The Great Fantasy Renaissance

This millennium has been far more fantastic than the last one. I’m talking about the Fantasy genre here; in books, movies, games, and other media. Fantasy has crept into other genres like action, comedy, and even romance. Superheroes have never been more popular, each with millions of Facebook fans. Even long dead politicians and religious messiahs are being resurrected to fight vampires and zombies.

                            

    

Our heroes are truly becoming become heroes… axe, baseball bat and all!

What happened and how did this insane glut of the hyper-real and super-normal invade our lives and imaginations? I hereby propose my theory of the Great Fantasy Renaissance.

The Birth

Opinions and accounts vary, but for me, the beginning came at the turn of the millennium with a cult movie directed by the Wachowskis (no longer brothers)… The Matrix. I speak merely of the first movie and not the controversial sequels. Apart from the myriad influences and allusions that made the movie oh-so-profound, what really fascinated people was the concept that reality was negotiable. It could all be a simulation, and anything is possible in a simulation.

If you could see the world, you could reprogram it!

We were awestruck by the possibilities as we watched Neo kick, punch, leap, and fly through the movie, defying physics, belief, and even death. It captured the imagination of the masses, beyond exclusive basements of nerd clubs. It inspired writers, artists, and designers new to sci-fi fantasy to unleash their creativity beyond the constraints of reality. And thus it began!

The Awkward Adolescence

Fantasy was beginning to stir again, it was still mostly for kids (‘childish’ nerds included). One literary phenomenon changed that. Joanne a.k.a J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter built an everlasting bridge that blurred the boundaries between children’s and adult fiction. Other, less noteworthy but still very successful writers blurred those lines some more and soon enough, it was OK for anyone to read anything.

That’s close to half a billion copies worth of sales right here!

On the movie side, special effects were coming of age, allowing directors to paint greater and more splendid canvases. Peter Jackson showed the world how to make epic fantasy with The Lord of the Rings, designing a world of swords, wizardry, and dragons that one could take seriously. Apart from that series though, movie maturity was still very PG rated, and the first couple of Harry Potter movies proved that. Movies still felt cartoonish, but some series like Spiderman and X-Men still became more popular than superhero movies ever had. DC’s Batman franchise was a joke though (the shameful age of the nippled batsuit) and it looked like the Fantasy renaissance would sputter out before it ever took off.

Why!

But times were a changing, and a new breed of writers and filmmakers were taking a long, hard look at a vision of grown up, serious fantasy.

The Glorious Youth

Much as I hate to admit it, the second author to follow Rowling’s act and make Fantasy even more popular was Stephenie Meyer. Polarising and critically slammed, but undeniably popular and successful, the Twilight series worked in tandem with the Harry Potter movement to spread the word that monsters can be human too. A whole legion of authors rode the wave and found encouraging if not comparable success. The inspirations and trends on the other hand were quite disturbing.

Sparkling vampires… Buff werewolves… Need I say more!

The movies were growing up too. The Prisoner of Azkaban was complex, scary, and a lot better than the first two. Batman grew dark and brooding in Nolan’s series, evolving into an epiphany with Heath Ledger’s Joker in the Dark Knight. The words ‘gritty reboot’ became the mantra for introducing fantasy to a whole new generation of fans. What these movies accomplished was incredible. They humanised fantastic powers and made them relatable. They focused on the logic, science, and history behind these quirks and gave fans a world that felt natural while still being incredibly awesome. Marvel took charge of their movies with their own studio. Iron Man, Captain America, and Thor paved the way for the blockbuster Avengers and their success is proof of how well that worked.

That’s 7 blockbusters in 1… one of them Hulk sized!

The Golden Age of Fantasy

We are truly poised on the verge of a revolution. Fantasy has become the mainstay and, along with its cousin Sci-Fi, it is becoming the foundational premise for non-fantasy stories. Movies like Let the Right One In and Under the Skin actually look at relationships and conflicts; sure the central characters is a vampire or an alien, but that’s incidental. Creative license does allow you to roam free with your setting and characters, and that is exactly what writers, artists, and designers are doing now. They’re having fun letting their characters power up and go wild in a world where anything is possible. The implications and consequences are exhilarating. What is to come in the next few years, will be utterly enchanting and fantastic!

