curse of the magi 17

Randell felt the hot sticky blood trickle down his back. He wanted to scream, so he clenched be his teeth. There wasn’t a single sound in the room except the small crack of another pain spell.

Location two. Strike. Strike. God. Damn. Shit. Blood. He wanted to give up, call out mercy, and see if someone would save him and he could bash his punisher’s face into the cold, dark, unfeeling floor.

There was no more feeling in his hands, but there was all too much feeling in his back. Damn. Location three: Damn. He felt his magic straining out to save him, to stop the pain, but the buffer spell lay heavy over his head. The spell hit again. A grunt escaped his teeth as he sunk to his forearms. Black edged his vision, he saw no color, only spinning cement, grey on
grey. His eyes squeezed shut. The spells counted down his seconds. Hit. 3. Hit. 2. Hit.

Blood.

curse of the magi 13

Chapter 2- The Scorpion and the Rose

Randell motioned to Jaumet with a silent urge. Jaumet pulled a rusted pair of plyers from his frayed black backpack. Randell shook his head at the brightly colored pants his friend was wearing.

“You had to wear those during a break in?” Jaumet pulled back, offended.

“These pants are amazing. They’re good for any occasion.” Randell shook his head
and smiled.

“Alright, just work your magic.”

The electric fence quivered the closer they got to it. Jaumet went slightly ahead,
holding his plyers out in front of him. He stealed himself with a deep breath, and put sharp edge to fence.

As with all electric fences, the wire was guarded with a spell that caused immediate pain to anyone who touched it. Jaumet felt the spell creep up the plyers, but he pushed back. The first lesson he had ever learned: don’t let someone else’s spell get the better of
you. A Pi never lost when they started fighting.

And Jaumet was fighting, but it was a mile-long fence against a much shorter boy.

The spell crept closer.

“Randell,” Jaumet whispered. Randell nodded, placed his hand over Jaumet’s on the pliers and pushed. He fought. A Pi never gives up.

vivicentrism and vampires 2

You hear sirens and run. Within the characterless walls of the high school hosting this big-deal national debate tournament ring the sounds of disgust and fear.

Everyone is running away, but you – through some inexplicable self-destructive urge, run towards the sounds of fear. You come across one victim and you come across another, and the only word you can think to describe [it] – no matter how inhumane – is littered.

The first you see is a man, his shirt ripped open at the front. His heaving chest marks him as still alive, barely. Below his collarbone and above his navel the man is bleeding, bitten, from his nipples. Even through your senseless horror, you continue forward in a torrent unquelled. The shut-eyed, almost-dead victims continue to litter the grimy floor as you follow them to their source and some sort of explanation. Only the females do not bleed, but bite marks still punch in, dark purple around their breasts, clearer and deeper along the edge of the nipple. You reach the epicenter in trance-like agitation. Your friend is there, around the ambulances and squad cars.

You run up to talk to him, but he is in handcuffs, and the officers are pulling him back. He opens his mouth to you, blood spilling from his gums.

“This is what could happen,” he warns you. “This is what I can become.”

pentacle 3

PART 1 – THREE OF SWORDS (cont.)

Abby rested her head on her hands. She watched a small group of children screaming outside the coffee shop window. She may have only been just out of high school but she already had a feeling that she had missed out on life, that her nose was too far buried in books, school books, fantasy books, romance novels, and she had missed something critical that couldn’t be found in those pages.

“Getting contemplative again?” asked Angel from behind. Abby shook her head.

“It’s nothing,” she responded.

“It’s not nothing,” Angel replied, “but we don’t have to talk about it.” Abby frowned, always a bit peeved at how quickly her friend Angel could see right through her.

“Got your favorite,” Angel said, setting an Americano in front of Abby and sticking a straw into her own sugary concoction. Abby leaned closer.

“Are those…sprinkles?” She asked.

