Category: snippets

Happy Hogswatch!

“OH, THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING IN THE STOCKING THAT MAKES A NOISE, said Death. OTHERWISE, WHAT IS 4:30 A.M. FOR?

Terry Pratchett, “Hogfather”

Happy Hogswatch, fairy folk! May the 24th be with you.

For a bit Hoggy atmosphere, a bit Halloweenish tale :> I am the Grim Mal, you remembered, hmm?

Glass Eye

Teatime was sitting alone. He was always sitting alone. There was no adept who would like to be friends with him, they didn’t even want to even approach him. The tight lampshade formed around him, a bubble, through which no student could pass. The more mature ones knew that this boy shouldn’t be in the Guild. Younger ones also knew it, but subconsciously. Nobody ever told them what was wrong with Teatime.
*

Teatime was standing over the cat. The cat was not in the best condition. It just burned. Soon the pedagogical body will appear and of course, it will cover it up. It wasn’t the first time, rather… eighth? The cats looked hilarious, burning. He was surprised that others didn’t find anything funny about it.

*

It was a normal day. The day when he lost his eye. The young adept, a kid still, mocked Teatime. And Teatime was like a fury, like an angry natural element. They knew that no one should approach him, but the adept wanted to have fun at his expense. Teatime started to bite. He was small and agile, smaller than other boys, but he knew WHERE to bite, in addition to his education in the Assassins’ Guild. He bit deeply until the adept bled. And with skill, as if he had done it before. And now Teatime didn’t have an eye. He won’t have it for quite long.

*

Time pours in an hourglass. Another spring. Another summer, lush, beautiful. Autumn. And winter, spirited, cold. Teatime is no longer a child. He’s devising plans. Relaxes, enjoying the future inhumations. He knows that he mastered his assassin’s skill. How can someone who loves what he does, not do it right?

*

This ball, the fake eye. The Unseen Academy student told him it wouldn’t do anything as long as he didn’t poke it too often. And, surely, if that other student didn’t come up with the idea that it could be magical, Teatime wouldn’t be interested in it. But now he sees. Clearly. The eyes of the adepts run away somewhere far away. Again.

*

The first serious commission. Already after graduation. Dreaming about blood, dreaming about killing. Dreaming about the small letters that make up his name in the hall of the most famous assassins. Not Jonathan. Someone better, someone else. What about the sleds? It must be the Hogfather…

*

His body is lying on the floor. He can’t believe he is dead. And the tentacles of the unknown world, to which he goes, reach him, try to mute, the world looks devastated and destroyed, the red sun grows bigger the longer he looks at it, the deserts look abandoned but the monsters are looking at him from under the huge monoliths. And he doesn’t like this world. He doesn’t like it at all.

I DON’T KNOW WHY IT’S NOT OBVIOUS, says Death, I THOUGHT YOU WILL KNOW IT FROM THE VERY BEGINNING.

*

Another spring. And summer, lush, beautiful. Autumn, all in yellow leaves. Finally, winter. But Teatime is gone. There is only a glass ball from a student of magic and emptiness in a place where once was someone. The small letters were written under a small trophy. But it isn’t the trophy he worked for.

*

The desert screams. The monsters hunt. The other world is breathing vermillion. Death walks under the red sun and ponders. Why humans are so unpredictable?

Liannan Shee

Sometimes… it hurts. Hurts like a burning coal on the open wound.

How my dreams always drift in the same way, towards the same entity… The mere thought that I could dream about her, hurts… But she always appears, shrouded in red, glistening, marvelous…

And ruthless. I sense that mark on her… that… scar, which hurts my senses and my soul.

When she comes in red, she is like a breath of summer, like the night dance in the spring, like a gossamer of memories.

And she leads me through the mists, towards the trees, towards the blooming flowers on the meadow, which I could touch with one finger, most delicately, and it would disappear in the dreams, carried by the wind.

Sometimes she comes to me, dressed in blue. And then clouds fall down from the sky and the rich azure stings with its rays like it was torn from the gods’ hands.

And then we travel by the rainbow, towards the sun and beyond, towards the fallen starts and endless vastness, seeing the color stained by magic…

I want her to come to me once more… dressed in green. Her voice seems the dew in the cold morning, the droplets of rains slowly patting on the windowsill, the patter of hail on the glass.

I would want to go with her to the lands that have never seen the human being, and the thick emeralds lay upon the feet, laughing pearly.

But sometimes… sometimes she comes dressed in black. And then…

… I am afraid to open my eyes, to not see, how my dreams are dispelled mercilessly in the last ray of the dying star…

Witch Light

Chased by the inquisition, hounded by people from the town, accused of witchcraft. Flipped books on black magic, items that indicate that I could dance with the devil himself. The pieces of evidence were undeniable, the only thing wrong with them was that they were untrue.

A lonely woman with a glow in the hair and the stars in her eyes, was the perfect victim when people began accusing the bolder townswomen of witchcraft.

It’s been four years since I was marked with the witch’s mark. But here, in the farthest corner of the mountains, no one was looking for me, no one was bothered by me anymore. I became nobody, I became a shadow and a ghost. Living in the middle of the forest, not standing out, now with a ranger husband, with a daughter who always runs away somewhere, deep into the woods.

And she always comes back with an inspired expression on her face and a strange glow in her hair.

Now, looking at the setting sun from behind the branches of the trees, I sigh, sucking in the smell of pines. I feel safe here. I feel that I am bound to be a forest apparition. They call it a witch. I call it freedom.

The glow in my hair gleams slowly, singing a silent light song, as I look into the soothing dusk.

We

The buildings blink, dark faces illuminated by the striking warm lights. The darkness, full of smoke; dirty streets, gaping holes of the empty houses, the huge bureaus, made of steel and stone, tired silhouettes of the late workers, the blue gleam in huge rooms – tiny enclaves of peace in the hungry night.


This is my city.


I woke up here, long ago, to be a shadow that devours the blood that beats in its veins.


I breathe with the traffic, laughing in the hazy midnight glory.

Everything changed when the S T O R M came. Only me and her, standing against the downpour. Uproaring, it rages above our heads.


The city still inhales the waste, oblivious against the world’s flounce. I touch her arm when she appears, and we drift into nothingness, together.


We want to believe that this is not the end. That we are not the end…
but, now…


… b e o n e w i t h m e…

While the night melts around us.