The Cipher

“I love you,” she said. Her face was damp with tears and the misery made her look ugly and old. She was young and pretty; at least she had been an hour back. When she had believed that I loved her back.

I looked across the café at the barista. She was decorating a cream topped beverage with bright pink sprinkles. The moment warped and grew sparkly as everything became razor sharp but tinged blue, like a great TV screen going bad. I could see the sprinkles reflected in the barista’s eyes.

I turned back to her to see if it changed the way she looked. Her face grimaced with misery as she saw my dead eyes. She could see the effects of the warp, but she couldn’t understand it. No one could.

I looked down at my hands. They were bathed in blue, streaky fire. Little sparks jumped from one finger to another and bounced between my hands. I raised my hands and looked at her. She looked miserable and confused. She was just reacting to my vague gesture. It wasn’t oh-my-god-your-hands-are-on-fire confusion. She couldn’t see it.

“I have to go,” I told her. She let out a sob that quickly plummeted into a wail. My hands flared, covering my arms and then my entire field of vision in a flickering blue hellish haze. It was out of control.

“You can’t leave,” she screamed. “I love you! I cannot live without you! You have to tell me you love me! Say something, damn it!”

With each scream, the blue haze flickered more intensely. I was vaguely aware of everyone in the café looking at us. I didn’t have to look around to know that a portly man in an overly embroidered beige jacket was demolishing the pink-sprinkled, heavily creamed beverage… behind me. I could see the barista frowning at me and I could see her thoughts spilling out of her mind in strange purple words… Jerk! Cheat! Liar!

None of it was true, but it didn’t matter. It was too late for all that.

“Say something,” she shrieked. I felt all the glass in the café tremble a bit. So it really happened, given enough pitch. I raised my hands again and saw that they were now an intense, tightly packed band of blue energy. All it would take is one word. But this time I had waited for too long, let it build too much. I had no idea what would happen. It was time to find out.

“Boo,” I said.

 

 

“We should have got here earlier,” the strangely tall woman said.

The man shook his head, stopping to tap his pipe out over a smoldering trashcan. “He was too old for a cipher, too dangerous. We couldn’t have saved him.”  

“But we could have saved a city block full of norms,” she said, looking at the still smoking pile of rubble and the desperate activity around it.

“It’s alright,” he said, refilling his pipe. “They’re just norms.”

 

The Tale of Everend

Her eyes grew large as he said the words she was waiting to hear; once upon a time…

She knew what was to come. She had heard this one a million times. Each time, the story was the same, and yet so different. She had so many memories, and she didn’t know how Papa did it; her favourite parts never changed; and still, there was so much new detail in every retelling. Papa had a way with words, and his stories had so much more life that her little crayon men had ever had. Each time the story started, she held her breath, letting it out in little gasps that punctuated the many wondrous events in Everend.

It was a beautiful place, was Everend! She liked it better than all the other places he made up or borrowed, including Peter Pan’s Neverland. She got Peter; he didn’t grow up, neither had she. But then, she couldn’t imagine running away from home to play Injuns and Pirates for eternity. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t bloodthirsty enough! With a wooden sword in her hands, she had made the boys scream like little girls! But running away from Papa had never crossed her mind! 

And yes, Everend was the best!

Oh, but Sir Dunnohoo was in trouble! His horse had the runs, and a runny horse doth not gallop!

She burst out into peals of laughter! That line always got her, especially the way Papa said it. A runny horse doth not gallop! Sir Dunnohoo was a scream, and she loved the way he blustered through the advantage. The real hero was of course the heroine! Everend was her kind of place, where the heroine was always the hero, and the knights were in distress because of their runny horses!

For a while, she rested into that soft glow that came so often with these precious moments. She could see the animated expressions on Papa’s face, his eyes widening in horror as he described the troubled knight’s climb up 542 stairs. Papa didn’t like stairs, and while she gladly skipped over them, she made a moue of dismay at Sir Dunnohoo’s plight. Papa then flailed his arms around, describing the knight’s exhausted triumph at the top of the stairs, and his confusion on seeing the princess he had come to rescue skip past him! Ah, the princess! She sat up, riveted, waiting for the delightful narrative of her favourite character!

