Domestic Life
“Could you pass the orange juice?” Gwendolyn yawned, twisting her fingers and weaving them through the air. An oil-sheen of colors drifted between her hands, lingering in the space behind them. The pan shook itself awake and lifted itself to the stove, which sparked to life as if it was a bright blue eye springing open at the start of the morning. The refrigerator stretched open its door, and the eggs rolled themselves out of their cardboard carton and onto the heat of the stove.
She looked on with an appraising eye, the kind that years of spell-casting classes had trained. She watched the tumble of the eggs for wobbles or the flames for the shimmering green flickers that would betray the need to reweave a strand of the spell. Her hands, done with the casting, refused to sit still, instead digging themselves into the pockets of her bathrobe, fiddling with the knot she had tied in the belt, tracing the lines of chalky markings that meandered across her dark skin, left over from the larger casting she had done the night before.
Felix glanced up from the script he was reading. Peering through the tawny hair falling in his face he pushed the carton of orange juice toward her across the small, jumbled table. The small booklet was tucked next to a Marseilles deck—haphazardly leaning like the Tower in Pisa—and a cup of old tea leaves that he had been mulling over the night before...
She looked on with an appraising eye, the kind that years of spell-casting classes had trained. She watched the tumble of the eggs for wobbles or the flames for the shimmering green flickers that would betray the need to reweave a strand of the spell. Her hands, done with the casting, refused to sit still, instead digging themselves into the pockets of her bathrobe, fiddling with the knot she had tied in the belt, tracing the lines of chalky markings that meandered across her dark skin, left over from the larger casting she had done the night before.
Felix glanced up from the script he was reading. Peering through the tawny hair falling in his face he pushed the carton of orange juice toward her across the small, jumbled table. The small booklet was tucked next to a Marseilles deck—haphazardly leaning like the Tower in Pisa—and a cup of old tea leaves that he had been mulling over the night before...
The Off-Season
I first met the Easter Bunny in November, right after Thanksgiving when the air was chilling, and the wind was blowing, and the leaves had long since fallen. He hopped up to me while I was trying to fight my turkey hangover with the morning chill. His pitter-patter of footfalls brought a wind of spring warmth and the scent of flowers.
He asked if he could join me for breakfast. Deciding that this was either a stunning new opportunity or an unfortunate, lingering side effect that sprung from the obscenely gluttonous amount of turkey I had eaten, I shrugged and pulled out a chair for him.
“You don’t look much like… well, the Easter Bunny,” I told him.
“What did you expect,” he replied—gnawing on a carrot which I would have sworn was shimmering slightly with every bite— “some anthropomorphized, cartoony rabbit-suit B.S.?” We’re talking about an immortal, powerful spirit of springtime here, not Donnie Darko.”...
He asked if he could join me for breakfast. Deciding that this was either a stunning new opportunity or an unfortunate, lingering side effect that sprung from the obscenely gluttonous amount of turkey I had eaten, I shrugged and pulled out a chair for him.
“You don’t look much like… well, the Easter Bunny,” I told him.
“What did you expect,” he replied—gnawing on a carrot which I would have sworn was shimmering slightly with every bite— “some anthropomorphized, cartoony rabbit-suit B.S.?” We’re talking about an immortal, powerful spirit of springtime here, not Donnie Darko.”...
The Stranger in the Scarlet Gown
She wore a scarlet dress and she danced among the stars. She was pretty, most would agree on
that. A few might argue, but then again, everyone’s a critic. Her dress was very befitting, sleek and
elegant, bright enough to be fire. She would swirl through the constellations, her gown spinning like
flames, her hair chasing after, just as scarlet. A smirk played on her face, but a rather innocent one, like
child, knowing they did something wrong. Of course, being so young the extent of the child’s
wrongdoing was likely no more than stealing a cookie from the cookie jar.
They didn’t know what to make of her, the stars. She was as mysterious to them as they are to
us. What were they to make, they wondered, of this dancer in the scarlet gown? Was she kind, was she
tricky? Would she prove a friend, or a foe? Was she anything more than an enigma, or was her dress,
her hair, her smirk, nothing more than a riddle, a joke, for them to puzzle over? Most puzzling of all
were her feet...
that. A few might argue, but then again, everyone’s a critic. Her dress was very befitting, sleek and
elegant, bright enough to be fire. She would swirl through the constellations, her gown spinning like
flames, her hair chasing after, just as scarlet. A smirk played on her face, but a rather innocent one, like
child, knowing they did something wrong. Of course, being so young the extent of the child’s
wrongdoing was likely no more than stealing a cookie from the cookie jar.
They didn’t know what to make of her, the stars. She was as mysterious to them as they are to
us. What were they to make, they wondered, of this dancer in the scarlet gown? Was she kind, was she
tricky? Would she prove a friend, or a foe? Was she anything more than an enigma, or was her dress,
her hair, her smirk, nothing more than a riddle, a joke, for them to puzzle over? Most puzzling of all
were her feet...
Wicked Cold
Boreas is a land of snow and furs, living in an endless winter where flurries constantly sweep the land and drifts build and sink. The native people of the land — the Boreads — are snow spirits, with the power of flight and the ability to summon snow storms from their fingertips.
Yet despite the gentle snow and crackling fires, there are those who want to do Boreas harm: A power hungry king, a cohort of alchemical cultists, and an ancient dark god. It is up to a Boread, a human, and a griffin to stop the threats that face their wintery home.
Yet despite the gentle snow and crackling fires, there are those who want to do Boreas harm: A power hungry king, a cohort of alchemical cultists, and an ancient dark god. It is up to a Boread, a human, and a griffin to stop the threats that face their wintery home.