Saturday, September 19, 2009

Smoke in the Sand: Part Two

Here's the next part of my story....I have no idea how many more there will be--at least one, but I'm not sure how many after that. Anyhow, enjoy!

*Oh, little warning, there are a couple cuss words in this part, but he kind of deserves to say them...the situation calls for it :)


Smoke in the Sand

Part Two: Trouble

The problems started when stopped at Erisan, the second largest city in the kingdom. We were en route to the capital, and Erisan was our last stop before we arrived. Matay'an, myself, and another seer, Kash'ira, were telling fortunes in the bazaar. Others were there, with music and dancing, but our wagon was off by itself.

Our clientele ranged from the poor beggars who'd scraped up just enough money for a readings, to the heavily veiled wives of powerful rajahs. It was one such woman who changed my fate. I did not know her name or station, only that she was arrogant, and wealthy beyond belief. She had a very high opinion of herself, and was greatly disappointed, I think, to find her fortune being read by a scrawny sixteen-year-old boy. I am sure she would have preferred Matay'an, the wise and venerable woman, but alas, she was landed with me, a boy she must have viewed as a novice at best, and an ill-gotten bungler at worst. But that was only the beginning of the trouble.

She wanted me to do the most complex reading for her--a five star pentacle. This means that I needed to use five sets of tashin cards, each laid out in the shape of a pentacle. Each pentacle formed the point off a greater star, with special runes forming the intersect points and pure sugar tracing the lines of power. She also demanded that I do an energy reading, a palm reading, and a crystal reading. For a veteran seer like Matay'an, to do so many complex and varied readings in such a short time would be tiring to say the least, but for me--suffice it to say, this was my first big bazaar, and the first time I was doing the readings without Matay'an's guidance. I did myself proud, though, and managed to successfully complete each reading. Unfortunately, the woman was highly displeased with the outcome. I can't imagine why, but although I worded it in the politest fashion possible, the fact that all the readings pointed to her being a selfish bitch whose beauty would fade and leave her alone and reliant on the charities of others--well, that must have upset her a bit.

She flew into a bitter rage. I still have the scar on my cheek from where her ring cut me. She tried to skip out without paying, but Matay'an makes a formidable figure when she's angered. I think simply the sight of her, eyes drawn together and magic boiling around her, scared the woman off. It didn't, however, scare her speechless. I still recall her words, telling me that I would pay for 'spreading such vile falsehoods about a woman of such importance.'

I didn't give her diatribe much thought, assuming that she was like the other nobles I'd come across--arrogant, but soon to forget a commoner. Unfortunately, I couldn't have been more wrong. Apparently she was a woman who nursed vengeance like a child, but feeding it hatred instead of mother's milk. Regardless, that night was the last I spent with the caravan. Had I known what was to happen, I probably would have lied just a bit with the readings, but I was young, and still believed that honesty was the best course of action. When they came for me, I was beginning to seriously consider lying as a profession--it got you into much less trouble.

They came shortly after midnight, two of them, both powerful mages. Matay'an and I, although we were strong, were only seers, not mages, and we stood no chance. They set up wards first, so no one could disturb them, then they came for me. I tried to fend them off, but my paltry conjuration skills were no match for their battle spells. In mere minutes, I was led off, bound in a thick shell of stifling magic. I couldn't see, I couldn't hear, and I couldn't feel. I was scared shitless.

It seemed ages before they finally put me down and released me. I found myself in a dark and cramped cell, many feet underground. It was cold and unexpectedly damp. I didn't know where I was, or how far away I was from the caravan. All I knew was that I was much too far away from my golden deserts with their fiery heat and burning sands.

They left me in the cell for many days, giving me barely enough food to stay alive. Because of the darkness, i didn't know exactly how long I was in there, but after a long while, they came back. I was sleeping when they pounded on the door, bursting it open in a cloud of dust and cobwebs. I was jerked roughly to my feet and bound with iron manacles. Apparently they had decided I was not enough of a threat to encase in the magical shell. I kept my eyes open, watching the turns we took, trying to get my bearings. It didn't work. All I could figure out was that I was still underground and still very far from my beloved deserts.

