Flute of Silver Crafts…

68Do believe and from those windows—across the bay dancers staged and caged beyond the believers of dawn and crossed these watered gates in boated crafts and anchored along the sandy shoreline. In these model times—love pushed swings without colored desires save to be and swing those roped contraptions higher and higher and higher and to fly among white billowed clouds and raindrops—dew-dropped in those spaces along these places.

Grass carpeted floors of high to sky mountain flats and red sand shifted when raining season began the falls of liquid both silver-clear and diamond-splash across the drinking desert of sand and sea and jungle sleep. Once hearted fears did not exist within the laughing times of fearless pursuit and the unrequited necessities of being the beginning of being the life of long summer moments and winter short when snow covered the dreaming spaces of golden sands and purple seas.

There was a city of Calimesa. A place of Crowman day and Crowman night and a place of haunted hunts and battles of no-foe. A timed place when jack-booted terror stood upon the sacred throats of freedom fighters and painted the ruined roadways with blood and mud and mired ditches with filthy ragged cloth and stained once cleaned spaces—being days before political crazy collapsed—died and disappeared.

He was a Crowman…His face known a century before sickness visited his story and around him the crowds of everyone disappeared and the burning witches forced fire to cleanse another place of sickness and sorrow and loss and start and another beginning of the ends of means or peace or reason to be another being. He piped a silver flute and little ones followed him across first—fields of dirt to concrete streets to rutted shapes of broken road to oiled seas and crumpled ceilings under skylights of grays and flashing streaks and thunder.

Behind his place were story lined message and words of substance and nothing and his something taken from places in days before or after the plague of fires and water and wine and hope-slopes where snow boards and sleds slipped along icy waves and his childhood danced against a dream or two or maybe three. These were the story of lives before and beyond the notions of list things done and lists to check off the hours of a day-a month as century years separated into segments of almost failed to realize the moments of living among the stars and beneath the sky fall of living or dying or living again.

As the piper played, children danced into a ragged sorted night and as they danced, the nothing of Goddess flashes or the darkness thunder bothered to disturb those claps of little hands and rings joined songs and laughter only as a child may laugh or sing. He was the Crowman piper of the raggedy sorting day when Coven called and Crowman repeated the role of rolls and the answered ones again danced behind and beside the flute of silver crafts and a simple dancing song. ‘A better day,’ he cried and everyone agreed.

‘Daylight dorri’r noson heddiw — yn ystod y nos yn cymryd yr ofn i ffwrdd — Sing-Song awr ac Sing-Song yna — Gadewch yr amser dechrau cyfrif — A byddwn yn disgyn i ffwrdd-fall-i ffwrdd — i ffwrdd eto.’ (Daylight break the night today—Night time take the fear away—Sing-Song now and Sing-Song then—Let the counting time begin—And we will fall away-fall-away—away again.)

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Omnos’—by Eluveitie

Illusions and River Spirits…

44The Hollowing is an indentation of soil between concrete ruins and dirt–just a skip from Will’s alley. It is a sacred area. Hollowing is visited by those healthy and those sick of Plague Waste…Religiously sacred? The Witches’ Coven and blessed ground is touched and healing powers and love abounds and…Crowman knows better.

Hollowing is a bomb-sized hole in the ground used as cover during Latest War. These pictures of miracle destroyed large chunks of Sity and killed eighteen million and one half…Latest War occurred one hundred years past and was just another in the many wars fought first for ideals and then for survival…Plague came later and survival lost!

What of Coven and what of life’s life? In a wig-waggled world most children do not live past the ‘coming of age.’ We are ‘preggers’ and then we die of Plague waste. It is a simple death. No suffering, no pocks, not ugly…just sleep. So! The hope for young men and young women to procreate, in case of ‘cure-fall,’ is great. And! There is ‘cure-fall.’ Many gatherings live past their twentieth year and some into their thirties.

Not many—but sacred—for they are the mothers and the fathers of future days…Not hopeless, then. Sad, yes…but expected without variance, except by Coven…Witches live forever. Witches are the power of lives and life and choices and dictates and control. They are the fire builders and the rain of oils that fall from somewhere-to-there without distraction…The Coven hurls great sounds and flashes across sky and through the clouds.

Sity is a child’s world both spelled and said as it sounds. Sity is concrete and great rivers of water and oil and salt and the saturation of dusted waste and dusted life. Sity is a brief whisper of humanity. Sity is crap. Sity is sore. Sity is the dance across once hills and soft snow and winter night. Sity is life and snow is no longer white.

Crowman glances down. The boy is strange and speaks few words. Withdrawn? However, that is his way. They are; the children surviving Plague. Quiet? Yes! And; yes again to fatalism, fear, courage and the strength of one or more than one. Nothing surprises them. They accept everything. They expect nothing normal and nothing abnormal.

They do not understand the difference. There is nothing either moral or physical. Customs and habits do not; for children, exist. Only survival…Sity.

