IN FURY AND FRUSTRATION

IN FURY AND FRUSTRATION

The boy stared searchingly at Alternaeus.

“But she will die,” he said urgently.

Alternaeus looked down at the girl and then over to the boy. Then he sighed deeply, but answered stoically.

“It seems very likely to me that you speak the truth,” he told the boy.

“But, but…” the boy stammered in near desperation. “You cannot let that happen, you must not let that happen.”

Alternaeus placed his hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder and shook his head.

“You are now my apprentice. You must learn this lesson sooner, or later, yet I would have preferred you had learned this one thing, at least, by another and more hopeful method.

I am only a Wizard boy. I am not God, or a god. Some things lie far beyond my power. Death is one of those things. True, Death and I are old friends, and on occasion I can persuade him. But sometimes Death listens to no man. No matter who he may be. Or who he might think he is. I have earnestly tried in this case to persuade Death favorably for the sake of the girl. With little effect it seems to me.”

There was a long moment of silence while the boy looked at the girl and made no reply. The owl was preening itself on his wooden stand. It was the only sound that could be heard clearly in the room. Otherwise the entire tower seemed little more than a tomb to Alternaeus.

The boy shook his head in disbelief, but slowly seemed to sense the atmosphere.

“But you are a Wizard…” the boy said, yet his manner seemed more subdued, or possibly even resigned, and his voice was lower and less demanding.

Alternaeus gently squeezed the boy’s shoulder and lowering himself to his knee brought himself down to the boy’s sitting height.

“A Wizard is only a Wizard my son. Sometimes that is the greatest thing in the world – the most grand, and magnificent, and possibly even the best thing in this world. But it is only one thing of a very many possible things in this world. And because of that, knowing what I know, seeing what you see, being aware of what we are aware, and still on occasion understanding that we are powerless to stop what is truly wrong in this world makes being a Wizard a wondrously lonely and a miraculously terrible thing as well.” The Wizard paused and looked hard at the boy to gauge his reaction. But the boy looked only at the girl.

“Do you understand?” Alternaeus asked him at last.

Finally the boy turned and looked at the Wizard, tears welling in his eyes. In a choked and thick voice the boy replied.

“Yes sir… but, no, sir,” he said with a struggle. “Does it even matter? For what good then will it do me to become such a Wizard? What good then has it done for you to become such a Wizard?”

Alternaeus reached over and took the girl’s soft but cold hand and placed it into the boy’s rough but warm hand. Then he answered truthfully.

“I have no answer to give you boy. Indeed, I have no real answer to give myself. Other than the hope that one day, possibly, we both shall know.”

Then Alternaeus rose and walked quietly from the room. He shut the door silently behind him and left the boy and girl to whatever awaited them. It was well beyond his ability to influence now, no matter what he may wish, or what he might do. There was no need to linger, and no point to watch.

Then Alternaeus descended the steps until he came to the floor of the tower where he crossed the gritty stone, opened the heavy oak door and walked out into the bright sunshine. He continued walking and did not stop for several miles until he came to the marshes at the bend of the river where he saw a young songbird flitting about the reeds, tweeting loudly, playing energetically, watching the water for a meal, and perhaps even looking for a mate. It was, after all, early springtime.

Then Alternaeus sat himself down upon a large rock beside the river and clenching both fists in fury and frustration wept like a small child.

from The Tales of Alternaeus the Wizard

Advertisements

RUNNING THE TABLE

RUNNING THE TABLE

“A modern investigation is simply another way of saying that nothing of any real importance will ever be truly resolved, nor anyone of any real consequence ever tried or convicted.

Therefore fuck their investigation. I’m after Justice, and if possible the prevention of future evil. Let them investigate. If they wish to do so. That will keep them out of my way effectively enough.

As for me I have an entirely different goal. And the intent to go with it.

We’ll see in the end who has the most success. But if I were a betting man Maugham I’d run the table.

Because God-damnit, and you know I mean this, I’m gonna run the fucking table.”

And as he listened to his friend a sort of weird and horrific chill ran up Maugham’s spine.

from The Detective Steinthal

THE CRAFT OF FOREIGN FEATHERSTONES

THE CRAFT OF FOREIGN FEATHERSTONES

I thought that I had injured
That with which I thought
Only then to understand
The fault that I had wrought,

My imagination
Turning as it slept
Found itself abandoned
While to other lands I crept,

The hills of high philosophy
The mountains of the moon
The blood of war, the boatman’s fee
(That endless shore, an anchored leevariant line)
Upon these I was hewn,

The craft of foreign featherstones
A science, or an art?
What matter to that one dethroned
Whose will will soon depart?

Clever in the market stalls
Cunning in the wares
What happens when intent appalled
Is taken unawares?