“They are!” Angel grinned and continued to happily suck up the multicolored excuse for coffee. “So,” said Angel, slamming her drink dramatically on the table, “did you hear about Adrian’s uncle.” Abby looked up.

“Adrian’s uncle?”

“Yeah,” Angel said, “you know, Bahir?”

“I heard that he died,” Abby respond looking deep into her drink.

“Committed suicide,” Angel corrected around a swig of sugar. “Apparently he shot himself. In the head.” Abby didn’t look up.

“That doesn’t seem -“

“Like him at all?” Angel cut her off. “I know! Do you think they did an autopsy?” Abby was beginning to feel sick.

“I don’t know…” she faltered. Angel’s demeanor softened.

“We shouldn’t be talking about this like this,” she said more soberly. “Bahir was amazing.” Abby felt her eyes prickle with tears.

“Yeah, he was,” she said softly. The earth trembled softly.

“Huh,” said Angel, looking around her, “a tremor.”

quarantine 4

Indigo walked down the hallway in jeans and his white undershirt. He walked quickly and reluctantly, like he had somewhere to be but was afraid to go there. His journey brought him to one particular stainless steel door. He pressed the key tightly into his palm.

What was he doing? He was a guard, not a caretaker. The broken arm shouldn’t
bother him, nor should the damage done by Jeremias’s angry fists. He’d seen beatings before.

Why should this girl be different?

The teeth of the key left bite-marks in his shaking hands, and he looked at the door
for moments longer before he unlocked it. The little snake lifted her head in curiosity like she had not been asleep, and maybe she hadn’t. She blinked and pinched her eyebrows together. Even Indigo had to admit; he was strange company for the middle of the night in a
room that looked too much like a prison cell to be anything else.

The groundcrawler sat up and swung her legs off the twin-sized cot that passed as a bed. She was ready, ready to get up, ready to attack.

What do you want? She snapped with her eyes. Indigo shook his head and held out a condom.

“I have an offer for you.”

That little snake looked at the small shiny package for longer than Indigo wanted to
hold it out, but still he held his offering, and still she stared.

Indigo watched her face closely for any sign of change. Her eyes were wide, as
always, but they didn’t change. But her chin seemed to bob up and down in a slow, imperceptible nod. Finally she nodded, curtly and certainly. Indigo nodded back.

“Good.” And together they unceremoniously pulled off their pants and their underwear. They kept their shirts on and their voices low. Although it wouldn’t have mattered anyway; those walls were meant to keep in any sound no matter how piercing and painful. Indigo hoped that these sounds would not be painful. With just as little
ceremony, he rolled the condom on his erect penis, and looked at the snake expectantly.

She nodded, and it began. There was just as little prelude as there was ceremony. It was not long before Indigo was on top of the groundcrawler and then, in her.

Naja watched and felt, almost impassively. It hurt a little at first, but then it felt good.

He waited for her to orgasm, then withdrew, tied the condom, and threw it into the trashcan where they had thrown her tooth earlier that day.

Without invitation, he laid down next to this…snake. They were both breathing
heavy and neither looked at the other as they laid, almost touching, on the twin-sized excuse for a bed. Their breathing had quieted when Indigo finally looked at her.

“Do you ever talk?” he asked. She looked back at him. Their noses were barely
inches apart.

“I don’t talk to guards,” she answered, her voice soft and smooth. Indigo raised his eyebrows.

“Am I not a guard?”

“Not right now,” she smirked with a small, soft laugh. Indigo let the silence hang before he turned back and asked another question.

“What’s your name?” The snake sighed.

“Just my genus and species: Naja sumatrana. People call me Naja.” Indigo watched her closely.

“But not guards.” Naja gave him a long cold hard look.

“Guards aren’t people.”

Indigo didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Naja looked up at the
ceiling, wondering, but not really caring, how he took that comment. He finally turned back to her, with his body, not just with his head, and slid his fingers up her jawbone. He looked into her sharp brown eyes.

