#we lie at the foot of the stairs to freedom with broken backs because we betrayed her so badly she could only betray us in turn

[in-fair-verona-we-set-our-scene]

I think Slay the Princess is so popular partially because the *gets stabbed* "I'm in love" reaction is both intentional on the part of the developers and then they completely follow through on it.

#slay the princess #me @ the Razor: I love you so much and you're so hot and funny and– *gets stabbed again* #and then! the little Voices agree that they're kinda into it too! fantastic game! A+! kill me again beautiful woman! #they managed to make even the Princess's most terrifying grotesque forms the most beautiful fictional women I've ever seen #while never sacrificing the horror elements. if anything the horror and gore and monstrosity makes her even more attractive #like they get it. the inherent eroticism of being trapped in a time loop made with the sole purpose of getting one of us to kill the other #and then killing and hurting and dying and struggling together over and over and over until finally breaking free #she hurts us and we are but a receptacle for the pain. she hunts us like prey and swallows us whole. we beat each other to #death for the thrill of it and keep on going long past when we should've died. she torments us until our heart stops from terror. #we see her as a dominating goddess and she becomes one. she knows what our organs look like. her bloated corpse once drowned us. #we lie at the foot of the stairs to freedom with broken backs because we betrayed her so badly she could only betray us in turn #and don't even get me started on the amazing intimacy/violation of the Spectre/Wraith possession stuff #and we (both the player and the Long Quiet) love her for it and through it

[samseabxrn]

for whatever pairing of your choice, 'Kisses all over the face'?

Hi and thank you!! This brought Hawke and Isabela to mind for @dadrunkwriting:

They’re quiet the whole way to the estate. Hawke’s got her eye on every corner and gap between buildings, expecting some Qunari soldier to slip out and catch her off-guard. The adrenaline’s still high in her body, some cocktail of nerves and exhaustion propelling her home. The other half of it is Isabela’s hand in hers, and all that comes along with it.

“Messere! I’m glad to see you’re safe. It’s been chaos out there, though the boy and Orana and I shut ourselves up in here. Took a few people in through the night, but—“

“We’re going to talk, Bodahn. I just need a minute,” she breathes, before she bites her lip. “Are the three of you all right?”

“Well enough. None of us were injured, and the others will go home soon, once things are clear.”

“They’re welcome to stay,” she says brusquely. “I’ll see you soon.” Isabela follows her up the stairs and into the bedroom, the heavy door closing behind them and shutting out the sound of their guests.

“Hawke, you don’t want me here,” she starts quietly, which should be her first clue. Isabela’s most dangerous to her when she’s quiet.

“What would make you think that,” she laughs bitterly. She kicks off her boots. She should have done it at the front door, but there are a lot of things she should have done. And now she’s here anyway. Nothing can be changed. Off comes the chest plate, the greaves.

“Go on.” Isabela crosses her arms and leans back against the foot of the bed. “Tell me exactly what I’ve done.”

“You know what you’ve done! You—“ She exhales, sharp in the quiet between them. “I keep thinking what you should have done differently, and I don’t… I don’t have anything. Because we might not be here, but you’d be dead. Or you’d be dead and Kirkwall would still be here, all these fucking what-ifs.” Hawke never did do well with what-ifs, all the branching possibilities she could have changed with one small thing. She shakes them out of her head and comes over to the woman’s side.

“So you’ll forgive me?” she asks lightly, but there’s a strain to it. Something dark in the lilt of her voice.

“No,” Hawke says on instinct. Because she’s clumsy like that. Because she can’t resist a good mistake. And she knows it’s a mistake right away, from the glimmer of hurt in the woman’s eyes. “I didn’t mean... I could, Bela. I probably will. You know me.”

She presses a kiss to her cheek. “Fucking stupid, Bela,” she groans, trying to shift the blame off of herself once more. One over her eye. “Don’t know what you were thinking.” Then the other, lashes tickling her lips. “But you came back,” and it sounds so broken that she wants to slap herself.

Isabela pulls away suddenly, just when Hawke’s mouth brushes against hers, the loss of it hollowing. “I’m not—“ she sighs. “You know me, Hawke. You know exactly who I am.”

She has the unbearable sense that she’s losing her grip on this. “I can’t lose you,” she stammers out.

“Okay,” Isabela says quietly, her lips pursed.

“You’re all I’ve got. You and Bethany.” She knows it’s too much, that she’ll only drive Isabela away, but she can’t stop herself from ruining it. “You can go if you want,” she says softly, slowly turning to lie on the bed.

“I’ll stay if you’ll let me.” There’s something off about it, but Hawke can’t place it as she glances toward Isabela, everything slightly wrong in her exhaustion, like the colors of a painting running together.

“I will.”

“The nerve of him. Thinking I’d give you up.” Her voice is shaking as Isabela comes to lie next to her, but she doesn’t care. The woman is quiet. She doesn’t know if it’s enough, but maybe it will be. That she’d keep her by her side, even despite it all, if she wanted to stay. And if Isabela wanted to leave, she wouldn’t dare deny her that hard-won freedom. She can’t bear to voice this, as if even planting the idea of her leaving will set it into motion, so she just tucks her body next to hers and breathes deep.

When she wakes, for a moment she thinks she’s still there, her coarse hair caught between her lips. And then she opens her eyes.

#slightly angstier than i expected… #dadwc #my writing #hawke x isabela

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

Lost or Lying

The original request: “Hi if you’re still taking requests, can I request a one shot with Bo thinking reader escaped and gets  really angry with reader which leads into a screaming match between the two.”

Pairing: Bo Sinclair x Reader

Warnings: yelling/fighting(non-violent), language, angst and a little fluff

A/N: Sorry this took forever! I just re-watched House of Wax and it sparked the inspiration I needed to do this right. Hope it’s okay! Listened to Slow Down-Poolside // Devil in Paradise-Cruel Youth // A lot of Thom Yorke while finishing this up.

You had been wanting some time to yourself lately and the universe had decided to give it to you in spades.

A simple stroll down what had looked to be a well-worn trail had turned into an all day hike was now morphing into admitting to yourself that you were lost. And dead, if you ever found your way back to town.

Bo had been the last of the Sinclair brothers to trust you being out and about on your own and even then, he would not so subtly keep an eye on you. Like you might disappear if he even so much as blinked.

So this, being gone for hours, would probably land you in hot wax. Literally.

Stopping for the millionth time to try and recognize your surroundings, a thought popped into your head. What if you didn't go back? What if you just kept walking, you'd eventually either come to some road or wind back up in Ambrose.

The thought left a sour taste in your mouth.

Sure you and the boys had gotten off to a less than great start, Lester not included. You had liked him the instant he'd offered you a ride to the nearest town for help with your car dead on the side of the road.

He was a talker with not many people to listen to him, which you understood on some level, and now looking back on that first conversation it was almost obvious how clearly unsettled he was about letting you walk unawares into Ambrose.

Too little, too late and all that you guessed.

Sighing, you looked up, glancing through the leaves to watch heavy, dark clouds slowly spreading themselves across the sky. Great. Just what you needed, a storm.

You kept going, trying to leave signs that you'd been past a certain place with broken branches. It made you feel better for a while, until you ran into them, stomping by the snapped wood like it had personally offended you.

When it started to rain, you resorted to yelling. Hair dripping wet, clothes soaked through and shivering like a chihuahua as you were pelted by rain. You simply kept yourself from running into trees and screamed out Bo, Vincent, and Lester's names like a broken record.

Eventually that became difficult with the way your teeth were chattering, your lips feeling more numb by the minute. You must have stopped at some point because all you could hear was the far off roll of thunder and barking.

Barking? Barking meant dogs which meant-

"Mite!" the voice that left your throat made you wince, hoarse and hopeful at the same time.

The barking got louder, so you shouted again, planting your feet in the slippery ground and waiting for the little barrel of black and white fur to come shooting out of the underbrush as the barking got closer.

She nearly knocked you over when she appeared, paws muddy and looking as soaked as you felt. But her tail was wagging and you'd never been so happy to smell wet dog in your entire life.

"Let's go home! Go home Mite!" you told her and she just about herded you all the way back.

The streets were slightly flooded but the whole town was lit up. Like a lighthouse on the shore, a warning and a safe haven. The gas station was empty as you jogged past it, trying to keep an excited Mite in your view. The yellow tow truck was gone too. Shit.

The house was the same, all the lights on but no one home. Once inside Mite shook off, giving the walls a good spray of dog water before she pranced off in search of someone to show what she had found. The muddy paw prints she was tracking around were the least of your worries.

You peeled off your shoes before trekking over to the kitchen, leaving a trail of puddles in your wake. Still shivering, you wrung out your hair over the sink and pulled out what few rags you could find and went in search of Mite.

When you reached the foot of the stairs you heard an engine pull in the drive. You couldn't be sure who it belonged to with the noise of the storm so you braced yourself, shivering and no doubt looking like a drowned rat caught holding stolen food.

No amount of bracing would do you any good though, not when the door practically flew open to let in Bo.

You don't think he even saw you at first with the way his eyes darted around the room, ghosting right over you as he slammed the door shut behind him, pacing around like a caged animal. You wondered if you just stayed still enough, maybe he wouldn't notice you.

You had never been that lucky.

You knew it was bad when he didn't immediately begin yelling. He just stared at you, blue eyes burning a hole straight through you. Jaw clenched so tight you worried he might crack a tooth. It was a miracle you didn't run purely out of instinct.

"Where the hell have you been."

Oh yeah. This was a new level of mad. His low, even growl of a question sending goosebumps up your already chilled skin.

"I just g-"

"Where the fuck did you think you were gonna get to?" he crossed the space between you two in less than three steps, each one raising your hackles further.

"I wasn't going anywhere" you held your ground even as he came to a stop right in front of you, giving you no space.

"Bullshit! You were gone for hours, had all of us runnin' around lookin' for your ass! And you were off doing what?! Leaving!"

Ah, there was the yelling. You dug your heels in just a little deeper.

"No, I went out for a walk and got lost and it started raining and-"

"Don't you fucking lie to me, I knew the second we let you out you'd run. The second you got a chance! Gone!" Bo had stepped even closer, pushing you back until you could feel the sharp corner of the wall dig into your spine.

"I wasn't trying to run away! I took a trail, I got lost and Mite found me. That's it!"

"So I'm jus' supposed to believe you were out there, no one to keep you from running and you didn't huh? You just walked in circles 'til you realized you couldn't find your way out!"

"I got fucking lost! Okay?! I. Got. Lost!" you had properly lost all energy to stay calm, Bo wasn't, so why should you? "I've been locked up in this house or at the station for months! No time alone, like a fucking dog! Hell, the dog has more freedom than me! Can you blame me for wanting some time to myself?!"

"Freedom! You shoulda' been dead the second you set foot in this town!" you could feel the hot puff of his breath across your face, foreheads nearly touching.

"That's not my fault! You're the one in charge around here aren't you? Just kill me now and you won't have to worry about me anymore!"

You had barely gotten the last word out before you felt the sharp tug of Bo's hands tangling themselves in your stringy, wet hair. It almost felt tender, like he was cradling the base of your skull, about to kiss you. Except the hold was too tight, stinging where blunt nails scraped your scalp and held you in place with the pressure on the back of your neck.

