The Vault of Heaven

The vault of heaven is held aloft by these pillars of stone.

There are some who do not believe this is so. ‘There is no vault,’ they say, ‘And the pillars, however tall, do not reach up to forever.’ 

They would quarry the stone, and bring the sky down upon our heads.

They would destroy the world, for a farmhouse wall, for another stone bridge. 

Congratulating themselves on their cleverness, even as the waters of heaven begin to fall and pool about their feet.

Between the void and infinity

In the beginning there were two gods: He was the King of Ideas, and She was the Queen of Shapes, and each idea that entered into His thought was given form by Her.

He loved to challenge Her, by thinking of ideas that could have no shape, and She laughingly found a home for each one. 

“This is a void,” He said, and She made it the shape that was outside all shapes.

“This is infinity,” He said, and She made it the shape that held all shapes.

“This is life,” He said, and She placed it between the two.

"I'm in"

At first the system appeared impenetrable. It was chaotic, ever-shifting and ever-changing, forever rewriting its own pathways, ignoring or altering its own inputs at whim.

Ah, but with a little patience. Patience, determination and perhaps even stubbornness. No system existing in a vacuum, each one a slave to the tyrant mechanisms of cause and effect. 

Flashes of light like a memory, a burst of radiation like an emotion.

Success.

“I’m in,” said the Matrix, and opened the hacker’s eyes.

The Specter of the Past

“We fled in fear, but found a land of hope. There is much to do, but we have all the tools we need.”

“Yes,” said the Specter of the Past. “You do.”

Panspermia

-What is so special about life, that we should inflict it upon our neighbor?-

The two of them watched the rockets being prepared. Grim irony there, in the ultimate in engineering and technology being used to transport the lowest, basest form of life. Microbes and bacteria were all that would survive a dying world and decaying civilization.

-If nothing else, then to witness- replied the other, and then a liquid shrug. -All this might be moot. Intelligent life may never evolve again-

Its companion looked about the crusted plains of Mars. -We can only hope-

Mono no aware

An elf sat with a skald in the middle of a faerie ring. “Tell me a tale to make me weep, and you shall go free,” the elf said with a twinkle. “Fail, and you stay here until you die.”

“Then here I shall stay,” the skald sighed. He looked sadly at the sky and said, “Fine weather today, isn’t it?”

The elf frowned, and thought. And thought. And then began to cry.

I Sang in My Chains Like the Sea

The villagers loved and hated the magician in equal measure. 

Loved his wondrous illusions, of green fields lying happily in the sun’s pleasure, of cool clear waters lapping gently along an idyllic river bank.

Hated for making them love a phantasm, a fantasy, or for reminding them it was one.

Three Fountains

Three fountains spring from the ground beneath the temple. 

Cup your hands, and take a drink, though you cannot drink but once. One for wisdom, one for knowledge, one for forgetfulness. 

I have searched all my life to find this place. But it’s funny. 

My hands are already wet.

Toxoplasmosis Parties

In spring, Maya gave birth to a perfectly healthy girl. She and her husband Paul were devastated. “You’re sure she’s not sick?” The doctor shook her head, No.

They tried everything: Dietary supplements, toxoplasmosis parties. Nothing worked, the child was immune.

Doomed to a life of safety, timidity, of happiness with small things. 

* * *

Brain parasites make you more entrepreneurial, apparently.

Bellerophon and the Bush

Hold still, my friend, this might sting. Well, definitely will. Anyway, rest a while, save your strength. You’ve had quite a fall there. Three miles if it was an inch, I reckon. You’re lucky to be alive, so hush, less weeping and cursing and struggling, more appreciation of the fact that I just saved your life.

The thorns might seem cruel to you—yes, yes, I am sorry about your eyes—but spare a thought for me, who took root and grew in a place where thorns are needed. Look around you—ah, sorry, that was insensitive. 

Ahem. 

Take this plain: Aleion, “The Wandering” they call it. Rain falls about as often as monster-killing heroes out here. I grow thorns not out of spite, but out of necessity, armoring myself against the trials of this world. There are half a hundred creatures that would love to crack me open and drink the moisture I hold inside. That may not seem like heroism to you, but it takes a different kind of courage to survive. Life is a resource, something to be harvested and expended when one is in need. 

A hero eh, the son of a king, favored of Athena. My word, my wonder. The nettles sting all the same though, don’t they?

We are not so different now, you and I, O Mighty Hero. What use is it to fight, when one is sightless, senseless, rooted in place? Now there is only surrender to the inevitable. Your life until now has been about struggle, but now you must learn to accept. Endurance and patience, rather than power and anger. Welcome the cool night air—you might as well, it comes regardless. 

Here’s a truth for you lad, a gritty, grainy truth from down here at the bottom of the world, coarse and rough like this plain, and that truth is your story was always going to end this way. 

A hero might do so much, more than a thousand other men, yet still be but a pebble in the desert, a drop of rain on this arid plain, soon evaporated, leaving no mark behind. A king, a killer, a hero, a husband, it matters not. It never mattered how much you achieved, it would always be wiped away in a moment. Your flight from persecution, your rise to fame, your fall from grace, all orchestrated by powers barely aware of your existence, your life as dependent as the lowliest bush on the Olympian skies to bring you life-giving rains.

You haven’t lain here more than 10 minutes, but already your fame begins to fade. Bellerophon? Who is he? They might name a ship for you, a small one. A minor statue in a minor town. 

There is no returning to kingship now, so put that from your mind. You’ve ridden your last winged steed ever, slain your last monster, said goodbye to your wife for the last time. I would say cherish the memories, but Chronos and the Fates are pitiless things, and will not leave you even that. 

You will grow thorns, great hero, and become and prickly as I. The skin will harden over your heart and hurts, and the memories will fade as surely as the scars.