Princess Li’lness, the only heroine to ever have an apostrophe in her name (she remembered the day she found out what an apostrophe was in grammar class; how much she had laughed, much to her teacher’s disapproval); Li’lness was the perfect princess. She wore pink, and kicked bad men on their shins with her dainty, pointy shoes. Her best friend was an ogre… oh, Papa was coming to the place were Sir Dunnohoo would hang his helmet on the ogre’s nose!

Sir Dunnohoo saw the pretty princess looking at him, and decided to turn on all his charm.

Papa stopped here, as he usually did, to smooth his hair down and lick his thumbs before shaping up his eyebrows. She went eww, which of course sent him into another round of spit and polish! She playfully punched his arm, which finally got him to continue with his narrative.

He yanked off his helmet, taking care not to let the chin strap mess up the moment, and in a carefree manner, tossed it onto the nearest hooked object… Ohgoaaargh’s nose! (Ohgoaaargh’s dad saw him and started with ‘oh god’, which halfway turned to aaargh; yes, that’s him in that photo with the bitten-off nose!)

Her eyes widened, her hand stifling her giggles as Papa hammed his way through the utter chaos that followed, his hands becoming ogre claws and his voice becoming that of a strangled squeaky knight. Oh, this was the best part ever!

But soon, things got more serious. It was not all laughter and games in Everend, and this is where Papa got inventive. Depending on what he had been reading and what was on his mind, Everend faced a slew of inventive hazards. Today, the evil witch was going to choke on a poisoned orangeberry (a little orange with freckles and lots of personality!) To make matters worse, the worker gnomes were going on strike because someone gifted them a mirror—now, why would someone do that—and they didn’t like their own faces! Everend’s economy was collapsing, and soon would come a time when Everend would be sold to Walt Disney who would just turn it into another theme park! There were so many to save (the evil witch had to be saved too; after all, she was essential for fairy tales and shouldn’t be bumped off!) and it was up to the brave princess to do it all!

She gasped, sighed, and laughed her way through the princess’s brave antics (her favourite part was the orangeberry ending up in Walt Disney’s potpourri and causing a sneeze-a-thon, especially amongst all the grown men in cartoon character suits who worked for Walt Disney!) At last, the story came to a satisfying ending, with Princess Li’lness putting Sir Dunnohoo to sleep and going into the hall to join her Papa for a post-dinner drink.

She clapped heartily, and got up to hug her Papa. She hadn’t heard the story in years, and today, she had begged Papa to do it, with bell and whistles, for her son. Barely a year old, her son listened with rapt attention for all of two minutes, before nodding off. But Papa had gone on, for his little daughter. As she hugged his frail frame, she wondered if she would ever get to hear about Everend again. After Papa was gone, what would happen to Princess Li’lness and Sir Dunnohoo. She held on, squeezing him tighter as she teared up. She could see Everend’s biggest enemy coming closer with every year, and there was nothing she could do. As her Papa held her, she could sense him smile, comforting her as only her Papa could. He patted her head gently as his mellow voice sang out the little rhyme he had always hummed to her as she fell asleep… 

Everend, oh Everend

Sleep tight, you’re safe tonight

All’s well, and everything’s right

I can’t help but wonder

Everend, will you ever end…

Writing in Character

I think the toughest thing a writer needs to do is to write as another person. It is a well-known fact that most writers trying out a first-person narrative for the first time always stumble into an autobiographical character. Always. It is the easiest thing to do, and not having to worry about the character’s tone, conviction, or consistency leaves the field wide open to concentrate on other stuff like plots and tale twists.

But then, if you’re a self-respecting writer with pretensions, or a successful one who has to write a second book with a different voice, or both, you’re stuck! Because you come upon that dreadfully unempathetic exercise of writing a narrative that belongs to a completely fictitious character. Most writers descend to more desperate tricks now. Their better halves, alter egos, close friends and family, all become foils that this narrating character wears. In these familiar shadows, the writer plunges his character’s tale, hoping that his view of his significant others is deep enough to make for a consistent character.

So far, so good. But there are only so many significant others. And so many more tales. And some tales need some really twisted characters to narrate, the type who wouldn’t feature in a self-respecting author’s friends-and-family calling group. Not unless said character had come to life, clawing his way up through a metaphorical grave to become rotting-flesh-and-trailing-blood, come to this world to wreak his revenge on an uncaring author. No wait. That idea has already been done. And we’re not talking about that kind of stuff here anyway. So, where was I? Twisted characters, yes!