The rags you had clutched in your hands dropped silently to the ground when you curled your hands around his forearms, not that you could pry him off you.

A small droplet of water fell onto your face from Bo's damp hair.

You thought he might take you up on the offer right then and there. The set of his shoulders, the way he could so easily shift his hands and wrap them around your throat. But you'd spent plenty of time around Bo Sinclair, enough to be able to see what he was hiding behind all the rage and yelling.

He was worried. Maybe even scared.

Lester had told you, albeit hesitantly, how nice it was to have you around, to have someone to talk with.

Vincent had taken longer to express the same to you, and not in so many words, but it was there all the same. You had a collection of small wax figurines to show for it.

Bo treated you like a kid that needed to be watched, like you were going to stick your hand on a hot stove if left alone too long. He complained when you asked too many questions about what he was working on when you were in the station with him but he usually answered you.

He was a lot of bark, with an equal amount of bite, when it came to taking care of this town. Even his brothers, in his own messed up way.

"You really think I'd leave?" the words finally manage their way out of your mouth, rasping and quiet in the wake of the shouting match.

"That's a stupid question" Bo snaps.

"Would you miss me?"

"No."

"Liar."

Bo gives no warning before pulling your face up to his and kisses you. It's not soft, it's angry and suffocating and you can feel it in your gut when he bites your bottom lip, tugging none to gently until you finally part your lips enough to get a taste of him.

He tastes like rain and cigarettes.

You lean into him, standing up on tiptoes, and hum at the way he tugs you back far enough for your lips to be a hairs breath apart.

"I should get lost more often" you say a bit breathless, trying not to smirk.

Bo simply glares at you for a moment before crushing his lips back to yours.

You weren't going anywhere for a while.

#bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #house of wax (2005) #house of wax #request #horror imagine #house of wax imagine #bo sinclair imagine #slasher x reader #slasher #duck did it #duck quacks

[naerryn]

Imagine Dyn Jarren...

During the long-term stay with the “Pirate Queen”, Maz Kanata, an unlikely couple enters the castle one day and conjure up old memories.

Female Reader! Loosely Part Two of Coldest Shoulder (same reader inserted character).

A comforting feeling of numbness washed over my mind when the blurred outlines of a small silhouette stepped into my view. I opened my mouth in an attempt to speak, begging them to help me, but my voice died in my throat as my world went black.

My eyes fluttered open and I tried to block the bright light from my view with one of my arms, but groaned between gritted teeth caused by the sharp pain I instantly felt on the right side of my body.

“You were alive, but barely breathing when I found you.”, a female voice spoke close to me, and I turned my face around to meet slim figure of a creature I’ve never seen before. The orange skinned woman was short and her brown eyes behind thick glasses looked back at me with a mixture of curiosity and caution. But most importantly, she had a tight grip around the handle of my lightsaber.

“You’re a Sith.”, she said with a soft nod towards the item in her small hands. I remained silent, my heavy chest raised and felt slowly while my view stayed on her brown eyes.

The intense stare of her eyes surrounded her with a superior aura, like she stood above all doubt and already knew all the answers to every question she was about to ask me. An aura that reminded me of the Emperor in a rather unpleasant way.

“What’s a Sith doing all by herself? Badly injured on top of it.”

“I was seeking knowledge.”, I replied hoarsely, slowly lifting my upper body from the hard surface I was laid down on and balanced my weight on my elbows. I hissed in pain, but it was nothing I wasn’t used to.

Now I was able to notice the chair on which the woman stood on, her forehead knitted in wonder as she watched me in silence. The look in her eyes gently begged me to explain myself.

“Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me.”, I recited the Code of the Sith, earning a dramatic roll of the eyes of the woman next to me, who softly sighed in respond.

“The Emperor has beaten it into my head.”, I said as I tapped against my head with a finger. “I want to be free.”

“Just like the rest of the Galaxy.”, the short woman respond with a shrug before she lifted her thick glasses, revealing her formally huge brown eyes to be nothing more than a pair of tiny dark orbs. It was almost comical. 

“You were close to him?”

“I’m... I was a Child of the Emperor. His Voice. Both are nothing more than a title.”

“And the catacombs?”, she asked me a moment later, one of her hands against her chin as she tilted her head to lightly the side.

I told her about my desire for freedom, no matter how much the Emperor tortured me. That there was something I couldn’t place my finger on, like a voice in the back of my mind telling me that all of this is wrong. I mentioned Mara Jade, another Child of the Emperor, who’s under the strong influence of our Master. And then there was Grand Admiral Thrawn, and how I spend the last couple years working with him.

“He was the one telling me about the catacombs. We wanted to investigate them together, but”, I stopped mid-sentence, looking away from the orange skinned woman as I painfully remembered the events that lead to our separation.

“I... I visited a couple places he had mentioned before, but most of them turned out to be dead ends. But the catacombs were different. I encountered something, a force ghost. She shared her knowledge, and I freed her from this existence. I got overpowered and”

“I found you.”, she finished my sentence calmly and I softly nodded in respond.

“That’s a fine story, my dear, but I fear that there’s no happy end. The Emperor will hunt and kill you for high treason, and the Rebels will murder you in cold blood because of who you are.”, her words echoed through the air and made me cringe, knowing that her words were nothing but true. I was an outlaw and had a target on my back.

“Except...”

“Except?”, I quickly turned my head around and watched her thin lips twisted into a mischievous smile with a finger pressed against them.

“Except you work for me. I could make good use of someone with your skills and no one fucks with Maz Kanata.”

“Who’s Maz Kanata?”

“Me, idiot.”

~

Several years had passed since Maz Kanata took me under her wings. I accompanied the force-sensitive pirate on her travels around the galaxy. The Emperor was dead, killed by his own twisted creation, Darth Vader, and a new galactic Senate was founded.

For what felt like the first time in my life, I was in full control of my own path. No strings attached on me. Maz paid me for my service, told me I could take a ship and start my own journey whenever I want to, but I told her that I am right where I need to be.

~

Stretching her limbs, Maz Kanata stood on the dirty ground a couple steps ahead of me as I walked down the loading ramp of the Stranger’s Fortune. Emmie, an ancient protocol droid, arrived at Maz’s personal landing field at the Takodana Castle just when I stepped next to her mistress.

“I will leave you to your business.”, I told Maz when I walked past her, throwing my back bag over one shoulder before I nodded to Emmie a quick welcome. All I wanted was a hot shower and clean clothes, I thought to myself as I heard the droid greeting the Pirate Queen.

The long main hall of the Castle somewhat felt like home, crowded by travelers and smugglers, among others. Their host loved to remember me of the first time I set foot on her homeworld. I almost passed out from the overwhelming impact of the Force on this planet, but over time, I learned to ignore the echoes of the past.

A catchy tune was played by the musicians as I waved casually at more familiar faces. Their words drowned under the loud music, but the amused smiles on their faces told me it was nothing too heart-warming they called out to me.

Turning around as I continued walking in the direction of the staircase which lead to my chambers, I flipped a smuggler the finger as I caught a few scraps of his words. Something involving my ass and his lap. I saw his mouth moving, the space between us growing as I walked backwards through the crowd.

I came to an abrupt halt, my back colliding gently with something solid and when I turn around to look at what I thought to be a wall, I stared at the menacing T-shaped visor of a helmet.

‘Out of every fucking person I could run into, it had to be a Mandalorian.’, I cursed myself silently and swiftly turned around on the spot. The visitors of Takodana Castle had to follow the rules, which required no violence of any sort.

Yes, I am trained in the Force, to say the least, but getting on the bad side of a Beskar armored Mandalorian was never written down on my to do list before I die.

“I am so sorry.”, I raised hands up to my shoulders, but I looked away from the T-shaped visor of the tall warrior and down to the ground when a sound, which didn’t match the sonority of the current song, reached my ears.

A hard punch in the stomach felt like a peaceful walk at the riverside of the Nymeve Lake compared to the cold wave of memories that washed over me once my eyes landed on the tiny, green creature that stood right next to the feet of the Mandalorian.

Coruscant. The Temple. Master Yoda. The Jedi Code. Master Windu, who locked me away in his chambers to keep me, his Apprentice, save as he and three other Masters left to confront the Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine. The door being destroyed. Anakin Skywalker. No, Darth Vader. Lighting. My screams filling the air.

I felt cold and my body started shaking strongly before I threw up, a pool of vomit spread out onto the floor and the feet of the Mandalorian while the tiny creature jumped clumsily to save itself.

A deep, unsatisfied groan reached my ears as the music stopped playing. The main hall of the Castle was covered in silence and I felt countless pairs of eyes staring holes into the back of my head. Some were probably already placing bets on how painful and slow my death will me.

Maz’s voice rang through the air, but it was nothing more then muffled sounds as I pushed past the broad built person in front of me and ran to the staircase.

‘It looks like Master Yoda.’

With tear-dimmed eyes, I began to hurry up the stairs.

‘I was a Jedi youngling. No, a Padawan. I was picked by Master Windu not that long before Darth Sidious caused the near end to the Jedi Order.’

I rushed down the long hallway, almost knocking the door out of the frame once I reached my chambers.

‘The Emperor locked all my memories away. Replaced them with pictures that fitted his liking. Formed me into his puppet on a string no matter how hard I fought against it.’

Throwing myself onto my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and uncontrollable sobs escaped my throat. Peace is a lie, there is only passion. No. There is no emotion, there is peace.

My screams were muffled by my pillow. Fingernails digging themselves into the palm of my hands as I clenched them into fists. I wanted to take my lightsaber out and tear everything into pieces that comes into my way.

“[Y/N]?”

I pushed myself up from the mattress and twisted around to face Maz, who stood in the open door frame. Close behind her stood the Mandalorian, who held the green creature in one of his arms.

“I think I’ll throw up again.”, I exhaled under gritted teeth, holding a hand against my stomach and tried to fight against the urge to puke onto the floor again.

Maz felt my inner struggle, I knew that. She always did. Over the last couple years, there were countless moments when small pieces of suppressed memories came back onto the surface. Every time, Maz was there to catch me.

“Talk to us.”, she spoke again, taking a step closer to me as she entered the room slowly. My eyes traveled from her small figure to the shiny Beskar armor, probably hundreds of years old, reforged into it’s current shape. The Mandalorian had a firm hold on the handle of his blaster.

Within a split second, I stood on my feet, my lightsaber activated in one hand as the vibrating humming of the red blade filled the air. The warrior pointed the barrel of his blaster at me almost instantly.

Maz Kanata raised her voice once again, calling out my name and I turned my head to her.

“Talk to me!”, she demanded firmly.

“It looks like Yoda.”, I pointed at the green creature as I talked and Maz silently stared back at me with wide eyes. She was old enough and too independent from the imperial influence to remember the stories about the Jedi Order and Master Yoda. I didn’t had to explain anything to her.

But the baffled grunt at me, probably from the Mandalorian who’s still pointing his blaster at me, told a different story.

“You knew him.”, her words were a statement, not a question before she nodded her head softly, lost in thoughts for a moment. Locking eyes with me again, she pointed at the lightsaber in my hands with the unspoken request to deactivate it again.

I looked over to the Mandalorian, who hasn’t moved an inch during the entire time and down from his helmet to the fragile looking creature in his arm. Deactivating my lightsaber, I watched the man slowly lowering his own weapon.