“Well, Naja,” he started softly, “snake or not, you’re quite something.” Naja pulled
herself closer and looked back at his eyes.

“What does that mean, Indigo?” He pulled back, surprised that she knew his name, but he looked back into her eyes and they pulled him forward.

“It means, Naja, that, guard or not, I regard you very highly.” Their eyes shared one solid, heavy-breathing moment. She didn’t expect what was coming, but she knew. He pulled her neck closer to him and their lips met. And Naja shared with this human guard a moment only her cheek had shared with a thin pair of lips, somewhere, buried deep in days when magnolia trees didn’t bring a knot to her throat.

But this moment was heavier, more alive. This moment belonged in reality and would not be disappointed because it would never, could never exist outside of this room.

code 400

The DSM defines Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) as:

1. The presence of excessive anxiety and worry about a variety of topics, events, or activities. Worry occurs more often than not for at least 6 months and is clearly excessive.

I’m good at worrying about things, paranoia, anxiety etc. My mom taught me that. Don’t forget. Wear a raincoat. Check your work. Don’t go out alone.
I went to lunch alone sometimes, in high school. She didn’t like that. But it was a short walk to the deli. There was a guy there who knew my name, my favorite sandwich, who gave me free cookies, who wanted to go to a concert with me “sometime,” who tripped over things in his rush to talk to me.

I woke up that morning. And I couldn’t stop thinking about death. This happens sometimes when a thought appears and won’t melt away. Gets caught in the cogs.

Paul Atreides: I know, Thufir, I’m sitting with my back to the door. I hear you, Dr. Yueh, and Gurney coming down the hall.
Thufir Hawat: Those sounds could be imitated!

I never keep my back to doors, always know who’s behind me, if someone’s behind me, I always walk with a weapon: a keychain that’s louder than a car alarm when the chain is pulled, police approved, emergency LED, makes a great gift. My metal water bottle held like a baseball bat by my side. Ready. On edge. Armed.

A. A persistent fear of one or more social or performance situations in which the person is exposed to unfamiliar people or to possible scrutiny by others. The individual fears that he or she will act in a way (or show anxiety symptoms) that will be embarrassing and humiliating.

It had snowed all night. Cars slid off driveways, and we drove on the highway at 10 miles an hour. We get to school when English starts instead of 7:30 when choir starts. The halls are empty. It’s never been this peaceful, I think. Yesterday’s snow has melted and frozen into ice.

However, less well-known is the fight-flight-freeze response, which adds a crucial dimension to how you’re likely to react when the situation confronting you overwhelms your coping capacities and leaves you paralyzed in fear.

I freeze up a lot. When I can’t remember a word, when I can’t remember my argument, with the boy I told to come to the tennis match and I spent an hour leaning against the fence with, talking with. But I’m afraid to look at him, later. And I don’t know why.

I hate getting phone calls.

2. The worry is experienced as very challenging to control. The worry in both adults and children may easily shift from one topic to another.

A. They sit down on the couch next to you.
“Oh also, I can’t make it to your birthday.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, I have a hockey game in Manchester. I was pissed.”

Sometimes no one responds to my texts. They always do it at the same time. Conspiracy, my brain cries. They all hate you. Some things get caught in the cogs.

So does this mean you’re not gonna come?

B. We are leaving the dance. Two young girls in floral dresses in an empty subway station. A man leans over the turnstiles. We have to pass him. Vulnerable in floral. We have to fumble for our Charlie Cards. In front of him.
“Hurry up,” he says. “What are you fuckin’ scared of it?”
He is behind me. Close. The turn style is not what I’m scared of.

The adrenal medulla secretes the hormone adrenaline. This hormone gets the body ready for a fight or flight response. Physiological reaction includes increased heart rate.

Fuck off,” I say. “You probably shouldn’t have done that,” people will say, later.

The fight or flight response can be seen in all mammals in response to threats.