So you need this borderline psychotic character, with an anticipatory insanity plea if you ever saw one, working his way (or her way, if that’s your kink) through an ever-deteriorating perspective, downward spiraling all the way to unnamable acts of despicable horror. Which friend or family member are you going to base this one on? Right!

This is where the writer enters the true unknown. Complete creation. Become someone and speak as him (or her, yes, I haven’t forgotten you). Live a life as you figure out how your character would feel in so-and-so circumstances and how your character would react. Making that difficult choice between a gas-powered chainsaw or a double-edged axe. What does your character really feel like hefting while giving way to all that incredibly raw angst?

Tough call. That’s what separates the big boys from the little ones, the contenders from the pretenders, the writers from the wannabes. Live your characters through in your head and you will tell a tale worthy of them. Or you might as well give your unfortunate psychotic a letter opener. A plastic one. With a lace-decorated handle. She wouldn’t be able to handle anything else. (Or he wouldn’t, sure! Everyone has an opinion!)

Cogito Ergo Finito

On Whimsy

It has been a while since I’ve succumbed to the seductive call of my oldest and most faithful mistress. She calls every once in a while, as persistent as a wooing adolescent with cratered cheeks and the eternal-hope springing breast. She has much more grace though, and her technique is more akin to that of an erudite and accomplished Madame. Her whispered words used to send a hot flush up my cheeks. She paints images no decent man should ever see. She used to croon to me, teasing me, taunting me. She still does, the words always the same.

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

Memories come back. Memories of deliciously irresponsible escapes from the ennui of everyday eventuality. Memories of breathlessly reckless acts that derailed the careful plans of years and their predictable tomorrows. Memories of her, always whispering, always leading me on a merry chase away from everything else, away from everyone else.

Whimsy. She always comes back. It doesn’t matter where I am, what I do, or how settled in my groove (rut!) I am. She always has a spiel, and it is always intoxicatingly intriguing and attractive. She does not try to reason, though. Never! She advocates against it! She does not promise happy tomorrows for everafter or even a moment’s gratification that is somehow worth a lifetime. There is nothing guaranteed but the act of indulging in her, in Whimsy. Everything that follows is delightful chaos.

The clock ticks and as grey flecks my hair and crows sinks their claws around my eyes, her trips become more poignant. It is more difficult now to just give in. it is more difficult now to turn her away. As my age nears her immortal appearance, our relationship matures. Her words are the same, but they make me smile now and not blush. Her tricks are still clever and completely unanticipated. But they make me applaud at the illusion; I’m a spectator, not a victim. I’m an outsider, not one of her lovers anymore. And still, when she leans forward, her wanton perfume filling me up with the lust to live outside the boundaries of what is acceptable and right, when she brushes those lips against my reluctant ears and whispers…

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

I wonder. I can’t help but wonder.

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Wordscapist

I do not exist
I was who I was told I was
I was who I was expected to be
I was… Was I?
No!
I am who I want to be
I am a myth, a story, a ghost
I am flux that can be shaped anyhow
I am me, I am you, I am anyone
Words capture the form
Fleeting though it is
In these ephemeral scapes
I exist
I am
The Wordscapist
Everything you say is true… somewhere. How artful your truth is (no, there are no lies) and what you make of it determines how real your wordscapes are.

You shape your reality; consciously, through actions, and unconsciously, through means you do not realise, far less understand. There are some though, who know more, do more, say more. They use words. They weave reality with words. Wordsmiths.

It is part gift and part rigour. It is half discovered and half tutored. It must be absorbed and harnessed. Somewhere between the lore of magic and the abstractions of sub-atomic resonance, lies the art of weaving wordscapes. It is a powerful art, one that binds and one that destroys. And yet, it is not infinite. Its boundaries define it as much as they limit it.

There is one who can weave beyond these boundaries… the Wordscapist.