“You can stay here as long as you wish, bounty hunter. No payment required.”, Maz said in a serious tone of voice as she turned around to meet the Mandalorian, who grunted in approval and his helmet moved just slightly, telling me that he was directly looking at me before he stepped out of the door frame and onto the hallway.

Once they were out of my sight, I took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, the handle of my lightsaber falling on the ground with a clanking noise.

Soft-footed, Maz closed the distance between us and placed herself right next to me, leaning her small frame against the side of my body as we sat there in silence.

(2202 Words)

#the mandalorian #dyn jarren #baby yoda #maz kanata #the mandalorian imagine #dyn jarren imagine #baby yoda imagine #maz kanata imagine #imagine #star wars #star wars imagine #reader insert #jedi #sith

[whumpqhs]

Whumptober #17: “Stay with me.”

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

[Recap]

“So, any attempt at breaking your conditioning with a release code would just be… me standing here, blathering gibberish at you, right?”

“Right,” he said, a little more confident.

“So, you’ll listen to the code I found when I read your file?”

“You didn’t read my file.”

Sonora waited, watching him in the dark. He gulped.

“…yeah. I’ll listen.”

“Find us an exit, and I’ll tell you everything.”

--

“The exit is a long way from here. We’re deep underground… getting remotely near one without being seen is going to be difficult enough, let alone up to the point where we could use it, and all for some elaborate lie.”

“Why do you think you knew what that stitch was called in the Empire, if you got all your medical training over here?”

Vael sighed and shook his head. “There’s a… set of maintenance stairs in the lift shaft. Cameras work but the lights have been down for weeks. We go up, if you’re right you’re right, and if you’re wrong we go back down.”

“A ‘lift’ shaft, huh? Not an elevator, like they call it in Pub space?”

“Shut up.”

“Understood, Keeper.” She smirked and followed him out of the shadows, alert for anyone else. He piped up for the benefit of the cameras.

“Looks like the hissing isn’t coming from here… better check the lif—elevator, and make sure the hydraulics are still okay.”

“Yessir,” she replied, as if on cue.

Following him into the maintenance door next to the lift entrance, she expected an enclosed stairwell, maybe winding around, possibly with landings, separate from the actual shaft. What she got was a dark, gaping void with a set of rusted steps leading up into the blackness… no handrail, just a foot of space between herself and the chasm above and below the car. As they made their way onto it, with her going first, she couldn’t help a little nervousness. Agents fear nothing, but it would be so easy for something to go wrong. Or for him to push her off. Here she was, risking her life for him, and he didn’t even believe that she was doing it.

The metal creaked under her shoes, but their steps didn’t echo, although it seemed they should have; instead, they were swallowed by the blackness, and after a few meters, even her eyes adjusting couldn’t save her. They were climbing blind, going from invisible step to invisible step. She tested each one, starting to feel the exhaustion from being on the floor. Her legs ached before long. She wondered how many floors they’d gone already, remembering the long ride down.

“What if the code works?”

His voice was so sudden that it startled her, and she reflexively pressed into the wall. After a moment, she started climbing again. Test, up, stand. Test, up, stand. Test, up… “Then we’ll exfil back to headquarters. Together.”

“I must have defected for a reason.”

“You didn’t… you didn’t defect.” She winced, remembering the notes from his interrogations. “But even if you did, your code will make you remember the reason, and you can just get it reactivated, if you want. I don’t think you’ll want. But if you defected for a reason, as you say, all this will do is get it back.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the steady rhythm of their footsteps as they climbed together, in step, winding around and around. Far below them, lights blinked on the top of the elevator car, little winking diodes that did nothing to give them any light all the way up here.

“How close are we?”

“Exits start appearing when we get aboveground. So, based on the way we haven’t seen any yet, I’d say… less than half of the way back to our floor.”

Sonora groaned and kept climbing, trying not to let the fatigue slow her down. Tired and mentally drained from working, and helping Tam with the postmortem care, was not the ideal state of being for a spontaneous exfil attempt.

Underneath them, the car rumbled to life and hydraulics began to pressurize. Vael grabbed her and pulled her back against the wall. As her back flattened to the side of the shaft, she barely had time to ask what was going on before—whoosh—the car rushed past them. Behind her, he swore.

“We’re gonna be missed up there. We’re running out of time.”

“Okay. Alright… I’ll try to go faster. Just... stay close.” She poured what energy she had left into getting up to the exit, which didn’t happen for what felt like years. Finally, a door loomed out of the wall ahead of them. A softly glowing sign read, “Outside exit. Emergency use only. Alarm will sound.”

“An alarm? It’s useless then…” Anxiety blossomed in her chest. Had he led her up here to get rid of her? Was he going to push her off?

“Works on the same circuitry as the lights--so, it’s currently offline. We use this door to sneak out all the time.”

“Sneak out? For what?”

In the weak glow from the sign, he grinned at her. “Just because I’m one of the good guys doesn’t mean I’m innocent.”

Sonora rolled her eyes. “Alright. So. Fingerprint? Voice? How does it work?”

“Fingerprint.” He nodded to her. “Your turn. What’s the code?”

“...no matter what happens, I want you to know this is only for your own good. We’re in this together, I’m not just gonna drop you. Okay?”

“You don’t have it, do you?”

“Keyword: Aurek,” she started, watching his face. “Five. Yellow. System. Seventeen.”

At first, nothing changed. He watched her, frowning… and then his expression began to shift. Sonora reached out to grab him as he swayed on his feet, hustling them both out the door. “Whoa there. Stay with me. Let’s not go falling down the lift shaft, okay? Come on…” She got little to no resistance as she helped him unlock the door and led him through, out into the cloying, humid night air, thick with mist from the jungle nearby. He stumbled along behind her. She thought he must be in shock.

“I was…” he started, as she slipped from one shadow to the next, holding onto his sleeve.

“Shhhh. Not right now, okay? As soon as we’re off base…” She murmured, scanning for a way out. A fence nearby was rusted to nothing, with a section of its metal caved in. The dirt underneath was worn through; it must be how they snuck out, like he’d said. She checked for patrols, or cameras, heart pounding in her chest, and then dashed across the short gap to the fence, slipping through the hole and pulling him behind her.

“My name… I had a… name…”

“Don’t rush things, they’ll come back on your own time. But yes, you had a different name.” Freedom. Sweet freedom, singing in her veins like spice. Tucking them into a void of deep shadows, sheltered by trees and vines, she turned back to look at him. “Your name was—”

What she saw stopped her cold.

His face was frozen and twisted on one side. She’d been pulling him along, feeling him stumble and stagger, thinking it was from the flood of memories, from the shock. But now she could see that his left side was motionless, slumped as if cut off from his brain. Her eyes widened in horror.

“…Vael. Oh, Vael, no…”

A stroke. Stranded on Belsavis, lightyears from home, deep in enemy territory… and she’d just induced a stroke.

#whumptober2019 #no.17 #Bitter Medicine #medical whump #kinda #emotional whump #fear and panic #cva #swtor #imperial agent #but not SIS anymore!

[phoenixmakeswords]

Chapter 1: Broken Wings and Dragon Dreams

Finally finished the first chapter of this and I’m happy with it.

Word Count: 1,574

Genre: Urban fantasy, LGBT romance

Trigger warnings: Child abuse mention, mention of drunk parent, physical assault, homophobic parent, and brief blood mention (if I need to add anything, please let me know)

[[MORE]]]

The sound of human voices downstairs both alarms me and reawakens my hunger. I was human once. But now I'm the monster in the dark, the thing that goes bump in the night.

I move silently through the rickety old hospital that’s become my prison. I want to see these foolish, stupid humans. Don’t they know what this house is? Haven’t they heard the legends of a fairy tale come true? Haven’t they heard of my horror story? Don’t they know I eat people like them? They’ll see the bones of the others soon enough. The would-be heroes come to slay the vicious dragon. Of course I ate them; I don’t particularly feel like dying.

I slink gracefully along a hall on the second floor. I want to see what these invaders look like. I want to know their motives before I rip their heads from their bodies. I don’t kill without reason.

Five human men stand in a huddle by the front door. They’re armed with flashlights but no weapons that I can see, and I can see quite well.

“So, the plan is Aaron and Jacob on the upstairs and the rest of us will tackle the downstairs, right? We’re just assessing things for now, see what needs done,” one of the dark-haired men says. He has a strident voice; it grates on my nerves. Saliva drips from my jaws as I consider the possibility of eating him just to never hear his voice again.

“I'm down for that,” a blond in a black AC/DC shirt replies, grinning. “And if we see the dragon?”

“Kill it.”

It?! IT?! I am not an it, human. I am just as much a male as you. I was once just as much of a man. Just because I'm a shifter doesn’t mean I'm an object, I spit silently. A low growl rumbles from my chest before I can stop myself.

“It knows we’re here. Stay alive,” Strident Voice informs them, glancing fearfully over his shoulder.

I could dart down the stairs and tear him apart. I can’t see making an enemy out of all of them when only one of them has given me cause.

Instead, I make my way to my lair at the north end of the building. I had been staying at the south end before I broke my right wing, but this room is much easier for me to leave to go hunting. I had to teach myself how to open the door without biting the doorknob off. It’s easier than the window.

I’ll be safe here for the time being. Until the invaders come.

I smell them before I hear them: AXE and Old Spice, bubblegum and chew. The scent of AXE mingled with bubblegum reminds me of the boy I loved when I was still human. It brings up memories I’d rather not think of. Memories of a night I’d rather not think of.

His lips brush mine heatedly as I pull him on top of me on the mattress. This feels good. It feels right. Like this moment with him is what I was made for. I love him more than I ever thought I could love someone. My fingers splay against his lower back through his thin t-shirt.

My bedroom door flies open, slamming into the wall. I know it’s probably knocked a hole in the drywall. Again.

“Leo, what is this?” my dad demands as he stomps into my room. The snick of his belt being dragged through the loops of his jeans makes my stomach sink. Five seconds ago, I was the happiest I’ve ever been.

“Don’t touch him,” my boyfriend pleads, getting between us. “It wasn’t him. It was me. It was my idea, not Leo’s.”

I’ve never heard my boyfriend lie before. I’ve also never seen him so upset before.

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do to my son,” my dad snarls, belting him in the face.

My boyfriend gazes at me with tears in his eyes and blood gushing from his nose and my heart breaks.

“Go. I’ll be okay,” I whisper, squeezing his hand gently.

That was the night I shifted. I knew my dad was a shifter, though he stayed ‘human’ as long as I knew him. I didn’t know it passed to me. That was the last night I was human. The last time I saw my boyfriend, whose name I can’t bear to think.

Lost in the memories, I hadn’t realized they were this close until the door swings open slowly.

And there he is. The boy I loved has grown into a man. He still looks the same.

He stares at me with wide chocolate eyes. He doesn’t know me. To him, I'm just a monster that wants to eat him. But I don’t. Even if he were to try killing me, I doubt I’d be able to hurt him. I'm still in love with him.

I slink away from them fearfully. I don’t want trouble. I’ve been attacked enough my entire life. I'm as afraid of them as they are of me. My feathers poof and my good wing flaps as I try to make myself look bigger. I screech in warning, hoping they’ll get tired of my noise and leave.

