a twine of threads



a story about stories
Individual Tales

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myriad main


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Magic , Time

myriad themes

Anger Art Author's Bios Belief Desire Destiny & Fate Dreams Drunk & Disorderly Education Families Forgiveness Genevieve's Pear Grief Guilt Homosexuality Honesty Identity Inspiration Jealousy Life, Death & Immortality Love Lust Madness Magic Music Myth Nightmares Past Lives Perspectives Plots & Plans Poetry Politics Power Redemption Reincarnation Restoration Sex Shadows & Theft Soliloquies & Speeches Starting Over Surrender The Doge's Gold Time Transformation Traveling War!

myriad stories

1001 Steps
Camelot!
Comes Fides
Educating Valan
Hallelujah
Lineage
Love Changes Everything
My Fair Lady
Return of the King
Summerland
The Holly King
The Oak King
The Rebirth of Slick
Witchy Woman

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Chennai & Mahabalipuram
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London
Newgrange
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Strathfayr and Rosshire
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Wales & Stonehenge

Glass and coffee
June 30, 2003

It came up through the floor; a boiling, buzzing mass of wings and hate. Clear, and shining, like sunlit water. A hundred-hundred beetles of clear polished glass. Somehow I could see their green metallic shells. Their dozens of beady black eyes. Eyes like human eyes. Blinking out of turn. Independent.

They formed up around me, the anticipation of unknown horror made manifest and hungry. I called upon it. Them. These beings. This being. But fear wraps my soul at its presence. I cannot help it. This creature is fear made solid, and living. "Phobos, good of you to come." I have known this creature for years bordering on centuries, and yet I still choke upon my words.

The beetles move in unison, even if their eyes do not. They scan the room with those too-human eyes. The eyes of children stolen at a very young age, they watch the world with an innocence that borders on frightening. More so, considering the being that these eyes reside upon.

"You called Nathaniel? I was growing bored." A voice of scraping, insectile limbs and flickering wings speak the words. Like breath, its voice carried a scent to me. Crushed autumn leaves. A soothing scent, lent a quality of nightmare. The hot breath of some primordial twilight predator.

"Yes, Phobos. Do you wish some coffee --" I choke again, and I feel the seconds tick past as I try to regain my words. "--or shall we go to the business at hand?" It liked such off hand remarks. Offers of coffee, and sweets, appealed to it. I never failed to have such things handy, on the off chance it might take a liking to something unsavoury. I cannot yet fathom what it does with my offerings. It takes them somewhere beyond my reach. Phobos does not eat, or drink, in the ways we would understand. What use it has for coffee, or sugar, I cannot know.

I asked her once, what is she?

Phobos replied simply "I am the intermediary between the unending end, and the coiling beginning. And I am their voice to you." I have yet to find other evidence of these two beings. Concepts. Or whatever they are. But I'm not one to doubt the likes of Phobos.

Posted by Martin at June 30, 2003 11:06 PM