After some time, the passageway opened into a large cavern. Well, I call it a cavern, but it was more akin to a massive throne room carved out of the earth. Ornate tapestries hung on the walls, covering nearly every square inch with depictions of various beings writhing in agony, or trapped in shock. Strange runes glowed golden around the borders of each piece, but I couldn't make out their meaning.

The guards shoved me forward, towards the center of the room where the mysterious woman sat in a throne-like chair. My mind was working overtime trying to piece it all together, and as the guards tossed me at her feet, the last bit clicked into place. I was in deep, smelly, diarrhea-ed, camel-crap.

This was no ordinary noble. No, with the throne, the robes, the black iron crown she wore, the sheer power she commanded--I had the grave privilege of pissing off the Rut'ya, the high-priestess of Rutar, the Jinshi god of the underworld (the hell part, if you catch my meaning). My heart just about stopped dead as she turned her onyx gaze on me. In that moment, I knew the true meaning of the word despair. The Rut'ya was evil, and took delight in it, in the torture of her enemies. I was doomed, I had been since the moment I first read her cards.

Panic gripped me, its icy fingers trailing down the back of my neck. I bolted, thinking I could make it to the tunnel, make it far enough away to hide from her, but I was too late. I had only a second's warning--a sharp cracking sound--before her writhing tendrils of magic pierced my body, lifting me into the air and casting me against the wall like a child's discarded plaything. I watched as if in a dream. My body cracked against the wall, loud crunches signifying broken bones and probably internal bleeding. I was as good as dead, but I felt no pain. Strange sensations bubbled through me, as if someone had filled my veins with champagne instead of blood. I tried to shake my head to clear it, but I couldn't move. My body slid down the wall, landing in a sickening heap, but I remained where I was, floating, hanging suspended in the air.

The Rut'ya cackled and sent another bolt of magic at me. It made contact with the incorporeal me, wrapping itself around me and sending me hurtling towards the tapestried wall. I never made contact with it. Instead, I practically melted into the tapestry, my very spirit melting with its woven threads. That is what the faces in the tapestry were--the faces of the enemies of the Rut'ya, unfortunate souls locked forever in a woven world. And I was now one of them.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Smoke in the Sand--Part One

This is a story I started writing back in May...I got quite a bit done before my muse took an extended vacation. I just recently picked it back up, and I'll be posting it up here in installments--it's not quite a novel, but it is written in sections. This was fun to write...it started like many of my stories with two words: a story. I had no idea what it would become, but I'm quite thrilled with the direction it decided to take. Anyhow, here it is, and I hope you enjoy it!


Smoke in the Sand

Part One: A Story


A story. Two very simple words to start a very complicated tale. Allow me to introduce myself. I am A'hala A'lak'bar, and I am six hundred, sixty-six years old. I see you chuckle, or perhaps your eyes become shuttered. The number of the beast, you think. I say don't be ridiculous. There is no association with numbers other than what you give them. But I digress. My age is nearly irrelevantat least, the specific number is. The simply fact that I am several hundred years old is what is relevant.

I have been around for a long time. A very long time, as you can see. And unless something miraculous occurs, I will be around for an even longer amount of time. I am a djinn, and this is my story.

I was born to the maidservant of Her Excellency, Sultaña Dazh'ta the Beautiful. She was secretly married, my mother, to a lieutenent in the sultaña's royal guard. Fortunately for my mother, the sultaña was a romantic at heart, and assisted Maman in keeping me a secret. Unfortunately, the sultaña's father was not so romantic. When he discovered my existence, and my mother's secret liason, it was all the sultaña could do to have him exile our little family instead of throwing us to the mherons, his preferred executioners.

My mother used to tell me stories about the mherons, great and terrible beasts who would come and get me if I didn't go to bed, or finish my supper, or listen to the Amah. I never knew what they were, only that they were big, scary, and dangerous. Our caravan--we joined a caravan after our exile--traveled through the Northern Desert, where the only dangerous creatures were snakes and people. The caravan that took pity on us was of the Baz'hir clan, nomads who made a living breeding horses and telling fortunes.

We traveled constantly, never stopping for more than a week, and then only at an oasis or city. The caravan was divided into a specific heirarchy, with each person assgned a role. There was an Amah who watched over all the children, a group of hostlers who cared for the horses, our leader of course, and his advisors, and all the other necessary positions. My father was part of the caravan's defenses, and my mother played the citar when we stopped at cities and villages.

