks clicked along her spine. Carefully she sneaked her way towards Gophie, mindful of her companions. She approached the small mound of ashes and she stopped, looking at the scatters, before humming a smile and stepping over the mound. Agha looked at Gophie

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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vimeo

hard to meditate

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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Trx

Likes : Metal balls. Dislikes: a cold touch.

-------- Lula

Likes: to fly Dislikes: water

———— Archetto

Likes: to swim Dislikes: bullying

Themes to consider:

KNOTS MATTHEW WALKER OVERHAND/THUMB KNOT

STORY

TRYX: fuck off LULA: why? ARCHETTO: she said fuck off LULA: and I asked her why. TRYX: WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO QUESTION SHIT. SIMPLY FUCK THE FUCK OFF. LULA: (to Archetto) Bruv, I’m not doin this for you…again. ARCHETTO: Come on.. LULA: Naaaaa brrrruvvvv.. Pissin me off … … … TRYX: Who’s pissin you off? LULA: I said pissin me off, not YOU are pissin me off. TRYX: (to Arch) SEE WHAT SHE DID THERE, ARCH? ARCHETTO: Huh? TRYX: Never mind. Let her go home… LULA: No one has to let me do anything. I’m going home TRYX: THEN GO ARCHETTO: Tryx… TRYX: NAAA, IF SHE WAN GO, TELL HER GO.

(Lula jumps off the classroom and flies off)

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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bolazuli-blog · 8 years ago

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Gophie 1 + Thoughts

Goph*e

There might be a way of describing her - but it’s hard to find it. She might be of the palest porcelain, or as black as ebony. Either way, her skin is most definitely smooth. Goph*e Strange spelling, eh? Peculiar. That’s because she doesn’t write her ‘i’s’ with ‘i’s’. Instead she uses *’s. Stars. She believes that stars ask her questions - and that it is her duty to answer. That if she doesn’t - she’ll turn into a ball of nothing. Goph*e Pronounced ‘Gophie’ like ‘Sophie’ but ‘Gophie’ And spelt with a star.

--------

“Why did you do it?” “I didn’t.” “That’s what you say. But the groundskeeper saw you.” “He didn’t see nothing.” “CALLING ME BLIND?” “I didn’t call you anything.” “So why did he say he saw you?” “Maybe he thought he saw me because maybe he had a drink.” “Apologise.” “I’m sorry…” … .. “Where was histor?” “Excuse me?” “Where was histor?” “What’s that?” “Histor.” “Oh, Histomie?” “We found something. It said, ‘Where was histor?’ Does that mean anything to you?” “I don’t know what histor is. I know a Histomie?” “Who’s that?” “A girl/boy. I think she was a girl but now she’s a boy, but she doesn’t call herself a boy.” “What does she call herself?” “Human.” “Was she also involved in the raid?” “What raid?” “Was - she - involved?” … .. “I don’t know what raid you’re talking about.” “You don’t know which raid I’m talking about.” “I don’t know which raid you’re talking about.” “So there were more raids?” “I’ve heard of raids, I’ve never been part of them.” “LIAR, I SAW YOU!” “Groundskeeper, I’ll be speaking from this point.” “Yes Ma’am.” … “What’s your name?” … “Sophie.” “Sophie?” “Yes.” “Like…Sophia?” “Yes, that’s my full name. Sophiandria.” “Why are you lying?” “Because you know my name.” “Don’t lie to me again, please.” … “Don’t lie to me again, please…” “Yes Madame.” “And don’t call me that.” “Yes Miss.” “Yes Ma’am.” “Yes Ma’am."

“What’s your name?” “Goph*e.” “Gophie?” “Yes.” “Yes?” “Ma’am.” “Ma’am?” … ... “Yes Ma’am.” “Yes, Gophie.” … “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Gophie?” “No, Ma’am.”