Creation is a fakir’s cheat
The muses whores of fate
Yet man is just an instrument
Come often, or come late,

If he would be a better thing
He must to something else
Bend himself in constant chase
And sometimes so with stealth,

For he commands that lofty globe
Granted him by God,
Yet even so, he must still show
He knows of the façade,

For art is nothing but the world
Dressed up as if were true,
Therefore man has no real art
Without what he first grew,

Within his mind, upon his heart
He wrote, he sketched, he drew
Then he found that thing profound
When nothing yet is due

Thus (and therefore),

Art can nothing to this world
It did not first possess,
Yet turning so with twisted charms
Man does acquiesce

That in himself creation roams
Seeking whom (and what) to eat, but
First that man must eat this world
For him to be complete…

__________________________________________

Usually I post my verse on Mondays. For First Verse.

But I have been very busy lately and have had scant time for composition. Today though a friend of mine mentioned something about “creation” and since he is an artist I went ahead and wrote a poem I’ve been meaning to write awhile on the subject of art and creation anyway.

I have my own definition for the term “featherstone” in relation to creation and art. Or indeed in relation to anything at all.

I use it in this way: it refers to a magical or mythological Xoanon (that falls from the heavens and is taken as a god or carven into an idol and worshiped), to a thing that cannot in reality exist (because it is entirely self-contradictory), to polish away all of the weight of a thing and leave behind only the most opposite (and usually useless) thing, and even to Potmos, and the Residuum.

By foreign featherstone I mean that featherstone not native to one’s self, or that featherstone one must seek out elsewhere or that lures one elsewhere.

the sly knife

ERIK KAISSON

No.9

.

The greying King his kingdom scanned, grown anxious for an heir;

Did cast about for sons to bless, then felt his daughters’ stare.

‘Are we not children of your blood, the jewels of your eye?

We sew and dance and sing and sew; and watch the kestrels fly’.

.

Three girls I have, relents the King, but not a single son;

For all the conquered lands I hold, for all my battles won.

Three wives I’ve had (though now all dead), one black, one red, one gold;

A daughter each they bore me.  ‘So, which one of you shall hold

.

The sceptre cursed, the weighty crown, this trap shaped like a throne?

What challenge shall I set for you to make your talents known?’

‘Why, father!’, said the golden-haired, ‘What need for loathsome trials?

In all the land there’s none to match the beauty ‘fore your eyes.’

.

The black-haired girl sprang to her feet, and smote them with…

View original post 377 more words

How urgent does the agent need to be?

Ben's Online - A film blog

In a semi-recent podcast on Scriptnotes, they once again answer questions from listeners. One question that caught my attention was, “How long should it take your agent to read your script?”. The answer was ultimately one to two weeks, depending on a few different factors (such as your own notoriety and their schedules), however that’s not what peaked my interest. Something that John and Craig mentioned was that the agent doesn’t necessarily need to read your script. This was actually based on your “level” within the industry. For example, when starting out, agents absolutely need to read your script, because they are advocating for, and ultimately selling, you and your script. However, once you have established yourself within the industry, an agent’s role changes slightly. Unless you’re doing something drastically different than and/or uncharacteristic of your previous works, all the agents need to do is act as a mediator…

View original post 61 more words

So Your Manuscript Has Been Rejected…

Diamond in the Slush

So, you’ve written and perfected yourquery; you’ve written and perfected your manuscript; and you’ve sent both along to a variety of literary agents. Then the waiting game began. You were patient (even though it was painful to wait) and finally, an email has arrived in your inbox! You scramble to open it and scan the first few lines…and it’s a rejection.

Oh no.

Maybe this is your first rejection, maybe it’s your fiftieth. Either way, rejection is never easy to deal with and it can hurt a lot to get your hopes up about an agent, just to find out that he or she didn’t feel the same connection to your manuscript.

So how do you cope?

Dealing with Rejection

Those first moments after reading an agent’s rejection email can be rough. Your mind might jump to all the reasons that the agent is wrong…

View original post 656 more words

A Favorite Poem (Issue #22)

The Finicky Cynic

Hello, bloggers!

Welcome to this month’s “A Favorite Poem” issue in which I present my current favorite poem to you. Granted, it’s almost the end of this month as I’m posting this, but all the same, I hope you’ll like it!

This month’s issue is from Christina Rossetti, a 19th-century British poet who’s especially famous for her poem “Goblin Market,” of which I read back in college as an English literature major. She’s especially known for her romantic works, along with elegant, metered prose which, on the surface level, appears to be simple in message, but is actually more profound than one might imagine. I came across this poem a few weeks back, of which I’ll share with you:

A Triad (Christina Rossetti)

Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger tips;
And one there…

View original post 713 more words