As a child, I helped gather scrub brush and animal droppings for fires. When I reached my tenth year, it was time to find my calling. The three Di'xhas, the ancient women who chose people's occupations, discovered that I had an aptitude for the magical arts of conjuration and divination--in other words, by the time I turned ten, I had accidentally conjured an oasis, spoken with the ghost of one of our elders, and caught a glimpse of our next stop in the shimmering heat waves along the road.

Matay'an, the oldest of the Di'xhas, took me under her wing, doing her best to teach my the diviner's art. It was difficult, for our magics were of different elements. I was a hot, dry, desert magic, full of fire and gusting winds, while Matay'an was from the mountains, and her magic was the moist, wet magic of root and loam. We came up with a method, though, ta ht didn't cause the clash of our respective gifts. She would explain the process and demonstrate the effect, but allow me to find the best path for my magic to take.

My most precious memory of this process was teh first day I intentionally used my gift. I was two months past my tenth rain, and Matay'an had been trying to teach me for the past month. To both of our frustrations, everytime she laid her magic on me or tried to send it through me so I could see how it felt, everytime, it tried to smother me, filling my lungs with dank earth. Likewise, my magic burned her, drying her powers like a fiery kiln. But one day, after a month of this fruitless frustration, Matay'an came up with a new idea.

When I arrived in her tent, she bade me sit on the opposite side from her. Then, when we were settled, she began to speak.

"A'hala," Her voice was as rich as the fertile earth of her magic. "Your magic is as different from mine as the night is from day. And yet, it is similar. Now, close your eyes, and breathe." She guided me through the breathing excercise, helping me align my magic with my mind. The feeling was incredible. I could feel the golden-hot threads of my gift unsnarling and smoothing out, binding together in an unbreakable cord that ran through my entire body, flowing up from my feet, passing through my center, and culminating in two pulsing points of power nestled in my hands.

Matay'an smiled. I could feel it rather than see it, but I also felt something else, something green and damp. I opened my eyes slowly. Laced with the red-gold threads of my power, my vision focused on the figure across from me. Matay'an was wreathed in a sparkling nimbus of green, with the brown roots of her gift twining through it. Surprised, I looked down at my own hands and gasped. They were wreathed in a similar glow, only a brilliant gold instead of green, and the lines streaking through it were burning red.

I looked back at Matay'an and she met my gaze with another smile. I could sense the pride rolling off her, and I smiled back. Then she spoke again, her calm voice guiding me gently.

"Now, focus on an empty space, wherever your magic will be most comfortable, and let it go. As you release it into your space, concentrate on what you want it to show you. You must concentrate."

I closed my eyes again, focusing on the empty air in the center of the tent. It was hot, as always, and my gift loved the heat. As I centered my gift on the space, I thought of my mother, and wondered what she was doing. The pulse in my hands stretched, lengthening into narrow cords that fanned out, covering the empty space. I opened my eyes to look, loving the feel of magic pulling out of my body. There, in the once-empty air before me, was a shimmering golden window, and inside that window was the image of Maman, sitting out in front of our tent, her glittering needle passing swiftly through a pile of fabric on her lap. Her head turned slightly, as if she heard something. A smile graced her features as my father walked into the picture. I watched for another several seconds before my concentration wavered and I lost the image.

Mildly irritated by my loss of concentration, I glanced over at Matay'an. She was watching me with great pride, and I could feel her approval washing over me like a gently waterfall. My disappointment faded as she told me how impressed she was, and how proud she was that I managed to maintain a clear image on my first try.

After this experience, I practiced every chance I got. My skills grew, and after a few years, I was one of the most skilled seers in our caravan. My conjuration skills were growing as well, but I focused more on the divination. The real fun, however, started when I was about sixteen years old, and I learned that divination could lead to all sorts of interesting problems.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Growing Up & Learning Lessons

*Note: this is the first thing I've actually finished in a long time, and it's not even a story! This came pouring out into my notebook, practically before I realized what had happened. It's more of a philosophical discourse, or maybe a journal entry, but I would like to share it with you.




