takautumia.

the first thing you have to understand is that there aren’t actually any bars.

there never are on the things that really keep us caged.

sight, however, is an unreliable thing. 

the second thing is that being homeless doesn’t mean you don’t have a home. 

it just means you lost it somewhere along the line.

keys get stolen. things happen. and sometimes your Somewhere slips through your fingers and gets trundled away by the current before you have a chance to white-hanky the river to a dual for deed and title. 

the third thing involves rock collectors. 

in our experience, an interest in fossilization generally indicates a tendency in the geologist to not consider the eras from which they collect quite so ‘bygone’ as others might. 

so, now.

Sorella still sees phantom metal cylinders on passing windows sometimes. 

she knows she doesn’t live in a basement anymore, 

but shell-shock is weird

and her nature abhors repetition. 

The Often Orphan used to have a castle of his own; a castle by the sea. 

and yet, his name still remains appropriate. 

the point is that what is had can be lost can be found again, 

but the back and forth of it all gets really harrowing, 

so he doesn’t especially enjoy talk regarding ownership of property of late.

Mildred’s rocks are known, and Mildred’s rocks are famed. 

this does not mean that Mildred’s rocks are loved or liked or even dead. 

but Mildred is smarter than she looks, and she’s figuring out how to play Pandora properly. give her time, and she’ll get it right. 

in the mean time, the less fear you show the rocks, 

the less they’re likely to bite.

panning for gold - ben sollee

aonair.

our words will be simple, our passages to the point.

The Neighborhood believes itself drifted into decay;

in the ‘burbs it goes about its business, quiet & neglected.

but today, we’ll be magnanimous for a moment

& mow the frost-tipped lawns,

giving brief attention the sagging rooftops above our red noses.

The Often Orphan & Sosh are at odds

& poor Charybdis just cowers in the corner,

willing the weedwhackers to a volume greater than the voices.

she’s a little liftoff-challenged these days.

Chimaera gets it

& picks her up in his shiny new somethingorother when the dulcet tones of discord dominate the sound waves at home.

many a night she hops in beside him

& speeds off to recreate that from which she’s fleeing.

& through this problem of nature vs nuture

the mowers drone on.

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...

kalat.

Empty is a good way to describe it. 

It’s not the right word; but it catches the general feeling.

Sorella is empty. 

She picks at the cracks in her willpower despite her misgivings about its solidarity. 

A part of her wants it to unravel, dares it to.

It won’t. 

Will it?

From across the room, Orphan thinks snide remarks about her (lack of) sanity at her. 

She tunes him out, and thinks about nothing instead.

Catching sight of Orphan’s confused, annoyed expression, she can’t help but burst out laughing.

Befuddling him is one of her few joys.

Few.

She sighs at the word, and goes back to picking.

astarael.

The Often Orphan’s sister had a name once.

It’s been long since forgotten.

We call her Sorella these days.

Sorella likes long walks on the beach, reading her tattered encyclopedias, and dreaming about the Upper World. 

Orphan doesn’t seem to mind it down here.

He always was good at entertaining himself.

It’s been too many years, and Sorella is bored.

She’s tired.

She’s done.

Change is necessary.

Right?

She glances cautiously over her shoulder.

Orphan would be incensed if he heard her thinking like this.

She must stop.

Must.

Should.

Ought.

Sighing, she shifts her weight.

She needs a new hobby.

For now, she creates puddles, sits in them, and attempts to remember her name.

Forgotten name, forgotten girl.

Oh, memory.

ferino.

Life in the dark takes some getting used to.
After the first week or so, the eyes adjust.
A month into it, total acclimation is achieved.

At this point, it would not be inaccurate to compare The Often Orphan to a raccoon. 

Surprise is the natural reaction when light pierces Orphan’s pitch-black normality. 
The tall, fair creature standing in it is even more of an intrigue.

Orphan’s sister, ever-trusting and curious to a fault, gives in and breaks from his side.
Stupid female.
There were lessons about this.
Never trust the blonde ones. 

The Often Orphan readies his javelin hand, in case the fair one produces a lollipop.