“Bryce was right,” the other man breathes. He’s the same one who asked what to do with me. “We need to go back. Bryce has plenty of weapons at his house.”

“No. I'm not helping you kill an animal that’s terrified of you. Does that look dangerous to you?” Aaron sounds like he did when he was pleading for my dad not to beat me.

I flinch when Aaron approaches me slowly. He hums a lullaby softly as he gets closer. I flinch back with a panicked squawk when he reaches towards my face. I never have liked that.

“Easy. Easy. I won’t hurt you,” he whispers, brushing his fingers down my neck. He combs his fingers carefully through my feathers, almost preening me.

I am a seven-foot tall, twelve-foot long, 150-pound dragon and I'm shaking all over because someone’s touching me.

“You lose an arm, that’s your fault,” his companion informs him, stalking out.

Aaron doesn’t respond. He keeps petting me gently. I’ve started relaxing into his touch, trilling happily in the back of my throat.

“You’re not dangerous, are you?” he murmurs.

I shake my head. I'm not dangerous, unless I'm defending myself.

“Okay, you can answer yes and no questions. Oh, my—No wonder you’re terrified.” His eyes fall on the scars marking my back. I shift my good wing to hide them, chirping softly as I do. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll try to keep the others from hurting you too. I gotta get back to work, ‘kay?”

He shuts the door behind him when he goes.

I’ve just started to fall asleep when the sound of raised voices startles me. One of the voices belongs to Aaron. He sounds furious, though I can’t make out the words.

I creep from my lair slowly, keeping my body low to the floor.

“I’ll take him with me then! Death doesn’t have to be the only option here!” Aaron shouts.

“That thing is dangerous! Did you miss the bones in the kitchen? That thing killed them.” Strident Voice sounds angrier than Aaron. Aaron simply sounds frustrated. Strident Voice sounds…furious. Like my dad did when he would come home drunk while Mom was at work.

“Maybe he had a reason. Look, I'm leaving with the dragon. Alive. My own personal Toothless.”

“If you’re gonna side with that thing, then you’re out of the project.”

“Fine. I don’t want be part of your project if you’re wanting to kill an innocent creature.”

Aaron doesn’t have any trouble getting me to come to him. Everyone else freaks out.

I plod docilely beside him as we leave.

“You’re not gonna fit in my truck. If I open the tailgate, do you think you can get them in the bed?” Aaron says outside.

I nod. I could probably make it without him opening the tailgate, but he probably doesn’t want me scraping the paint with my talons.

It hits me as he starts driving I have no idea where he lives. I don’t know if he lives with anyone who might not be okay with him bringing a dragon home.

The feel of the wind in my feathers as he drives almost feels like I’m flying again. I didn’t realize until now just how much I’ve missed the sensation. The feeling of freedom. While I could leave to hunt, I couldn’t exactly just wander down Main Street whenever I wanted. Or so I believed.

“C’mon, buddy,” he coaxes when it’s time for me to go in the house.

I have to duck to avoid bashing my head on the doorframe. My bad wing drags against the jamb painfully enough I hiss. I don’t rebreak it thankfully, but it’s still sore and I’m missing feathers.

I curl up carefully on the white carpet of his living room floor and begin preening my bad wing. It hurts and preening will make me feel better.

“What happened to your wing?” he asks, stepping closer.

I rasp in warning. I won’t hurt him. I just want him to respect my desire to not be touched.

“You eat meat, right?”

I nod slowly before going back to straightening my feathers.

#my writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #urban fantasy #lgbt romance #broken wings and dragon dreams #dragon shifter #original fiction #first chapter

[sturdybackbone]

sinking and sinking and sinking-drabble

When Artur is barely eight, he almost dies. 

In hindsight, he should have seen it coming—But he’d been far too wrapped in the sudden freedom that grandfather’s death gave, that he’d forgotten to be wary. To be careful of Father, now. It wasn’t like it was his own father that had died, but it had been Mother’s—But, still, Mother wept. Mother wept for days upon days, and she didn’t do the housework, the cooking, the groceries, leaving it all to Father, and to Andrei and Sveta. Father was irritated at this. Housework was women’s work. He had to be able to drop everything, too, to care for Mother, lest she break out into hysterics and cry shrilly enough to get the neighbour’s dog howling. Father was irritated, he was tired, and he didn’t know what to do. And, so, when at a dinner, Artur went and did his customary action of taking far less food than anyone else, and dropped his plate, breaking the blotched porcelain, Father snapped.

Father was a week sober, and withdrawal was making his hands shake and his eyes bloodshot. Father burst out of his chair, rattling the table hard enough to make Sveta reach for her teacup, lest it would come tumbling down to earth. Artur didn’t even have time to flinch, to even attempt to flee, before Father was upon him.  “You little whelp.” Father hissed, before yanking Artur up by his short, chopped hair. It had been long enough to reach his neck, once upon a time. Once upon a time, Artur could go to bed without making sure to not lie on a tender part of his body. “You useless little blight, you waste of space, look what you’ve done!” And angled Artur’s head so that he’ll look at where the broken plate, with wasted food, lay. Artur almost wanted to say, ‘How can I, when you’re yanking so hard on my hair that I can’t see?’ But he knows for certain that if he did, then he’d find his head suddenly smashed down onto the corner of the nearby stove.

Artur’s panting with pain, and, knows that all he can do is stay limp, quiet, and let Father work his aggression out. Father growls, low and animalistic, and as his siblings go hushed and stare down at their plates with their shoulders drawn, Artur can hear little Maxim mewl, and then start to cry up above. “Look what you’ve done.” Father is oh-so tired, having to deal with Mother and the house and the foul little baby, and Father, still holding onto Artur’s hair, goes and hauls Artur out of the summer house while Artur can’t help but to yelp like a dog.

Artur struggles, and gets thrown down the few stairs to the porch for his troubles. It more knocks the wind out of him than anything else, and Artur attempts to scramble to his feet, but more ends up with his head hanging down by where old pine needles lay, digging into the skin of his smooth forehead. Father does not immediately come stomping down the stairs, and Artur stares up, eyes gradually growing wider, as the time passes, and just as he attempts to put weight on his hand, to try to rise, Father comes sauntering out of the house, footfalls heavy. He’s carrying the poker from the cold fire. Artur’s eyes become saucers, and as his feet find dry earth, his Father finds his shoulder and uses his newly acquired tool to bash right at the junction of neck and collarbone. Artur feels a shoe smash down onto his stomach, and knows that it will bruise into the exact shape of the shoe very, very soon. Artur’s carried by the loose fabric of his clothes to the tree where a swing, the chains rusted and the wood seat covered in splinters, rests, and Artur finds that the feeling of tree bark against his back is truly not helping him in all of this. Artur does the sensible thing, and it’s to curl up into a ball to protect his vital, tender spots, and hears a painful crack in the general vicinity of his arm when the poker hits him next, and, after a few, blissful milliseconds of delay, the pain roars and fills him with heat and, well, pain, and just like little Maxim, he mewls, and curls up so tight his bones ache. There is no use in crying. And still, his eyes betray him. “We didn’t want you, we didn’t want this.” And Artur almost wants to laugh because is this really the time?

Instead he blubbers, like the distressed child he is. “We didn’t want you in our lives, with your floating and your healing and your bouncing. We didn’t want any of it, you blasted child!” A foot smashes down against his hands, aiming for the head that those hands protect. Father succeeds, eventually. “We don’t want you, need you, and you’re ruining us! We’re feeding you, clothing you, you ungrateful little bastard! The only reason you’re still alive, Devil-child, is because I’m a good person.”

Artur chokes out a little bubble of laughter, and a little bit of blood too. For his trouble, Artur’s beaten past the point of coughing blood, past the point when he can’t even properly curl up for the pain, past the point when he’s even all that there in his body, past the point when his bones would snap and past the point when they’d crunch like fallen autumn leaves, past any other point that Artur has felt, and, and, and when Father finally relents, panting, shaking, he wipes his brow, and walks away into the house, slamming the door behind him, Artur faintly realizes that he can’t really feel much of anything, at the moment, as he lies, crumpled, on his side. Which is nice, he supposes. It’s nice. It’s nice, even if all of this isn’t. He can only stare up at the leaves of the oak, and watch the sunset slowly roll by, painting the sky gold and pink, and then, purple and blue. And when the darkness comes, he does not fight it.

When Artur wakes up, he’s acutely aware of the fact that, by all rights, he shouldn’t have woken up at all. Artur dreamt, just nary a few moments ago. He dreamt of white, and of, of something pleasant and sweet and the more he stayed awake, the more the memories faded and faded until all that was left inside Artur was an ache at the loss of something he’ll never again remember.

Or, perhaps that ache was something different, something far more physical, because, from the very moment Artur barreled into consciousness, he came aware of blinding, impossible pain all over him. Artur blacked out for what had to be a few minutes maximum, and when he came too, the pain hadn’t magically vanished away, like he’d desperately wanted it to.

Artur rolled onto his stomach, tried to stand, retched bile and blood, and for the weight he’d placed on limbs which were bent and bruised in a way limbs were not supposed to, Artur got to have a lovely cry in the dirt afterwards, where every hitch of his chest caused his ribs to poke like knives into his soft tissue. Artur, writhing in the dirt like a worm, realized that he had never, in all of his days, hurt as much as he did now. And he knew in his heart of hearts, that it was only to get worse from hereon. … The bruises were going blue and purple at the edges, and, yet again, no one paid them any heed, when Artur was able to walk enough without collapsing head over heels into the side of the road. The hot summer day meant that an entire flood of children was out and about, playing in the forest, in the streets, on the bright playgrounds which littered the small village. In autumn-time, all of the families would crawl back into Moscow, where it was warm, and the datchas and the towns would stay still and quiet, with no soul in them save for little creepy crawlies, with no sound save for the harking calls of crows. “‘Fell’ again, did ya’, Artur?” Harked out a voice quick similar to crows. Artur, from his seat on a creaky swing, saw Michail saunter close to him, drawing the attention of a few of the boy’s friends, who stayed where they were, by the sandbox, but watched, glee making their eyes shine. Artur watched Michail, and felt very, very, very tired. Artur put his weight on the swing, using it to haul himself onto aching legs. Michail would ask for the swings soon enough, he knew. Michail’s face twisted. “No—No, sit back down, sit back down, will ya’?” And Artur stared at the boy who was practically twice his size, blinked, and, with a grimace, eased back into the seat. Michail’s chest puffed out, and he put his little fists on his hips, and he barked. “Now get up! Quickly, now, or I’m going to kick you right in the shin!” Artur blinked, and knew that he couldn’t get up as quickly as Michail wanted him to. Artur’s bones had magically healed, yes, but that still meant that he could feel still feel the bone deep bruises which had been left behind. And so Artur didn’t even bother, leisurely getting back up to his feet, and when he’d gotten there, he held his head high, and stared at Michail, head on. Michail blinked, and something flickered over his face, before Artur was met, once again, with a familiar friend. Pain bloomed in his legs, and Michail did, indeed, kick him in his shins, sending Artur down to earth with a pained wheeze. A hand pressed down onto his head, tangling in his hair, and lowered his face and pressed it into dirt and into grass. “Good job.” Crooned a voice by his ear, and in that singular moment, Artur could only think of tearing Michail’s fingernails off with his teeth and hearing him scream, high and shrill, and then hearing him blubber like a pig. He’ll have his vengeance yet.

