Sunday, September 14, 2014

Children of Moon Slave

Moon Slave came to silver and red and made children upon his enemies. Moon Slave uttered seven prophecies and carried a shovel. Moon Slave smote down a kingdom of climbing rock, of star night hands, of crimson temptation, because they embarrassed themselves as much as they embarrassed Moon Slave. Moon Slave ate the river. Moon Slave struck the continent. Moon Slave raised up ice. Moon Slave blacked out the sky. Moon Slave left.

...for a while...

Kittorek Mountainscare had three brothers, they told her. They were not her brothers. Kittorek crept away under the eye of harvest, ruddy and expectant. She found fears in thorns and collected them. She could not carry them all. Kittorek's dress had no pockets. Kittorek did not need all of her teeth. Her shadow is fat. It bulges and seams, light falling through where her middle is like starscars. She cannot carry these fears any more. She needs others to share her burden.

Bely Thorium wanted to be a hunter. He wanted to hunt the clouds. He didn't want to only kill. He wanted to chase. Bely chased lions, he chased scorpions, he chased seasons, he chased devils. Bely chases the greatest prey of all now: Bely Thorium. All others are secondary to his hunt. The concerns of the innocent are the opinions of grass, of clear sunny days. Blood will come. What's more blood? Bely Thorium is hunting, and he is afraid, for Bely Thorium is coming!

Phanteshaire woke one morning and trembling cut free her surname. She lives untethered to history. Her blood is untempered by dinosaurs, untouched by disease, free from childhood naivete. She recalls the ape but is loosed even from those teeth and urges. Phanteshaire is made of the future and her blessings go on forever. Perhaps she can find in that distance what she is. More likely she will find something older, terribly older, that hasn't happened yet.

Velcatum Auberice swallows bones. He finds them in the woods, and sometimes in meat and clothes. He is patient and polite, waiting his turn, but he is so insistent. The thought of him curls paint. The sight of him chills breast milk. The look of him remains on the eye, to be seared upon everything after seen. Velcatum cannot count to ten, so everything is nines. Nine hours of night. Nine days of searching. Nine minutes of rapture. Nine steps behind.

Lizard Arrow Juice came from brown claw embrace and viridian chambers. When nobody goes somewhere for long enough it turns dark and like black. It is shades forever. There in scriptures of screaming and schools of crododiles he was born, and there he stayed, untouched by sin and desire, until he grew his own shadow. Nobody went to Lizard Arrow Juice. He came unsure and unbidden from the stench and glow. You can't get rid of him. You will not kill him. He wants company. He is picky. He may be a girl.

And there is Moon Slave.