“Where does Histomie live?” “In blue house.” “Blue house?” “Oh sorry. Before the new rules, Cobalt was Blue.” “House Cobalt.” “Yes Ma’am.” “And where do you live?” “House Cobalt.” “The closest house to the Common Ground.” “Yes Ma’am” “And you …know nothing of the raid?” “I don’t know if there was a raid, Ma’am.” “What do you mean?” “I mean…I heard screams and people laughing, and I saw the fires outside - but I thought a raid was when a place was invaded and interrogated.” “You’re a smart girl, Gophie.” “Yes, Ma’am” “Stop.” … “Groundskeeper…” “MA’AM?” “Stop shouting.” “yes ma’am.” “Groundskeeper…” “ma’am?” “They wore masks.” “YES MA’AM. CLOWN MASKS.” “Groundskeeper…” “MA’AM?” “Stop shouting.” “yes, ma’am.” “Clown masks?” “Yes, Ma’am. Blue Faces, Ma’am. Red lips and white eyes, Ma’am. “Clowns?” “Yes, Ma’am.” “Is this one of the clown masks?” … “I think so, Ma’am.” “You think so?” “It weren’t so burnt up when I seen it, Ma’am” “But this was the mask that they were wearing?” “Yes Ma’am.” “Was Gophie wearing one?” “No, Ma’am.” … “Gophie?” “Yes, Ma’am?” “Were you wearing one of these masks?” “No, Ma’am.” “Have you seen these masks before?” “This particular mask, Ma’am?” “Stop being smart.” “What do you mean?” “Have you seen one of these masks before?” “Yes I have.” “Where?” “Here.” “YOU LITTLE SHITE.” “Groundskeeper…” “BUT SHE’S A SHITE. A LYING SHITE.” “Groundskeeper…” “YES MA’AM?” “Keep it down.” “YES MA’AM.” “Groundskeeper.” “Ma’am?” “Keep it down.” … “Can I go now?” “Is there somewhere you need to be?” “I told my friends that we’d be playing Night Scotch.” “What time did you tell them that you’d be playing Night Scotch?” “7.” “7 O’Clock?” “Yes…Ma’am.” “It’s not 7 O’Clock yet.” “But I want to be there on time.” “You’d still be on time if you left in thirteen minutes.” “But I want to get ready first.” “You are ready.” “I want to change first.” “Can’t you play in uniform?” “I’m better without.” … ... “Your friends can wait.” … “Where else have you seen this mask?” “In the Common Ground.” “Have you seen this mask on someone’s face before, Gophie?” “No, I haven’t.” “Just on the Common Ground?” “Yes, Ma’am.” … “What were you doing on the Common Ground?” “I wanted to know what happened.” “Did you find out?” “Just that people had…raided it. Burned it.” “What people?” “I don’t know.” “But you heard people talk.” “I did?” “Did you hear people talk, Gophie?” “Yes.” “Yes?” “Ma’am” “Yes, Ma—“ “—Yes, Ma’am.” … … “Yes, Ma’am.” … … ... “Yes, Ma’am, Gophie.” … ... “Yes…Ma’am.” “Gophie, you’d be better off cooperating.” “Yes, Ma’am.” “And you’d be better of doing so without attitude.” “Yes, Ma’am.” “And you’d be better off doing so without being smart with me. Do you understand? Gophie, do you understand what I’m saying to you?” “Yes Ma’am.” “Would you like to be a Ma’am one day, Gophie?” “I would not.” “And why not?” “I want to be a pilot.” “Females shouldn’t be pilots.” … “I said females shouldn’t be pilots.” … “okay.” “Do you know why they should not be pilots?” “I don’t.” “Would you like to know why, Gophie?” “I would not, Ma’am.” “Then I won’t tell you. But do me a favour - return to me once you’ve tired of that dream, Gophie - and I’ll give you some damn advice.”

—

I have a lot of energy I don’t want - that I need to spend. It feels like my entire body is a prison for whatever is inside. And right now it feels like there’s nothing inside me but something that’s a little like sadness but not as comforting. Thankfully, I think I know what to do. I won’t find the answer in hoping. What I need to feel better is available right now…this very moment. I don’t need to send wishes to tomorrow - I need to make it happen right the fuck now. I’ve been bedraggled with bad company for the last week…It’s my fault - I let them in. I had everything in place for a successful solitude… but, for some reason, unbeknownst to I, people have found their way into my house and they won’t be leaving soon. Well, they won’t be leaving now. Maybe a couple of days or three. But that doesn’t solve my current predicament… which, by the way, is to get these people out of my space, out of my space so that I can spend the entirety of my time thinking about myself and how lonely I am, and how quiet my life is. That’s what it is - quiet. Why? Well, because it’s not loud. I’m used to activity….or, rather, I’ve warmed to it. I like the feeling of feeling rushed, or like I have too many things to do WHILE doing them… Now, I feel like I have things to do…I’m just letting them pile up into a slushy castle of mud, until it all just slushes right back down again. Just imagine it…trying to build a castle out of really slushy mud….you never get anywhere. I’ve tried. Or at least I think I probably have, otherwise where would I have gotten that ridiculous analogy from? I’m afraid of a few things. Death is not one of them… at least not my own Death. The Death of others, maybe… but that’s not what carries my mind these days. Actually, I think that if I thought more about death, I’d be doing more. I’d do more to keep it at bay. But right now it’s like I’m saying, “meh, come get me if you want. meh, go get them if you’d like.” Death isn’t on my mind. I am on my mind. Constantly. Constantly thinking of how particular my life is. How constrained I feel, how lucky I am to be able to laze around, each day, doing little to nothing, just wasting away because I can, and using the excuse of ‘But why?’ to keep my ass from working. But WHY THOUGH? Why work? Why is work necessary? I’m right… it isn’t. I’m just a lucky fuck who doesn’t NEED to work because his mother’s got the bills, and his older brothers and sisters will give him a hand if he desperately needed it….which he absolutely does not. I think one of the problems is… I’ve made myself out to be something more than I am. People lauded me with all sorts of attributes… they’ve called me handsome, wise, talented, intelligent, witty, caring, happy…all sorts of stuff….and now I’ve trapped myself within myself and with all these things that I’m trying to hold on to, lest people be disappointed with their idea of me. But that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s an idea of me…people have fallen in love with an idea. These things are not WHO I AM. Sure I might crack a joke one day, or offer advice, or ask questions, or whatever… Sure I may be a beautiful singer. But I was more than that before they summed me up. And now I’ve taken their titles and I’m there trying to balance a baseless crown on my head, like a fucking joke. I should be ashamed at how far I’ve come with this farce of a life. I should be downright and upright ashamed with a capital A. Ashamed. You know I spend most of my time thinking about my sexuality… because I, in the last 5 months, have made it a priority. It was a slow progression at first…now the thing has consumed my life. THESE WERE NOT MY THOUGHTS A YEAR AGO. Maybe a little bit… but I wasn’t fucking concerned with what Yusuf Ali, a completely irrelevant person in my life, thought about me….let alone what he thought about my sexuality. Well…because, a year ago he didn’t know. He still doesn’t know. But judging by the post I put up a week or so back….yeah, he probably thinks I’m gay. Which isn’t far from the truth. I am attracted to men. I just haven’t done anything about it. Ever. It’s just a thing that’s there floating like that tiny bit of shit that just didn’t flush down with the rest. Just bobbing there, staring at me, with the same wistful expression. What a shame. What a shambles. And what a pile of self-righteous nonsense I’ve been spewing.