…

The bruises were going green and yellow at the edges, but, like some demented rainbow, they were joined by new, glaringly bright purple and blue bruises which were sprinkled with the occasional scab. For the past few days, he had avoided Michail’s stomping grounds, quite successfully, might he add.

But now, a week since the day he made a great ol’ bloody stain by the old oak tree, Artur found himself coming back to the playground frequented by Michail. It’s the newest one in the village, repainted and overhauled in the early spring of this year, apparently. Some people had begun to tire of the appealing newness, but not Michail. Especially since it was, quite literally, a stone’s toss away from his own datcha. The wooden fence peered at him, as Artur weakly swung on the swings. It was near-sunset, and most of everyone had headed home to get dinner. That’s really, why Artur was here. For once, he could be somewhere quiet, where he could think, and think, and not find biting words suddenly behind his ear. “—Didn’t even want him, you bitch!” Artur’s ears pick on the all too familiar tone, and finds it odd that it’s not his father’s voice that’s yelling. “Well, yes! Because I didn’t even want to get married! You’re the one who tied me down, I didn’t want you, I wanted Sergei Koldovich! God knows he knew how to treat a lady in bed better—” “Natasha, Michail can—” The male voice was crumbling. Clearly, not the one who’s wearing the pants in the relationship. “Oh he can go to hell, Ivan! I don’t give two fucks about him! If it was up to me, I’d leave him out in the woods for feral dogs to eat!” The voices are coming from just beyond that wooden fence. Artur had long since stilled his swinging. And then comes the sniveling little devil himself. “Mamma, Pappa—Please, don’t argue—It’s dinnertime! Pappa made some really, really good plov, maybe we should eat it—” There’s the clatter of plates, and then their smashing. “Oh his plov can go to hell! And then he can go with it, the fucking idiot!” Artur hears the padding sound of little feet running away. He hears a door opening, then another, and then a gate opening. A gate in the wooden fence that’s still looking at Artur with as much interest as he has towards it. Michail, exceptionally pink in the face, runs out, clutching an arm that’s streaked in red. Michail scrambles past the slide, past the swings, unseeing, and hides in a little tunnel that’s coated in metal, just underneath a little mock witch’s hut. The tunnel merely amplifies Michail’s curses, his sobs, his low, mewling whimpers. Artur gets to his feet, and he finds that he doesn’t know exactly why, nor, can he feel his legs, in this moment. Artur feels his little feet waddling towards that tunnel, with almost no sound, on the grass and the dirty sand, which is likely soaked in drunk mens’ piss. Michail, when he’s blubbering, sounds less like a pig and more like a cat that finds that it’s suddenly lacking its tail. Artur’s legs carry him by the tunnel, and he finds himself leaning against the mock witch’s hut, feeling wood press into the tender flesh of his back. Michail sobs horribly. It’s all wet sounds, from his hands furiously rubbing his eyes, rubbing away snot, him sucking up snot with the best of his ability, and him opening his mouth, and weeping with that, which, of course, means that some dribble comes out too, which must be sucked back in, too. Artur doesn’t sound like that when he’s crying, right? He hopes not, at least. Because if so, then maybe there is a point in having him beat black and blue.

“I’m sorry.” Artur says, and Michail freezes up, going quiet. He must have stiffened and frozen, but Artur doesn’t see. Artur hears the rubbing of cloth against smooth skin, and hears Michail shift, and heave in a few more breaths, and then sob some more, as he fails to steel himself. Artur’s looking up at the sky, the sky which is red and orange and pink and purple. The sun, when it sinks, bleeds the very most interesting and beautiful colours into the sky. “What—What are ya’—Sorry—For—Loser?” Michail finally gurgles out. There is an edge to his voice. One that’s ever, ever, ever so hopeful, and high. Artur’s still looking up. “That you were ever born.” Michail makes a faint choking sound, and before the other boy can bluster and shriek, Artur speaks again. “Your parents seem to agree. I heard their argument. It sounds like you were an accident, honestly.” Artur’s looking at his nails, inspecting them for dirt. There’s plenty. “They certainly don’t want you, it seems.” He can all but hear Michail seething, growing angrier, hotter, like a kettle on an open fire. “You don’t—” He can hear Michail say, but Artur speaks again, voice steady, just loud enough to overcome Michail’s raw little pathetic excuse of a voice. “I do, actually. My own brother was a similar accident. They didn’t want him. But he still existed, and so, because of him, my parents got together. And now they’re very, very, very unhappy.” The sky is gold and orange, and Artur half has the urge to try to paint out its beautiful colours onto some parchment. “Your parents obviously did the same. It’s quite common. I’m guessing he got her with a baby on a date, or maybe they were in highschool, or something—And they knew that either they had to kill you, or raise you together, even if they both hated it.” “You’re a burden on your parents, do you know? They didn’t want you, they didn’t need you.  They didn’t want you in their lives, and yet, here you came, a little bug, a parasite, come to suck the life and happiness out of them.” Michail was so, so, so quiet, that Artur could almost swear the boy wasn’t breathing. The words are purposefully familiar, on Artur’s tongue. “They’re feeding you, clothing you, and you’re still an ungrateful little bastard. The only reason you’re alive, Michail, is because they’re good people. Good people who you’re ruining. Who you are only making unhappier, day by day.” The sky has little red spots, like blood on a smooth, clear wood floor. “Why do you even bother, Michail? If no one needs you, wants you?” Artur’s eyes are at the entrance of the little tunnel. “Why don’t you simply go to the bridge on a rainy day, and let the rapids wash you away?” Artur’s lips are curling. His split lip sends a pang of pain through him, just as something hot and heady, something like pleasure makes up for that pain, making his nerves feel electric. “You’ll only be doing the world some good, Michail. Good to your parents. Good to everyone who’ve you’ve ever met, good to everyone who’s ever looked at you, and found you to be the very same blood sucking bug that your parents see you as. That you see yourself as.” The air is still and silent. A gust of wind rattles the nearby birch trees, and, in the very, very distance, one can hear cars running on the motorway that’s not too far from here.  Artur’s little fingers let go of the mock witch’s hut.  “Good night, Michail.” Artur says, placidly, and he walks away. He waits until he’s out of the playground before allowing a spring to enter his step. He whoops, he laughs, and scares a cat out of a tree in the process. On the next rainy day, Michail disappears. And that’s the day when Artur risks the beating, and takes the whole pot of plov, and runs away into the night, his father on his heels, feet sinking into the muddy, wet ground. He eats plov with his hands under a soaking wet tree, like some animal, and all he can feel is airiness, lightness, happiness, shining bright in him like the sun.

Artur isn’t a good person, but he doesn’t particularly mind that, he thinks.

#devolp #abuse tw #violence tw #verbal abuse tw #slurs tw #suicide tw #domestic abuse tw #child abuse tw #//dont know how else to tag this but this is not a good thing #//at the beginning there's mildly detailed child abuse so please avoid that if that upsets you #//everywhere else is also littered with Bad Stuff #//it's artur's early childhood and that time was... bad #bulling tw #//there is a point to the gratuitous artur hurting #//because this is the first time he turns his pain onto other people #drabble

[ecotone99]

[NF] The Dreadful Drive

It’s dark for an afternoon. Strong odds of rain and that’ll mean baseball practice is canceled. I won’t tell Pops or my coach, but I’m relieved. Baseball is pure poetry in motion, like a graceful war dance, but the other boys on the team might as well have broken my legs the moment my cleat touched the dirt. No practice means no constant ridicule of my playing, no derogatory comments regarding my hobbies or asceticism, no additional stress. Just a brief but noisy bus ride home. Home may be just as stressful, even more so on more than one occasion, but at least it has a bed.

The bell rings and I scamper from the classroom and disappear into the fluvial departure of high schoolers all eager for whatever they call freedom. I find my bus and board, sitting near the back with the other upperclassmen. They are friendly enough and I get along fairly well with the neighborhood kids, but I couldn’t tell you their birthdays and only half of their last names. My younger brother sits with me. We jest and vex each other and the other children. Nothing atypical. Just two kids headed home.

Our ritual for arriving at our house was unique: check to make sure Ma is okay, take the dog out, an hour of video games and then start homework before Pops gets home. Checking on Ma involved a bit more than opening the door and taking a glance, though. You knock gently and wait three seconds. She can’t get up from the bed so if no reply, then you creak the door open ever so slightly and whisper, “Ma?” If she’s awake, wonderful; you’ll be greeted with the warmest smile on the most joyful-looking face. If not, you try not to plant the panic seed. The door is now completely ajar and you have to raise your voice a bit. “Ma.” Most of the time she jolts up from her nap, but if she doesn’t, then you start to worry. You walk to her side of the bed, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, and jostle her. “Ma.” Sometimes she wakes, sometimes not. Another jostle with a little more haste and another elevation in tone with an added urgency. “MA.” If nothing still, then you can’t help but worry. Small flicks of water on her face help to determine if she’s conscious but that doesn’t always produce results. In total desperation, you call pops and keep yelling “MA!” until either she wakes up or he tells you to phone an ambulance. And then you take out the dog, then video games before starting homework and Pops getting home.

It could be worse. And occasionally but rarely, you’d enter the house and find her trying to bounce on crutches around the kitchen and she’d be just ecstatic to see you and you’d hug her and take the rest of her things for her and help her back into bed. Small gifts like those make the rest of the day easier. I always pray for small gifts on the bus ride.

The bus enters the subdivision and climbs the monstrous hill towards our house. My brother and I bring our trivial conversations to a close and gather our backpacks. The bus halts in front of our driveway and the driver folds the door open for us. We descend the stairs and make our way towards the house and out from our home bursts forth a portly Southern woman unfamiliar to my brother and me. I look to him and he mirrors my expression. This is strange. But I think I recognize her as the neighbor Ma likes.

“Boys! I’m your neighbor. Your mom needs help!” she cries.

“What happened?!” I demand. I don’t really need to ask; seconds after the confirmed neighbor finishes speaking, a blood-curdling wail echoes from inside the house. No small gifts today.

“She dropped something on her bad foot not too long ago. I heard her from across the street and came over to check on her. She needs to go to the hospital,” she says.

‘Again,’ I add mentally.

“We better call Pops,” my brother says with trembling lip.

“On it,” I reply. My eyes sternly fix onto my phone and I vigorously look for my pops’ number ignoring the continuing wails. I’m in soldier mode.

I find the number and make the call.

“Pops?” I say, “Ma is hurting really bad. I think she dropped something on her foot and I think she needs to go to the hospital.”

There’s no response to my update at first. Clearly, he is not happy, maybe even frustrated. I can tell even though he’s forty-five minutes away.

“Okay, Killer,” he says, “I need you to drive her to the hospital as fast as you can and I’ll meet you there. Can you do that for me?”

“Of course. Exit 22, right?”

“Yes.”

“Leaving now.”

“Be safe. Please, take care of my wife.”

“I will.”

He hangs up and I relay the plan to the other two. I can still hear Ma.

“Can you call an ambulance?” The neighbor asks.