Reaching the pinnacle is a journey, a tale of becoming, realising. Power comes in reasonably, and at times frustratingly, small increments. He didn’t have that luxury. Power came as a tornado, brought on by insanity and sheer chance, sweeping him up and throwing him into a melee of warmongers. A con artiste suddenly found himself the genuine article and then had to live up to the reputation. The world would have to wait while the one man with the power to destroy it waged a personal war to save himself.

It is a world made of words. The written, the spoken, and even the thought… all words, little bits that define reality. It is a world that you and I live in, today, now. It is all going to change soon. Buckle up. Hang on. And yes, careful what you say. Everything you say is true… becomes true… somewhere.
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Death of a Story

Someone has to die for it to be a good story. But what if I do not want to kill anyone. What if the characters I create are not meant to be sacrificed at the altar of the story’s supposed greatness. What’s the way out?

Why not kill the story itself? Let me build this story’s end within itself. Let’s brew a murder that will achieve sweet fulfilment in the very inevitability of every story’s destiny; the end.

For every murder, there has to be a plot. So does every story need one. In this strange pun, let’s weave in the swirls and twirls of the happenings that will lead to this story’s end. Let’s cook up a character who walks the pages, and slips between folds, who hides behind serifs, and seduces ellipses effortlessly. Let’s write up a character who is beyond the power of the author, of words, of the story itself. Let him be a shadow that needs no wall, no light, no being… just pure essence. Let him be the beginning of the end.

Feel the story quaver already? What next? For the plot to be executed, there has to be a motive. Why would the character want to do the story in? Perhaps the story plans to knock him off. Perhaps there’s glory and power in bringing down the world that limits him and threatens to knock him off with a heavy exclamation. Perhaps the character is a sequel killer, lurking in the twists of many a story, responsible in secret for many an untimely finale. No. Our character goes beyond such petty clichés. His motive is art in itself. The sheer poetic justice of doing unto the doer what is due to him. Doesn’t make sense? Wait, dear reader. The end will reveal more than the inevitable chalk outline.

The story does not give in so easily. It resorts to its most dastardly trick, the twisted tale. It ushers in a series of events that cripples the character, challenges his very essence. It changes the rules, gives birth to deadly new predators, and even shatters the fourth wall. As the debris comes crashing down, I shudder at the implication. Has my perfect murderer been mowed down by the sheer scale of events, by the complete disintegration of the world around him?

I realize I’m not alone in my horrified fascination. The story watches too, gasping at the damage it has wreaked on itself in its hunger to root out its doom. I quell my distaste at sharing a moment with my adversary as I wait for the dust to settle. It eventually does. I see a chasm has opened up. And on the edge is a pair of hands that hang on doggedly. A powerful heave of metaphorical shoulders reveals my character hoisting himself up. Wiping streaks of tattered sub-plots from his grim visage, he pulls out a board, and plugs it in right over the chasm. PLOT HOLE, the board announces. The story and I gasp, horror and wonder melded together in one sound. The story overreached and laid itself open in its quest to vanquish its hunter. Alas! Its end was written within itself. And right then and there, everything vanishes into the void. Not even a measly Fin remains.

I burst into applause, that quickly peters out. I see him standing in front of the void. He is not done cleaning up the mess. The story is done with. The author remains. No, I cannot...
Cogito Ergo Finito

Grolshynch Bluesowen

Grolshynch Bluesowen was a name spoken in a pristine moment of insanity. Names have power. So does insanity. It was inevitable that Grolshynch became a real person, warping into reality with no attempt at coherence. And with a name like that, he was a frightful person. A sad, frightful person. Why sad, you ask? Read on.

With a snarl for a whisper and sheer terror in the most benign looks, there was nothing salvageable in his character or redeemable in his nature. Grolshynch was one of nature’s bad guys. He had never hurt a soul or carried off a woman. But he did not need to. His destiny was to be the villain, the monster, the beast. He came into being like an action figure, with a clichéd profile sketch sealing his existence.

What did he look like, this Grolshynch? Did he have bloodshot eyes with the fires of hell glowing in them? Did his diabolic smile reveal sharp canines that seemed to grow even as you watched? Nothing of the sort. Grolshynch didn’t have an appearance. The man that spawned him had not bothered with visuals, merely a name and an intent. Grolshynch lurked so well that you would never catch sight of him. And if you did, what you would see was anyone’s guess. But it would be sure to stop your heart. Imagine, a sight that went with a name and personality such as that, springing at you out of the shadows.