Growing up is hard. What makes it harder is the fact that there aren’t any rules for it, or guidebooks and instruction manuals. People jut tell you to grow up, but no one ever tells you that crucial bit of information: how. So what are you supposed to do? Seriously, this isn’t just something you score points on—it’s LIFE—sort of pass/fail at this point. And there’s another thing—who gets to dictate what constitutes success or failure at life? I know people who some may consider failures, who knows, some may even consider me one, but truthfully, none of us are failures. We’re learning, each at our own pace, and each in our own way. Some people start this whole life thing with a handicap, be it physical or emotional, and others start it with the chips stacked in their favor, as the saying goes. Either way, unexpected things always occur to help the learning process along. Sometimes, these things are painful. I have several periods of my life that were excruciating at the time, but if they’d never happened, I wouldn’t have learned the things I needed to learn.

For example, I have been in one romantic relationship so far, and I royally screwed it up from the start. It hurt, and I’ve cried gallons of tears over it, but ultimately, I learned something extremely important. I’m not in the proper emotional state to be in a relationship. I have too many unresolved issues from my childhood and my life to enter a healthy partnership. I can’t go into a relationship looking for a knight in shining armor to sweep me off my feet and fix all my problems for me—I need to be able to fix my problems and take care of myself on my own, otherwise the only relationships I’ll get into will be dependent and unhealthy. If I wait, however, I will be able to enter a relationship fully, accepting help and support when I need it, but also being able to give the same help and support back. Only then will it be fair for both me and my partner.

Wow, that was a lot to come churning out of my pen in a very short period of time. A lot of processing, too. I guess crying all night tends to clear things up, or at least release a lot of stuff. It’s funny, though. I haven’t been able to truly write in a very long time, but something must have come loose tonight, some distraction must have been removed, because now I can’t seem to get the words out fast enough. Honestly, I think my hand is cramping up. It’s funny how what seems like the death of a dream reveals itself to be simply the birth of a new one. That’s what I was crying about earlier. You see, I’ve been planning this road trip for months. I have a car, I had a partner, and everything was getting set. Everything but the two most important things—money and safety. I’m nineteen, and my friend is seventeen. We’re both young women, and we were planning on driving 3,000 miles across the country, with only a few people to stay with, and no set itinerary. Wow.

See, it’s always been a dream of mine to just get in my car and drive. To just go, go and see the world, discover what wonders would pop up on my trail. But through a lot of tears, and the very wise counsel of my mother, I realized that I need to set aside my pride, and the darned stubbornness that I have a penchant for, and accept that now is not the time for this adventure. I’m not ready. I don’t have the money, I certainly don’t have the experience, and it just wouldn’t be safe. There is no doubt in my mind that I will go on this trip, but it’s become a ‘someday’, not a ‘now-day’. I will go, and I will have a blast, just not now, not at this time. I have things I need to do now, things that will help me later in life. I need to work, to start fashioning a self-sufficient life for myself. I need to decide where I want to go to school, and what adventures I want to have later, but right now, I need to lick my emotional scars, and simply be.

I can’t do anything fun and adventurous unless I know how to take care of myself, and I won’t learn how to take care of myself if I skip the learning part. That’s the thing about me, I’m so impatient, I don’t want to wait for the learning, I just want it there NOW! And that doesn’t work, because as much as I want it NOW, I can’t have it NOW, and the wanting doesn’t make it come any faster. I would rather take this trip when I can truly experience it and when I’m truly ready for it, not just because my pride won’t let me quit. That is the lesson I learned today, I only hope I remember it when the time comes to use it. Peace and goodnight to all, and may your lessons be learned as they need to, with as little heartache as possible.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Stories and Ribbons

I have many facets, many aspects to my personality, some that even I don't know everything about. But my fingers have a personality all their own. They write. I can't help it, I have no control over them. They simply write. The stories that slip out are wondrous, full of magic and grace. Each one is different, with a unique setting, intricate characters, and their own bit of flair. Some are dearer to my heart than others, but I can't help but love each one.

It's funny, though. I truly have no control over my stories. Sometimes I just have to write, and other times I can't even find the simplest word. It's as if my fingers are separate from my mind, writing not what I tell them, but what the stories want written. I've gone for weeks without writing a single paragraph, then gotten an idea that led to my writing nonstop for two straight days. Needless to say, after filling four-and-a-half pages with tiny, cramped writing, I had to wear a wrist brace for a week. Ironically, it's one of the stories I haven't finished yet...