“We can get her there faster,” I respond. I don’t tell her about the tower of ambulance bills inside.

“Do you need me to take her? I can throw my kids in the car and rush her if you need,” she offers.

“Thank you, but you don’t have to. Let’s get her in my car.”

No more words. We spring into action like a fire team on a mission.

It takes all three of us. Ma is sobbing and wailing and trying her best to support herself on us but her strength is lost. Every slightest movement agitates that burning. That never-ending burning that consumes her. She hops towards the door and screams the moment her good foot hits the floor. We hold her up and offer words of encouragement as if she can hear them through the pain. As if they can do anything at all. Another hop. She screams again and we have to wait a little while for her to calm down and tolerate another step. But it will always end with another scream. I’m holding her left arm over my shoulders with my cheek to hers. I’m looking forward towards the door, offering a “C’mon, Ma,” here and there to at least try something because something is better than nothing.

She’s through the door and getting her down the stairs to the driveway is the tricky part. The arrangement stays the same but my brother gets in front and catches her down each step. There’s only seven of them, so it could be worse. Each step is followed by a shriek but her voice is so much weaker, croaking and raspy. But she has to scream. As long as she has the air, she must scream until either the pain subsides to its normal, barely manageable level or she loses consciousness. She will not pass out before we get her into my car, though. I’ll make sure of that. I have no way of doing so, but it’s all I can do.

She makes it down the stairs well enough and we move her to my Oldsmobile. It was actually her mom’s car before she gave it me. My grandmother barely drove it so unfortunately it didn’t have too many problems other than being a few decades out of date. I only drive it if I have no other option. We swing the door open and hold her as she slides as best she can down into the passenger’s seat. No time to buckle her. My brother shuts the car door and we embrace. This surely is not easy for the young boy to handle. I reassure him that she’ll be fine and I thank the neighbor for her assistance. No more time can be wasted. I jump into the driver’s seat and ignite the engine.

The car reverses out of the driveway and I brake to put it in drive. Ma is screaming even louder now. I have to remember to go easy on the brakes and turns; even the gentlest of movements could agitate her pain. But the faster I get her to the hospital, the faster she gets what she needs. I have to debate about this to myself. It distracts. And it’s a twenty minute drive.

I have nothing to say. What is there to say? “You’re gonna be okay, Ma?” I know she’s going to be “okay.” She knows it too, hopefully. As “okay” as okay can be when your leg is on fire. And I mean that almost literally. Her nerves can’t tell the difference. And they never stop. Day in and day out, she lies in bed tormented by her own body with prescribed narcotics to try and take the edge off the pain. That may not sound “okay,” but okay is relative, I suppose. One thing for certain was that this right now was not okay. I could just say, “Hang in there, Ma. We’ll be there soon,” but what if that was a lie? I knew the route to the hospital and we were likely to hit several traffic lights, and who knows if there was a wreck on the interstate to impede us as well? I don’t want to lie. Whatever I can say she probably won’t hear anyway, so I don’t say anything. I drive as safely and as briskly as I can.

She still screams but there’s almost no voice left. It comes in waves with each cresting burst of agony exploding from her lungs and echoing around my cabin. And it’s a tinny, raspy scream; I’d have guessed she was getting over a throat infection or recovering from a particularly heated and long argument. I can hear the power behind her exhalation but it’s not loud. Like she’s being smothered with nothing over her face. But I see her in my periphery shaking with each outburst. She’s giving it all she’s got, and in between each eruption she, with what little voice she still has, whimpers and cries like a dog with a broken leg. And it’s not a very big car. The volume is laced with those biting noises and nothing to distract her or myself because I thought it would be inappropriate to turn on the radio. What would she even want to listen to?

‘Just keep driving,’ I tell myself.

We merge onto the interstate with another ten minutes to go before we reach the hospital. Ma shakes her head side to side. Still crying. It’s nothing but straight driving now so I barrel down on time efficiency. I can’t focus on Ma because there’s nothing to do. My attention needs to be on getting her there safely and as quickly as possible, not on futile words. And if I address her, that means I have to focus on the scream. I can’t. I remember seeing videos put out by animal rights’ activists of slaughterhouses butchering animals and they always managed to catch the poor beasts moaning and suffering so vividly and audibly. She isn’t being butchered, but you wouldn’t know the difference. They both have that innate, primal cry of life – that sound of the true essence of something – to them. It’s the sound that dying things make. She isn’t dying, probably, but you couldn’t tell the difference.

But I have to do something.

Nothing I can do.

But I can’t do nothing.

I can’t help it.

Have to try something.

It’s still straight driving so I let one hand off the steering wheel and reach for her left hand. She takes mine and squeezes immediately. Firm and closely gripped but with the strength of what felt like a young child. I don’t know if this is helping her but it’s all I can do.

Finally, the exit for the hospital comes into view.

“Almost there, Ma,” I tell her. It’s a fact so I’m not lying to her. It probably won’t do any good but it’s worth a try.

It’s only a few more intersections until we reach the emergency room. I look over to her. Her eyes are still glued shut; I haven’t seen them open since I left for school this morning. Her face is blood-red and damp with small wiry strands of hair stuck to the mixture of sweat and tears on her forehead and cheeks. Each pulse of pain arches her neck back and she grimaces before she screams towards the roof of my car. She squeezes my hand tighter before she does this so I think it might actually be helping her, if only barely. The shaking makes it a little more difficult to drive but I manage. It’s only a few more minutes.

I pull the car in front of the hospital’s emergency room and jump out to call for assistance. A nurse tells me to bring her into the room as I grab a wheelchair from their designated station. Not my first time here, obviously. Running back to the vehicle, I bring the chair to her side and open the door. This arrangement of transferring Ma from the car seat to the wheelchair was so routine that it was refreshing to have an easy part of the mission. All it took was a bit more strength on my part to get her into the seat. I wheel her inside the building and to the front where the nurse awaits. I rush back to the car and find the nearest parking space before I am ticketed, and if there were a day for it to happen it would be today. Ma is neither coherent or even physically able to write anything down at the moment so I have to take the clipboard from the front desk clerk and take a seat while a team of hospital staff wheel her back into the triage. I know all the information needed so I bury my head into the paperwork and never look up into the waiting room surrounding me. I’m not embarrassed, as my mother continues to wail down the hall, but I’d rather not make eye contact with anybody right now. I know they all saw her and heard her screaming like she was being amputated. And I know they saw me with her. I don’t know if they feel sorry for her or for me but I’d rather not even acknowledge them. Nothing exists right now.

The paperwork is completed and I return it to the clerk. I check my phone to see if Pops has called. Just a text. I respond letting him know that we arrived and that she is safe and being taken care of by the nurses. He says he’s a few minutes away. I still hear Ma screaming. But she’s nowhere to be seen. I quickly glance around the room to see if anyone else hears her but they don’t seem to. I unlock my phone and meander about the applications and notes of songs I’m writing until my pops finally arrives.

“She okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Go on home. I’ll see you when we’re done here.”

Not much else is said because not much else needs to be said. We embrace each other and I make my way to the exit. I can still hear Ma screaming but Pops and I are pretty used to it by now so I’m not surprised that he has no reaction to it. I leave the hospital and get into my car and begin driving back to the house. Back to where dinners at the table ended not so much because of technology separating us into entertainment quarantines but because of the lack of practicality of getting Ma down the stairs and her bearing the discomfort for an hour; where timely prescription runs to the pharmacy outweigh moments of leisure inside or outside the house; where Pops is just as stressed as you are, and probably even more than you are, so you can’t talk about anything with him because he doesn’t need the added stress that his kids are falling apart too. But at least there’s a bed. And the mission was a success, or as successful as it could have been, so I offer myself some sort of reward. I turn on the stereo and set it at its maximum volume playing a favorite song of mine. The upbeat and vigorous music eases the tension inside of me and I melt into the notes and rhythms as I race down the highway. I can still hear Ma screaming, though…

But no matter. I arrive at the house and make sure that the dog is taken out before I start playing video games. Then I start homework before Pops gets home.

submitted by /u/Warner_Christian [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3dtDfyR

#Blogger #Story

[davidaolson]

This fifth sun, the sun of movement, illuminated the Toltecs and illuminates the Aztecs. It has claws and feeds on human hearts. ~Aztec Theology

Dead Hearts Walking

We are a steady stream pushing ourselves up the steep stairs one by one. They walk without difficulty. I am winded by the exertion, gasp for oxygen in the thin air. With step 248, we reach the summit of the Temple of the Sun, the largest pyramid in the Americas. Each of my companions, a devotee has a cleanly sliced, horizontal hole in their chests just left of center, slicing through the nipple region. The ghosts walking the street do not have the hole. Only those ascending the pyramid do. There must have been a ghost priest near the base performing the ritual.

In their right hands, each holds a beating heart, their own beating heart dripping phantom blood. The drops are low luminance red. They contain too much pigment to be transparent, not enough to be opaque. Translucent blood, translucent as the mixed-blood people inhabiting a society happy to push them to the margins. Out of sight. Out of mind. Translucent. Preferred invisible.

They search for the Sun Stone to offer their hearts, a sacrifice to propitiate the starving Aztec Gods, drinkers of human blood. Once the gods’ thirst is satiated, they will reward the people and resurrect the lost empire and the Aztec will reign again.

But the sacred Stone is missing. It was stolen by Spanish invaders for its gold inlay then thrown in a worthless heap until it was rediscovered and placed behind bars in a museum. Why behind bars? The scientists have heard the stories. They know power lives within and blood will set it free. They fear the power, fear losing their own exalted place in society. So, the people are kept at bay lest they sprinkle their own claret juice and resurrect the ancient gods.

The original thieves failed to comprehend the sacred stone’s significance. Without it, connection to the Gods is severed. The passage from life to resurrection and final death blocked. The sacrifice cannot be made, neither resurrection for the empire nor final passage for the people is attainable. As this realization sets in, that they are trapped in the between world, my companions let loose a howl accompanied by a torrent of tears.

They cram still gasping hearts back into emaciated chests. Heads droop low, unshoed feet drag on sharp rocks. They descend the steps leaving a trail of ghost blood. Some stumble. Others, distraught, hoping for final death and freedom from the curse, jump from the top of the 216 foot Sun Pyramid bouncing off the sides, rolling over the angled walls, come to rest at the pyramid base mangled, crushed. Death eludes them, still. They remain bound to the misery infecting the empire when their leaders turned their backs on Lord Sun instead prostrating before the furry-faced man on the great white horse they believed to be a God incarnate. But Cortés was merely a killer, an invading demon.

With bodies broken, spirits crushed, they rejoin their brothers and sisters walking Avenida del Muerto, the Way of the Dead, the main road connecting the pyramids in Teotihuacán. The wanderers slowly fall into a procession, a line of spirits walking, single file along the Avenue of the dead from the Sun to the Moon to the distant Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent and back to the Sun Temple where they again pull their hearts from their chests and trudge up the 248 steps hoping, in vain, to end their purgatory. The Church came to bring heaven to the Americas but condemned the natives to perpetual perdition.

Sun Temple

Sun Temple

Sun Temple

Moon Temple

Avenue of the Dead

The line of spirits is endless with multitudes streaming toward the ancient city. They cover the land, a thick blanket of locusts, on their way to join the procession. Even the dead harbor misplaced hope in Gods.