What did Grolshynch do? When he was not lurking, that is. Say, on a Sunday morning. Did he read the newspaper on the pot? How did like his eggs?

Do you really want to know? Do you care? Wouldn’t that spoil it for you? Giving a Caliban like him a life, human traits. How could you justify the delicious terror that you would otherwise feel when you whispered his name? Let’s say he used an ultra-soft toothbrush because he had sensitive gums. Wouldn’t that just destroy the entire concept of Grolshynch forever and ever? Would you rather not have his shoving a rusty wicked-looking pick into his void-like mouth to dislodge that shard of rotting bone left over from his last meal, a meal you would rather not imagine?

What’s this rambling piece about? Who is Grolshynch Bluesowen? Grolshynch is a monster, more precisely, a social monster. With a personality that is a perfect match for society’s picture of a nightmare and origins lost in the mists of a twisted man’s insanity, he never did stand a choice.

By the way, he likes to read the Times on the pot. Especially when he has white bread the previous night. It constipates him. Meat, you ask? No way! Grolshynch is vegan. He can barely stand the whiff of milk, leave alone meat. So he doesn’t like eggs, any which way. And despite his sensitive gums, he has quite a neat set of teeth with regular canines. And once you get past his inevitable exterior, he’s quite a nice guy, actually.

What was that, you want to add him on Facebook?Cogito Ergo Finito

Flirting with Insanity

An experimental piece, written just to see if I can simulate paranoia. It's still too coherent. I'll give it another shot some time later.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m playing with words. I’m delaying the inevitable. I cannot dally. I must make haste. I must escape. I cannot. But still, I must try. Like a terrified hare, I will terrify myself to death as I streak through the jungle with the predator right behind me. But I will not be caught alive!

I am a seasoned sprinter. I dash for obscurity, I race towards anonymity. I make a mark and scrub violently to erase it. I cannot be caught in the act or the aftermath. I must not be located. I cannot be locked up. That would be the end of me. Run, I scream to myself!

I look around desperately, for cues, for messages, for signs. Never for help though. Every hand that reaches out seeks to grasp, clutch. They are all in it. They whisper, conspire, coordinate so that they can creep up on me. I won’t let them. I’ll be gone. Ha!

I have the jitters. I twitch incessantly as I drum my fingers and chew my nails to ragged bits. I clasp and clutch my fingers, trying to calm myself down. My breath is reduced to whoops and gasps. I haven’t even started the race yet, and still, adrenaline fills up my veins, stoking my body, preparing it.

I toss baggage out. Everything that cannot be carried must go. Everyone who will slow me down must be left behind. Chunks of objects, memories, and relationships go hurtling through my window as the room becomes bare. All that remains is what will accompany me on the run.

They are here. Time’s up! I dive out, landing hard. Blood trickles through abused skin, skin that stings as sweat starts pouring freely. Trivialities. I race through narrow alleys, my shoulders ramming into strangers, bits and pieces of outlying identity knocked off in the chaos.

My stomach knots itself up as my lungs scream for air. My legs are on fire as they pound the path, my hands reaching out for anything that will support, that will help me hold on and lunge forward. I can feel them. The chase is on. There isn’t much time now.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m out of time. They are here. They will have me soon. I’ve been running forever. I can run only for so long. I only hope they do not disappoint me. I have been preparing for this all my life. I stop. I turn around, half tottering. I can hear them. A moment away. Their stench fills up my nostrils. I clench my fists. The running is done. It is time for the last stand.

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and launch myself at them with a scream! Moments later, it is over. The end. Peace.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Changeling

You came into this world, a whisper between life and death. They celebrated your birth as you wailed at what lay before you.


The faerie watched... chuckling at your misery, at the irony of the delight surrounding your tears.


But that knowledge faded till it became just a queasy knot in your gut. You got caught in the feasts and the orgies. You lost yourself in the glamours and the lies. You forgot.
Try and remember. Realise. Know.


Changeling, you are but a visitor. Little more than a knave. This life holds no challenges you cannot surmount and death hides no surprises you will uncover. You will fool yourself with rainbows and optimism, but know that both lie... Colours sprinkled by rays and rain do not point to pots of gold. Dreams spun with hopes and mad wishes do not make a life.