Here's one of my favorites. I wrote it during math class (along with many of my stories...how did I pass that class, again?). It was shortly after we'd finished Macbeth in my AP English class, so my mind was rather preoccupied with Shakespeare's choice of words. This particular story started as most of my stories do, with a single phrase. It's funny how often that happens to me. I'll be thinking about something completely disconnected from a story, then a word or phrase will slip into my head. I'll write it down, and twenty minutes later, I have half a story scrawled down on the back of my math homework.

Anyway, this is one of my very favorites. It's titled Ribbons, and is a little different from most of my works, but I think you'll enjoy it.

*NOTE: All works of fiction published in this blog are copyright by Keziah J.E. Roy.


Ribbons
By Keziah Roy

Strands of color wrapped around a slender wrist. My wrist. Crimson droplets staining the colors incarnadine red. Streamers of red fluttering before my eyes. I try to grab them, but they dance away like scarlet butterflies. My fingers just brush them and they seem to implode, staining my fingers to match the reddened bracelet around my wrist.
The rest of the colors fade away as the petal-soft crimson engulfs them, setting my vision awash in a multitudinous haze of crimson, scarlet, carmine, and blood red. I see nothing else. I hear nothing but a quiet buzz, the buzz of struggling life. I smell nothing but a faint metallic tang, the same tang that has slid between my lips and is now resting on my tongue. I recognize it as coming from the pretty red haze, the red that has me feeling like I’m lying in a bed of liquid rose petals. I was given roses once—last year, when I turned eighteen, my boyfriend sent me eighteen beautiful crimson roses. But they smelled beautiful as well; smelled like flowers instead of blood.
That’s what it is, I realize, blood. I’m not lying among flowers, I’m lying in blood, my blood. I have no idea why; I can’t remember anything about now. I try to move, but I can’t feel my body. I don’t even know if I still have a body. I must, because otherwise I’d be dead, and I can’t be dead because then I wouldn’t be thinking. Oh Lord, now I’m confusing myself.
I try to open my eyes, but nothing changes. Are they open already? Or is every bit of me numb and paralyzed? I still see the red blood ribbons dancing around my vision, tantalizing me with their delicate beauty. Then I hear another sound, a high-pitched wailing. It comes closer, but I don’t recognize it; it seems alien amidst the fluttering ribbons. I hear more sounds, frantic bustling sounds, and the ribbons tilt and slide around my vision. Maybe I’m moving, or being moved—I can’t tell. For all I know, I could be rolling down a grassy hill covered in flowers. No, no I couldn’t be. It’s winter—there’re no flowers. Wait. It’s winter. Why am I not cold? It just snowed—I should be freezing my butt off. That is, if I still have one.

The ribbons suddenly stop tilting and sliding around, and the wailing sound starts again, this time much louder. It’s irritating and I wish it would stop, but then again, I don’t even know if it’s really real. You can’t stop something if it isn’t there in the first place.
All the frantic sounds are gone now, too. They’ve been replaced with a low, soothing drone. The ribbons are doing a waltz in front of me now, a slow, rhythmic sway. I never learned how to waltz properly. I always wanted to, but I have two left feet and never managed to get the steps right. At least, I think I have two left feet—I may not anymore.
The ribbons are moving slower now, fading slowly to dark. I can’t tell if my eyes are closing or if I even have eyes anymore. The red gets darker and darker, and I feel a thick mist fading over me, fogging my brain and erasing my thoughts. If I have thoughts anymore, that is. The mist is thicker, overwhelming me with its density. I disappear into the cloud, still wondering where I am.
Goodnight.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Aleira groggily opened her eyes, blinking them in the bright whiteness of the hospital room. She looked around, trying to make some sense out of her unfamiliar surroundings. She saw a pile of flowers, cards, and balloons, and, sitting next to them, her mother.
Janice moved quickly to her daughter’s side when she saw the movement. Her worried expression eased a fraction at the realization that Aleira was finally awake. Her eyes, however, are still anxious as she answered her daughter’s unspoken question.
“Aleira, honey? There’s been an accident.”