My wife, and I suspect the other tourists, cannot see the ghosts, are not aware of the shadow people wandering in the crowds who slide through the living as light pierces a pane of crystal glass.

Are the locals aware? Probably. The ancient blood runs through their veins so I believe they have genetic knowledge. I hear the vendors speaking to each other but not in Spanish. My guess, it is Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. If their knowledge of the language lives, I’m sure they know of these shadow people, can see the shadow people. I would like to ask them but believe, even if we could speak a common language, they would not reveal ancient secrets to an outsiderf, especially a gringo.

When I visited almost two years ago, I did not see the shadow people. But that was before I met Grandfather, a spirit, a ghost. An ancient who is as old as the Americas themselves, possibly older. I encountered him twice within a year, both times in New Mexico at distinct locations connected by a common theme. Petroglyphs made by some of the earliest aboriginals in what is now known as the Americas.

The first time I also met and had a conversation with a Rattlesnake spirit. Between those encounters, I met and received a message from the Tukó spirit in the Philippines. Three extra-worldly experiences in one year are enough to put anyone off their nut. All things considered, I am not surprised to be walking with shadow beings at Teotihuacán, archaeological ruins of what was a major city in the Aztecan empire. Nor do I harbor any fear.

Grandfather passed a vision into my head through touch when we met in Albuquerque foretelling of an upcoming encounter. I am in Old México for a break from the cold Chicago winter and, if Grandfather was real, as I believe him to be, to meet my next teacher, Puma. In the vision, though, Los Muertos talked to me. I have tried conversing with these shadows but they act like I don’t exist. Are they aware of me?

Ah well, I know where Puma lives in these ruins. I saw the mural on my previous visit and that is where we are headed next. My only problem, how do I get rid of my wife and away from the crowds. In all my previous spirit encounters, I was alone. It seems to be a prerequisite. No witnesses. No one to validate my experiences. No one to assure me I don’t wander in and out of schizophrenia.

Miztli (Puma)

Miztli (Puma) Miural

We stop to admire the Puma mural which is a short bit along the avenue on the way to the Temple of the Moon. It is tawny with absurdly long claws. Red waves in the background make it look like it’s walking on water.

I need to be rid of the wife. Time for my sob story.

“The mother-freaker Sun Temple was tall. The rise between those steps is long. I thought the Aztec were littler people like five and a half feet tall. How did they manage those steps? And the steepness is scary. I was worried I would take a tumble on the way down. I bet a few of ’em were accidentally sacrificed to the gods just from falling while trying to get to the top. You are smaller than them. You must be tired from the climb up and down.”

“Nope. I’m ok. I’m feeling good. The altitude isn’t bothering me at all.”

“Really? You are definitely better fit than me.” Shameless schmoozing. “I guess the personal trainer is paying off. I should probably find one too because I’m feeling a bit winded and my cough is tickling at the back of my throat up…”

“…and you want to rest for a bit so I should just go ahead?”

“Ummm…”

“Can’t you come up with a different lie? You told me almost the exact same story a few weeks ago in New Mexico. Practically a duplicate word for word except for the added trainer part. Trying to play to my ego, are you?”

Sheepishly “Ok. I’m feeling a strong need to be solo for a short time. It is the only way I can connect with the spiri…er…the landscape. I don’t want you to feel I am abandoning you.”

“Listen. I’m an introvert. I understand the soul’s drive for alone time to rejuvenate. And, please, no more of this spirit seeing vision shit. If you are going to create a magical realism story cool. I like reading your stuff. Just quit pretending it’s real.”

“Sorry…” not sorry. Did my hypocrisy show through in my intonation? Probably for her next words were, “I’m going to the moon temple. Meet me there when you are ready.” And she walked away without waiting for my response angry footsteps pounding the trodden grass.

It is going to take some mighty fast talking to smooth this over but that’s a problem for later. In the meantime, I need to learn from Puma. I would kneel but the ground is pebbly and my knees are wretched. Prostrating is out with so many people milling about. So I whisper using the few Nahuatl words I learned specifically for this occasion. I hope Puma can hear my prayer over the din.

Miztli (Puma), achtontli (ancestor) icniuhtli (friend). I call you friend knowing very well we may be distant brothers of a common ancestor in a blessed cihtli (grandmother). I saw you in a vision gifted to be my…by our…our Grandfather. I am here because Grandfather foretold you would reveal a cochitlehua, a seeing dream showing my next destiny.

No acknowledgment.

Do not fear me, I am not tlacatecolotl, an afternoon owl bringing evil to either you or the ghosts wandering this ancient city. I seek your toltecal, your wisdom that I may understand the huitzitzilin, the hummingbird journey leading me from flower to flower.

Miztli still appears not to hear me. It remains stoically perched on the wall not flexing any of it’s taught, tawny amber muscles. Nor do I sense it recognizes my presence. If it had, a bridge should form connecting our spirits, enabling communication.

I turn around to think and discover I am surrounded by a semicircle of ghost people with me at the locus. They stand, quiet, focused in my direction. I cannot tell if they are actually looking at me because their eyes are vacant, gray orbs. I slide a few steps to my left, they shift left. I return the three steps to the right, they follow again.

On the pyramid climb, they were oblivious to my presence. If not oblivious then consciously chose to ignore me. Now, they are definitely focused on me. Was hearing their own language the impetus for the change?

“Miztli,” I say testing my hypothesis. They lean closer, the ancient language a magnet pulling them toward me. The words must have pierced the wall between the living and the wandering dead diverting them from their mourner’s path toward me.

“¿Tlen?” I say which translates as what. I need to know what they want from me. Perhaps, they have insight and can help bridge me into Puma’s world.

In unison, they respond, “Meztli.”

Using my thumb, I point over my shoulder toward the Puma mural hoping it is not a rude gesture in their Aztec culture. I ask, “¿Miztli?”. I’m too fearful to point with pursed lips which would require turning my back on the phantoms, the growing legion of phantoms. I sense an uneasiness in the crowd. Again they say in booming unison, “Meztli.” This time looking left and pointing with pursed lips to the North.

It is then I realize my mistake. I thought they had said miztli which means puma but they actually said meztli meaning moon. They are directing me to the Moon Pyramid.

“¿Does Miztli spirit reside at the temple of Meztli?” I don’t expect an answer. A response presupposes people who died hundreds of year ago can understand my English. I pause for a brief eternity allowing ample space for them to speak. No response.

I turn right, begin walking toward the Moon Temple hoping it is where I will find miztli but expecting bubkus, nada, nothing. The phantoms follow close behind. I glance back for one last look at the mural. Puma has vanished from the painting. There is a hole where the wavy red lines were behind the painting. Shit. I missed my chance.

I turn back to the ghosts who have resumed their eternal march. I jump in front of them and wave my arms. The walk around me, through me on their never-ending procession that will eventually route them to the top of the Sun Temple and another attempt to resurrect the old gods, their dispossessed lives. Instead, they exist in an eternal hell. Their purpose had been to distract me so Puma could make an escape. I am disturbed. Why did Miztli choose to avoid me?

Head hanging, I drag my feet to the Moon skirting the ubiquitous vendors selling trinket and blankets and jaguar whistles and graven images. Can they see the ghosts? Do they care?

The steps up the Moon Temple are equally steep as the Sun. These, though, end at a platform less than halfway up the pyramid. Access to the top is prohibited, blocked by a weak fence I could easily circumvent. But the ascent is tricky, the steps crumbled, crumbling. An ascent carries the twin possibilities of success and sacrifice in equal measures. My goat days are long behind me. I opt to play it safe.

I return to the lip of the platform, sit, stare south along the very straight Avenue of the Dead toward the unseeable Temple of the Feathered Serpent. The Aztec were astounding engineers. The most distant temple It is hidden behind polluted air. Beyond that is a mountain range. Further still all of Central and South America with many more ruins to explore before I jump from the physical world to the spirit world. Hopefully, not too soon though.

The tourist count, high when we arrived, is continually increasing. As expected when visiting famous sites during vacation time between Christmas and New Years. Too many people for my liking. The avenue is packed with the colorful living and gray, translucent dead. Is there really a difference between life and death? So often, life feels like hell.

In the midst of the chaos, I spy the tawny rippling muscles and twitching tail of Miztli. Is Puma out for a stroll or a hunt? It looks toward me, at me. Not having the animals sharp vision, I cannot tell if it is looking with disinterestedness or disdain. My soul tells me it’s probably indifference. I’m living. It is spirit. What can I possibly offer a demigod?

My wife sits next to me, “I see you made it.” The angry edge is mostly gone from her voice.

“Yup.”

“You look hot. Your face is pink. Here, drink some water so you stay hydrated. We better get you a hat on the way out.”

I drink, wishing it was colder, wishing it was an elixir that would allow me to exist permanently and simultaneously in both worlds instead of spirit visions occurring haphazardly. Is it haphazard? Grandfather must have some plan, some rationale for bringing me to his side. I wish I knew what it was.

I feel a need to speak, to bridge the gap I created. “This is a great view, I would love to have seen it in its heyday when the pyramids were pristine and all these structures in mint condition. I’m sure it was amazing.”

“Did you find what you were looking for at the Puma grotto?”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Even if it includes spirits and phantoms?”

“I want truth not figments of your imagination. Save that for your stories.”

“Ok. No. I did not find what I wanted at the grotto. I learned nothing. Maybe, I was supposed to learn nothing.”

“That’s good. Are you about ready to go?”

“Sure. I am feeling a bit lightheaded. The sun is getting to me. It is exasperated by the low humidity. I can hear the moisture being sucked from my body through my pores. I need to get a Coke on the way out. The sugar will do me some good.”

“Are you ready to go now or do you need more rest?”

“I’m ready. Say goodbye Gracie.”

“Gracie?”

“Tag line from an old TV show. Let’s find our driver and get back to Mexico City.”

Cholula

A few days later, we shift ourselves from México City to Puebla via an easy two-hour, first class bus ride. The one drawback, the movie on the overhead screens is in Spanish. My Spanish, other than impolite words, is elementary and that is being generous. I’m unable to understand most of the movie. This lack of Spanish speaking is a deficiency I need to rectify since there are still many Central and South American countries I plan on visiting.

México felt modern. Not as modern as Chicago but still contemporary. Puebla is more old school with great colors on the buildings. The Zocalo is a cozy park surrounded by shops, restaurants, with the focal point a gorgeous cathedral. It feels like an old European town. I could see myself retiring here spending the mornings sipping tea and writing. The evenings would be more difficult because the restaurants lack variety.

For this second half of our trip, we have prearranged a local to guide us, a friend of a Chicago friend. They are a mother and daughter pair. The mother speaks more English than we do Spanish still our ability to communicate with her is limited. The daughter, a teenager, is a self-taught English speaker. She has a strong grasp of the language and is virtually accent-free. This is the first time she’s conversed in English. My wife and I are stunned.

Our first stop, the great pyramid of Cholula, is a touch shorter than the Sun Temple making it the 2nd tallest in the Americas. Most of Cholula is unexcavated. By volume, Cholula is larger than any of the taller Egyptian pyramids. Which begs the question. Which is bigger? Is it the greater height or the greater volume?