And! Beautiful you are…

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A Coven Telling…

Consider a grave and unforgivable sin. It is a combination of joke and Holy Spirit. Spiritus Sanctus is the shrouded figure rustling freshly starched sheets as it follows a flickering light caused by the cool breeze, to dance across the memory of some distance room. Leather clad horsemen hold to the tree side of a snow covered field recently planted, tended, harvested and turned under by figures dressed in black robes with unseen faces or shadows above the neck. Unnamed warriors and priests appear and disappear in the gloom and inside their robes and armor. The horsemen are silent and snow covers the dark fur of their horses. Snorts of steam rush from beast’s nostrils and the ax and mace form crosses beyond the locked arms of both fighters and champions. Spirit flies on a breath of wind and Cease-world ends.

What was the Coven? It began as an idea that came and lived and died before Plague. Are these old ones necessary? Time changed and changing and people come and go and live and die. No reason, but all the reason to live and the reason to believe a reason. Coven— people?  These folks were the lucky ones, the live ones, the magicians, healers, killers, doctors, medicine-folk, angels and the high-ones. These names of more or less depend upon the watchers’ points-of- the-views.

These were the people of reminders and remainders. They built the Plague and they lost words with filth and life and nothing more-evermore. With plague they lost and won the Earth. They were the parents of the parents of those high folk in a Smokey Place of mountains and valleys and meadows and red dirt.

They were the Mystery of Rule. They were invisible except in Sity. They traveled in groups; men and women. They brought the fires. They cleaned the land of plague. They stoked the funeral pyres or ditches or more. They smoked through their hands and cleaned both the bodies of the dead and the land of the dying.

Sometimes it takes a long time for like to act like—like..Millions of families suffered and died. Crowman remembered the names for the extinction of humanity. First the Apocalypse and then the rapture and then another name for too many wars. There was never time to solve the issues of death, decay and sickness. When plague came it was expected. The illness was a combination of creation and complete failure. When a system breaks and then breaks again and again—those broken survivors faced folly and the greed-of-destruction.  Crowman had seen this on a world or two or ten or one hundred. The Crowman was immortal…And! Some called him God.

Crowman thought of a god as a creator and the Crowman was no creator. In his short lived experience, across a mere one hundred worlds, he had created nothing—he had saved nothing—and he had prevented nothing from beginning until it ended. He was not Gabriel or an Angel of death. Crowman was the Crowman…And! He lived on and on and on until it was time to pickup and take himself into another place.

He was a Watcher.He could not see except on the notions and visions haunting his dreams since he was born or created. He was just another joke to a mysterious creator-type that pumped out creations and scattered into another oblivious oblivion or a region called Universe or the great forever. He had seen it all or had seen nothing to compare with the next ending or another beginning.

Crowman was from Fólkvang. Once a warrior—Valkyrie lifted and a favorite of Freyja. He had been discovered by a Coven witch years before the Plague. He had been near death on a laced up boat and a platform of plastic drums and wooden sticks—a raft. He had been found face down and covered in oil sores. The witch said, “Crowman purchased earth to save…” The old witch died on her 237th birthday…Witches had a shelf-life just like humans but considerably longer. Today, humans die soon after birth…Witches live forever. Such is the trade between magic and mortals.

Crowman was not a coven priest. He had been a healer, a wealthy pilgrim, a murderer, a father, a magic man, the Wizard of Sity, a teacher, a king, a fool, a lover, a complicated and a simple friend, a drunk and a terrible god to the most holy.

Crowman was a man…He could not be Coven-Sacred. Only women and magical things were Coven-Sacred.  And! Only Spiritus Sanctus survived the Coven-Sacred. It was also known across the Sity proper that the Hurts were Crowman’s children…However; that is for another Time and another Book and another Reader.

So! As the Hurts often say, ‘Let us start at Sity-Door-Wide-Open.’

And! Beautiful you are…

From…’A Sity of Voices’ by Philip M. Edwards

Centrale Sity

Tesh Morgan avait cinq ans quand elle rencontra un autre garçon de cinq ans, quelque part entre les Cola-cheen et un fragment de trottoir. Ce morceau de trottoir en particulier les enfants a été arrêté le lieu à visiter, boire un coca tiède et de partager des morceaux de bonbons s’ils avaient bonbons. Tesh était déjà bien dans son monologue quand un plan quinquennal se présente rapidement, il s’assit et lui offrit un morceau de réglisse noire et a demandé comment elle sort “City”. Tesh prit le morceau de réglisse et pensé à ses questions et a répondu, “Sity.” Jackie accord avec Tesh et c’est ainsi que l’Sity centrale a été nommé.

How It was Named…

Tesh Morgan was five years old when she chanced to meet another five year old somewhere between the Cola-cheen and a broken piece of sidewalk. This particular sidewalk chunk was the place children stopped to visit, drink a warm cola and share some candy pieces if they had candy. Tesh was already well into her monologue when a five year introduced himself quickly as he sat down and offered her a piece of black licorice and asked how she would spell “City”. Tesh took the piece of licorice and thought about his questions and answered, “Sity.” Jackie agreed with Tesh and that is how the Central Sity was named.