When the fey one holding your cards smiles, you soar. But the faerie are capricious. With every frown, they bring about storms. They laugh in wicked abandon as they see the havoc they wreak. They titter and nudge each other in anticipation as you stagger into the the next rabbit hole. Not long before you plunge yet again... deeper. Soon, you will fall again... harder. You are bailed out, wrung out, and hung out to dry. And then... it starts again. The game goes on.


Your life has been pledged as tithe to Them. The miracle that was your birth will be paid for with your life. Your fate will become a game, a spinning coin, a rolling die. And you yourself, a mere pawn, a toy that amuses and enthralls Them. When They tire, They will cast you away. Just as you came in, a wistful whisper, you will pass on to the next world. There will be tears at your passing, but this time they will not be yours. The mourning will mask your smile of relief as you escape this fey game, this tortuous illusion.


You are but a changeling. This life is just a debt. Live it off. In time, in this world or the next, you will have paid for your keep and the fey will let you go. They'll break the die and melt the coin. They'll free the pawn that circles the board endlessly. And then, you will walk free. You will discover what life can be. Away from the faerie. Away from illusions. Pure life. Pure being.


Changeling... Believe. You will live. Some day. For a moment. For eternity.



Cogito Ergo Finito

Threes

Things come in threes. So they say. Well, writer alter ego of mine says so.

Trouble comes in threes they say
The first one, a toothless hag called Misfortune
The second one, a child named Confusion
And the last one was the deadliest of all
A seductress by name Panic
She brewed it all up
And served up a hot plate full of trouble

They come in threes. It’s the perfect predatory strategy. If you’re reasonably strong, the first one will just shock you. You are still on your feet. The second one will land a sucker punch that will shake you through and through. And then you’re set up. Staggering on your feet, your eyes barely focusing, you don’t even see the last one coming. The third one is always… always… a knockout.
With the first, you lose innocence.
With the second, you lose faith.
With the third, you lose hope.
And then, it’s over.
They’ve won, hands down. But then, it was three against one. You did a good job of hanging in there. You might even have put up a fight. But when they come in threes, what chance do you have?

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Song of Life

Sing me a song of life. Let there be a lilting note of childish joy. Build it up to the boisterous interlude of youth. Play it softly, weaving in the melody of wistful reminiscing, mellowed with age. Give in now to the strains of unrequited love. Over and over again, nurture the tune into an overture of existence, and breathe out the words that sing about life and all there is to it.

Sing me a song of life. Play long enough, and you will see a dance start. Little dust motes pick up the rhythm and sway around, borne by bright beams. Look closer and you can see forms of the faerie, twirling in gay abandon to the music. Oblivious to the emotions that have built up every note of that harmony, they are only possessed with the beat and the cadence that lifts them up. Their very being seems to thrum with the orchestral symphony of your life. And yet, they are strangers to the joy that runs in your veins or the pain that throbs with every heartbeat.

Sing me a song of life. Feed the music with your lifeblood, and watch others cavort around, carried away by the sheer beauty of it all. There might come a time when you stare with the morbid fascination brought on by the precious last moments as your essence drains away. And there are others who will streak themselves with the brilliant crimson, two steps away from the next masquerade.

Sing me a song of life. But watch carefully and you will see the cuts and the lies. The crimson congeals too soon and the crescendo seems to be composed of anguished cries. Note that the languor of those who frolic is of those who have been fed well. A bit closer and you see lips pucker in anticipation and the tongue running across white, sharp teeth. The prey might writhe in agony but the predators will be too busy applauding the killing stroke. Life ends as abruptly as it begins... and there is always a celebration to mark the event.

Sing me a song of life. Let it be real and let it be alive. Let it defy the end and stretch out to the heavens. Throw back your head and scream out your passion in a poignant requiem to all you are and will be. Let there be no watchers. And let the dancers be consumed in the fire that strokes the melody of your life.

Sing me a song of life. But let it be life at its purest and truest. Let it be a rhapsody that embraces all that hearken to its seductive notes, forever. Let it go on and on. Cos there is no other tune I'd rather lend my ear to.

Sing me a song of life...
Cogito Ergo Finito