vaha.

Yvaine leans against the mast & dances around the subject.

Her motion unsettles her companion.
This voyage was no brainchild of hers & lost what little sparkle it had previously possessed many a windblown league ago.

The exchange of azure waters for dry, dun-colored desert sand was not one she’d ever advocate or willingly uphold.
This pilgrimage, as it could only be called, to a once-great vessel, now landbound & choked with grit, registered as having a worth of zero in her estimation.

Any sentiment here has long since turned to sediment.

She squints up at the sun, calculating the amount of time before it would decide to finish the flesh-roasting process.
This is all so very banal; and, therefore, so very necessary.

To hell with the Gobi; long live Atlantis.

She stands, sweating.

Think like a camel.
Right.

taevalik.

Charybdis runs in place, pedaling her boot-clad feet belligerently but going nowhere.
Held by Sōsh’s invisible pinch, she’ll lash about to no avail.

One must pay one’s dues, intentional membership or no.

Yvaine steps over the cow patty & keeps walking.
She eyes up the tree stump lounging languorously in the center of her plot & raises her axe, muttering threats of destruction.

The image is kodak:
She lifts her arms as the buildings breed mushroom clouds-
Laughs.
Dancing to nothing but the hope of an opus that hasn’t yet been enchanted by paper, she’s all summer smiles & sunshine; nuclear winter be damned.

Oh, Skye.

There may be a new contender in the ring; news is still a mixed bag of jumbled & mum.
Placement: firm pro.

And so the celestial bodies turn.
Meteor showers bring fallout, but goddamn are they a sight to behold.
Sign the mailing list & watch the Stars fall.

end transmission.

trui.

In a room saturated with stolen images & found objects, she will watch her fate take the shape of a sweater, poorly knit, on the loom before her like so many of her foremothers.

‘The gift of premonition’: an oxymoron.
These days it’s more commonly known as intuition.
Largely a device of the Sisters.

Pushing her chair back, she sighs & sips her coffee.
The heat feels good on her massacred fingertips.
Twine burn sucks almost as much as burlap cuts.

She rubs her hands together & fantasizes about higher-quality material.

It’s not in the cards.
There are no cards.

Damn this.
Goddamn this.

She will curse her ancestors.
And then she will go back to work.

The daily grind.

The daily weave.

koerant.

Honora: a success story.

Liege: visible, cloak gone.

Chimaera: present, always, but forgiven.

Skeeter: was here, is gone- chased out of the room by M.P.’s better half.

Grier: in town.

Coggs: discovering the joys of collaboration.

The Often Orphan: appears from time to time; watches, silently; disappears.
Fractal follows suit, doppelganger in tow.
It’s not a big deal.

Albertina & The Rolling Thunder resolve their differences, Resolve themselves.

The Banshee has screamed off elsewhere.
Her ghost will haunt, but will no longer hurt.

The Mistress leaves her mess on the table.

Yvaine wears the boots.

Dr. Physician: The Mistress is reflected in his every diagnosis.
She sure is an intimidating act to follow.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes dogs her steps & marrs her nights.
When she shivers, it has little to do with the cold.


Day in, day out...

parandama.

Yvaine is replacing The Repair Man.
Yvaine is The Repair Man.
And if there’s one thing her mother gave her, it’s work ethic.
She does not shirk.
She does her job.

Commencing re-storation: now.

Having never seen a single episode of This Old House, she’s Brand New to this.
It’s obvious that the foundation is the first order of business.
Vital organs & all that.

The contractors will hear the news & wait for calls that aren’t coming.

This is her project.
She’s quite determined.
No matter how many times she hits her thumb with the hammer or how often the nail gun turns on her.

The journey begins at the local Barnes & Noble.
Settling into an armchair with her latte, she pulls out Step 1:
The Idiot’s Guide to Home Repair.

belyse.

Yvaine’s headscarf blows in the wind when she drives.
It’s a picture.

The sweat smudges her makeup, but not her brilliance;
She glows.
Hammer in hand, she bangs away at her anvil like The Repairman whose role she’s adopted.
No one in the village believed she could build this forge, much less get it operational.

A little bit of starshine goes a long way.

Mère Lune lights her way, with Père Soleil’s support, while her sisters whisper instructions in her ear.
Ultimately, it shall be her own heart that will be called Guidemaster.

All watch her progress without the use of eyes, beaming their approval.
A worked-stained grease monkey, reeking of tribulation & hard labor, she’s never been more radiant.

Smiling, nodding.

Things are coming along nicely.

ungeist.

He stares, but they won’t see it.
He plans, but they don’t know it.
He’s quick, but he doesn’t look it.
He’s cruel, but they can’t prove it.
He’s smart, but they’ll never admire it.
He’s strong, but they don’t appreciate it.
He’s talented, but they don’t like it.
He’s a secret, but they can’t tell it.
He didn’t say it, but they hear it.
He scars, but they will not show it.
He breaks his toys, but they’ll fake it.
He’s not invincible, but they don’t believe it.
He’s a monster, but he can hide it.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes has no soul.