It’s like I actually LOVE myself. I must. I must be so totally in love with myself to believe that this is what life is. Just me. In my head. With people around to endure….until the day that I don’t need to be around them anymore. This is life? With an entire Universe circling around me always? Things have occurred before me and will occur after me….why am I so concerned with myself? Is this the human condition? Is this why we’ve been given ‘intelligence’? So we can intellectualise ourselves into graves? I feel like a walking dead person… Kinda. Like a dead person, who’s alive every so often…but, most of the time, is very dead. Walking and talking… but dead. I don’t quite know why or when I started feeling this way. It’s like it just began, like that was that….it just began and that was that. I just started being all philosophical and ponderous, with my fist on my fucking chin and my pipe in my fucking hand. Weed. Marijuana. I blame you. I’m sure you’re the reason a bunch of us can’t get a grip. Because it puts us…Weed puts us on another plane… One some may refer to as ‘higher’ … but I’ve come to see it as….just another fucking plane, where, if you also smoke, then we can relate…. but if you don’t… then, I’ll just be in my head, relating to myself. Maybe that’s it. I spent a LOT of time alone, smoking. I got VERY used to being by myself and smoking. Before smoke it was edibles. I’d cook the weed into eggs, noodles, tea, sauces. And it’d hit me harder. But that was before I dared to smoke. And now I dare. And now tobacco too. Things I thought I’d never do. I now do. But I suppose I could say that about a lot of things… There was a time I thought I’d never kiss anyone… ….then I got my lips slobbered on by a dog. By dog I mean a man. In a fucking club… literally sucking on my face and I just stood there thinking…. ‘why?’. Just stood there thinking, “eww” and “cease” and “desist”. It was so awkward for me. Not for him. He looked like he was high out of his face. Came to me with tobacco in his breath and decided to lick my fucking face. Am I a popsicle? But am I? Why you licking my face? Am I bone marrow? Only Africans would know about that. Or I presume that only Africans SUCK THAT MARROW RIGHT OUT OF THAT BONE. That it’s only Africans that TRULY relish the animal. I can’t stand to see them white people leave those chicken bones on the plate… They literally take three bites out of the chicken and leave the fucking rest on the plate, skin and meat and everything. Mate. Nope. Not I. I will gnaw on that bone until it’s white. Damn fucking straight. Leave meat on a bone…what a load of rubbish. Who teaches that nonsense? Ooh, you know what I was thinking of the other day? White superiority stuff.. Now…I don’t walk around thinking “oooh, white people have a superiority complex thingy….” or that they generally think that they're better than everyone else. I just think…that from an early age…a lot of white people literally get what they want by either asking for it or crying for it. A LOT of white babies put their parents THROUGH THE WORKS…because their parents just won't say no. Well, they might…but if that kid keeps crying…the parent WILL give in. You should see the way some white kids tell their parents to shut up.. See the way they order these parents around. The people that brought you into the world, yeah? Just tooooooootally bamboozle them. Nuts. I’m there watching like ? LIKE ? So what I’m saying is… these white kids get their way with GOD….GOD being their parents….as in…THE reason for your life, the very first system of order, the pillars of all that’s powerful and knowledgable. These white kids can literally say “fuck you” to GOD….and GOD will either cry about it or shrug it off….but GOD ain’t about to discipline the child. SO….a lot of these white babies grow up….with the belief that they are entitled to whatever the fuck they want…why? Because GOD said so. Because GOD said… do whatever the fuck you want…I’ll be here for you always. Is this good? Is this bad? That’s not my business. It’s just a thing I’ve noticed and grown bored of talking about.

However…as a final note. I don’t want to, nor do I actually, see ALL white people as silver-spooned Mr and Mrs Uppity. AHHH, remember Mr Men books? Mr Men and Little Miss. They were bomb. As in…THE bomb. (not adding ‘the’ before ‘bomb’ is the in thing now… so instead of saying ‘that cake was the bomb’…you’d say ‘that cake was bomb’) … I don’t know.

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