3. The anxiety and worry are accompanied with at least three of the following physical or cognitive symptoms (In children, only one symptom is necessary for a diagnosis of GAD):

A. Difficulty sleeping (due to trouble falling asleep or staying asleep, restlessness at night, or unsatisfying sleep)

In 8th grade, I cheated on a worksheet. Got all the answers from my friend. When the teacher asked me about it, I told him. I didn’t even think about lying. Still. The guilt ate me up.

Eat up, verb, To overwhelm and/or easily defeat one due to being more aggressive, powerful, etc. A noun or pronoun can be used between “eat” and “up.”

At night. That’s usually when I think about death. It’s a grinding, squeaking, circular thought. It always comes back. Big wheel keep on turning. Proud Mary keep on burning.
The wheel in the sky keeps on turning.

It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day. When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out the prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on.

Each morning I had a few moments of peace before the guilt, my failure would stab me in the stomach. I finally told my parents. It wasn’t my job to worry about it alone. They said.

B. Exposure to the feared situation almost invariably provokes anxiety, which may take the form of a situationally bound or situationally predisposed Panic Attack.

When I was 11, I was afraid of zombies. Terrified. Scared that Michael Jackson backup dancers would climb up to my second-floor bedroom and slam their poorly preserved fists on the double-paned window.

During the three weeks of Utah autumn, we used to collect leaves in big plastics bags and preserve them. Pressing them between sheets of plastic and letting mom seal them together with an iron.

We’re playing pool at 11 in a seedy pub in Inverness. The man at the next table is too sloshed to focus on his own game. That shot is shite. He says. But I won’t help her out. We know what that would look like. He’s funny, means no harm. But all I see is the man in the subway. What are you fucking scared of it? Experiencing over and over the moment paranoia became reality. The crossing over where don’t worry mom it’ll be fine loses its meaning.

Every year on Halloween they would show thriller again. I hid outside. Hid in the bathroom. Because each time it started, I knew the fear had been perfectly preserved, and I had no choice but to hide.

A mixture of these chemicals is known as embalming fluid and is used to preserve bodies of deceased persons for both funeral purposes and in medical research in anatomical laboratories.

C. The avoidance, anxious anticipation, or distress in the feared social or performance situation(s) interferes significantly with the person’s normal routine, occupational (academic) functioning, or social activities or relationships, or there is marked distress about having the phobia.

In 8th grade, there was a windstorm. The power was out all night. Half the shingles blew off our roof. Half the trees were knocked down or snapped in half. And in the Bible, there’s an untranslated word. I don’t remember what it was, but I said it again and again as I moved around the halls. As some reassurance. Hoping the house wouldn’t cave in because the floor was moving back and forth in the wind.

religion /rɪˈlɪdʒ(ə)n/ noun
1.
the belief in and worship of a superhuman controlling power, especially a personal God or gods.

We hung out behind the stairs in middle school. In 7th grade, Asher was shit talking the new testament, trying to impress his Jewish crush. I started to cry as I was telling him off. I wonder where that conviction went.

The lamb was sacrificed
Now we no longer fear the grave

delusion /dɪˈluːʒ(ə)n/ noun
1.
an idiosyncratic belief or impression maintained despite being contradicted by reality or rational argument, typically as a symptom of mental disorder.

The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain.

4. The person recognizes that this fear is unreasonable or excessive.

eyelidless

we rescued a baby squirrel today. nick thought there was something dead on the sidewalk back from Trim so we went back to look at it.

“that’s definitely not dead.” it was an ugly pink squirming thing, rolling back and forth as it stretched.

it had four names before it was even supposed to have one. Sophie said “…”

there were seven of us crowded into Sophie’s room around a reclaimed cardboard box.

the squirrel passed away between the hours of 5:30 and 8:30 in the morning.

she had a dream where she was pregnant, and all she could think was “this squirrel will live.”