When I used to fish, some of my fishing buddies determined bigger by length. I was a weight guy believing a heavier fish would feed more people therefor it was the bigger. We never did reach an agreement. Maybe, if I caught the longer fish I would have shifted to their perspective. I never did catch the largest fish so it was a moot point. The one time I was close, the fish, a four-footer, spit the lure out right at the boat and winked at me as it dove into the darkness.

The side of the pyramid on which we arrive appears to be nothing more than a hill. We can’t see it yet but there is a tiny little church on top desecrating the sacred pyramid. That is bad but the story gets worse. We walk around to the opposite side. Vendors are hawking dried grasshoppers, a local delicacy sold by the bucket full. I am unable to suppress my squeamishness long enough for a sample. Next time, I tell myself knowing very well there is unlikely to be a next time. There are few foods I won’t knowingly try. Insects and balut top that list. My try new food tactic is to have the people I’m with order their favorites for my meal and not tell me what I ate until after I’ve finished. It’s a great way to stretch my palette.

The Aztec were master Engineers creating their cities without the aid of computers or machinery. I expect the pyramid to have sides parallel with the cardinal directions like the sun and moon temples. This is not the case. It isn’t until reaching the top I come up with a logical, to me, rationale. The pyramid is built askance for spiritual purposes. Parallel to one side there is a volcano and another mountain peak. In concert, they are key figures in a local creation story.

The Yellow Church

The ascent is a paved walkway, an ascending road absent steps. I don’t know if it is the original fixed up or a modern addition. The angle of ascent is not insignificant, the pain in my thighs a minor irritation, the 7,000-foot altitude plays a part. We stop twice to catch our breath. I am reminded of the uphill ascent to Parvati temple in Pune India. Both feel similar in distance and inclination.

Stairway to Yellow Church

Yellow Church

At the top sits a small church. I am appalled but not surprised. It was the Spanish invaders’ practice to deprive the indigenous their freedoms and their lives. They also did their best to annihilate their chosen afterlife. This is the underlying reason for the ghosts wandering the Avenue of the Dead at Teotihuacan.

The Aztec were born into a belief system, a system annihilated by the invaders preventing the Aztec from completing their prescribed birth, death, afterlife cycle. They lived and died but were unable to transition from death to final afterlife thus are stuck in a limbo world and will remain trapped until their rituals can be performed. The Spanish tried to supplant the Aztec system with Christianity but the new system is a cycle outside the original. Unless an individual Aztec freely chose to convert, they remained bound under the auspices of the original system.

The Catholic Church, represented by the conquistadors, condemned millions to suffer eternally or until the Stone is returned to the sun temple and the legions adrift can finally crush their own hearts on that altar and be released into the eternal afterlife.

The yellow church perched on the top of the pyramid is named the Shrine of Our Lady of Remedies. It was built by indigenous slaves to transition them from paganism to Christianity. Repurposing religious sites was a common blasphemy conducted by the church patriarchy in their quest to save the savages. Yet another parallel between Catholicism and the ISIS bastards destroying ancient sites. The Catholic Church was the ISIS of the invaded new world.

Upon completion, including gilding the interior with stolen Aztec gold, the natives were forbidden from entering the church. They were allowed to attend mass from the outside looking in through the small church doors but not cross the threshold and sit beneath the roof. Even conversion, an act said to cleanse them in god’s eyes, was not a key allowing them entrance. The spiritual soul saved, physical soul pissed on. WHy? They were not white and not Spanish. Blatant discrimination reflects the Church’s true character. What they truly needed saving from was the invading Church and the depraved Christians.

The Underworld

On our way to the walk-up side of the Great Pyramid, we pass a ticket booth granting access to the soul of the pyramid. The line was long so we opted to bypass for the fee free jaunt to the top. One of our hosts, seeing the steepness of the climb, offered to return and buy tickets so we could enter on the flip trip. Having always wondered what lies beneath these behemoths, we agreed. An added bonus, there are excavated sections of the exterior complex only accessible with the tickets.

Stairway in Cholula Pyramid

The world beneath is spider-webbed with narrow passages. The openings take the form of a gravestone, straight sides with an angled top coming to a point at the peak. The best I can describe is the shadow cast by a short, squat pencil with the tip worn down.

The electric lighting is yellowish casting a jaundiced glow on the brick and mortar walls. Are they adobe? I’m not sure. The construction reminds me of adobe huts and the ruins left by the Anasazi. Rocks slathered with mud hardening sufficiently to endure the ages. I imagine the ancients scurrying the passageways carrying torches, atra, fire flickering on a long stick casting eerie shadows. I look for but do not see any signs of fire soot. Was it cleaned by the excavators? Rinsed away by floods?

My head barely clears the top. A head bobble would have me scraping the sides so I do my best to keep my noggin steady. No quick turns. The narrowness makes it not possible to walk two abreast. Squeezing past someone is impossible without body contact. The Aztec were littler people and would have little difficulty navigating the tunnels.

I feel walled in, claustrophobic. I imagine horrors, tunnels collapsing trapping us in blackness slowly suffocating in the dwindling oxygen. A rush of water slowly filling until we drown. I enjoy exploring the tunnels while simultaneously fighting the urge to flee into the sunlight and blessed open space. Every fiber of my being is at war with the dilemma made worse because I have no idea how long it will take to traverse the maze and emerge on the other side.

I have a strong preference for deserts over forests. Forests are beautiful and awe inspiring but sight lines are limited. In deserts, I can see forever in every direction. I feel free, not trapped by a thousand wooded fence poles. The solid walls in the pyramid depths are infinitely scarier than the densest, deepest forest.

We have no map. There are no mile markers displaying distance covered, distance remaining. I do my best to stuff my growing panic as I used to stuff my emotions. Hopefully, stuffing my panic with have a happier ending instead of exploding when my emotions erupted.

We pass side tunnels. Some on the same level, others descending all blocked by steel gates. Some are lit. Most are pitch. They are obviously still under excavation. One descending into the depths, step by step, has a shallow puddle pool a couple of feet down. Coins are visible in the still pool.

Are the coins an offering to the gods? A superstitious act to dispense good luck? Probably both. The folly of humanity never ceases to amaze me. It was at one such side tunnel that I pull over and let my companions pass. I am much bigger and was probably blocking their view. I also hope, having them in front of me, will add perspective reducing my burgeoning panic to a manageable whimper. And, it will provide moments to study architecture without worrying about holding the others up.

During an extended lollygag, I trace a faint outline, faint like it was scrubbed away by repeated flooding. I can’t really tell what was there because the many gaps force me to fill in the blanks with my imagination but there is a resemblance to the Puma at Teotihuacan. Can it be? Or is it wishful thinking? My own folly. I am still confused about why the encounter with Puma turned sour before a connection was bridged.

I’ve lost track of my companions. There is a turn ahead they must have already passed. I am alone. Alone in this constricted space with thinning air making it hard to breathe. My panic simmers with dainty, little, baby bubbles hiding the churning below. It’s not a raging boil, yet. I need to get out. I need to be free now. My feet move independently, rapidly.

I come to an ascending passageway on my right. There is no gate blocking the way. At the top, there is the glow of light. It’s around a bend so I can’t tell if the tunnel leads to the exterior but the natural looking light is a draw I can’t pass up.

The Up Tunnel

I’m in. No choice, really. The light is a salve to my fear, an elixir to quench my thirst for sun. I begin the upward climb gradually stooping over because the space between the steps and the ceiling is shrinking. Shortly, I am crawling on hands and knees and another phobia kicks in. I am terrified of getting wedged in a tight space in a cave. The next level phobia is getting wedged while scuba diving in caves with my oxygen running out.

I hear voices ahead. The light is bright. The end must be near. The final stretch, what appears to be the final stretch, of the tunnel requires belly crawling. I start and stop. Sweat coats my body, has soaked through my shirt. I can’t muster the courage to continue. I must abandon this route and return to the original. I start inching backward irritated I didn’t have enough courage to fight my irrational fears. My toes splash in a puddle. Oh shit! I’m kneeling in a thin layer of water, a layer slowly rising. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Progress or perish. Going back is not an option.

I reach my arms forward narrowing my body as much as possible wishing I had paid better attention to my weight. The bulging belly adds to the challenge. My fingers feel only slick wall, no finger holes to pull through. I can’t begin to guess how long the passage is. I use my toes to push myself forward, literally, inch by terrifying inch. Every fiber in my being screams in horror. I’m going to die.

The water continues rising forcing me to nose breathe. Mouth breaths would contain more water than air. The water makes the rock slick and toeholds difficult. I concentrate, force them down so the rubber on my shoes can push forward and create propulsion. The one benefit of the water is it acts as a lubricant making forward movement easier. I move a couple of feet when I feel a lip to grasp. The water reaches my nose just as I break through into a chamber.

To shaken to think, I find a rock and sit trying to settle my nerves. No luck. I must move. The chamber is a largish junction between two tunnels. I’m able to stand with a few inches of head clearance same as the original tunnel. My arms, outstretched, reach neither wall. I am disoriented. My internal compass cannot calibrate. Which tunnel do I take?

Holy shit, I realize I can see. There’s light from a burning torch propped in a wall notch. How did this get here? There are no footsteps on the soft ground. I pull it off the wall and step first into one tunnel then the other. I hear nothing but my breathing and a light trickle of water. Do I go with the flow or against the flow? I’ve always been an against the flow kind of guy. No need to deliberate. Water flows downhill. I want to ascend to the surface. I go against the flow.

I turn two bends and see a hole of light in the distance. I pick up my pace, drop the flaming torch, and am nearly running when I break out of the tunnel. I enter a light so forcefully bright, it knocks me flat on my back. I roll over to avoid the searing brightness. The ground is parched, cracked into a mosaic most chunks big as my hand. I pull myself up to my knees. Stunted corn with shriveled yellow-brown stalks extends for as far as I can see. Must be in the middle of a drought.

There is chanting behind me. I whirl around and discover I am kneeling before a stone structure of meticulously inlaid stonework, a man-made puzzle of stunning symmetry. The stones are much smaller than the rocks composing the pyramid but the workmanship is identical. It stands 2ish feet high. Three steps take one to the flat top. It appears to be a miniature of the great pyramid.

The chanting is from a lone priest standing on top. His eyes are dark as teak. They were all pupil and no iris or dilated to consume the pupil. Almost as if he is without a human soul.

He’s wearing a headdress of pheasant tail feathers. Some are natural, light brown bands separated by smaller, dark brown, almost black bands. Others are dyed red, green, and blue. They extend from is head outward similar to a peacock flashing feathers in a mating ritual. There’s an amulet around his neck. I can’t make it out clearly. He’s in an animal skin loincloth. It looks like the hide of a jaguar. The same hide is banded around his ankles to mid-calf. Leather sandals protect his feet.

Miztli with Blue Eyes

Behind him, a golden puma the gold of prairie grasses at sunrise is locked in a cage and pacing nonstop. The cage is built of wood, looks flimsy. Why doesn’t the puma push through the slats? It must have enough strength. It screams occasionally, a raspy scream sounding like the gates of hell have opened and a female demon is being skinned alive while simultaneously roasting on an open flame. Pumas eyes are pale blue, a warm blue with yellow trim and they are fixed on me, fixated on me. They never leave me even when screaming and exposing large canines.

In his right hand, the Priest holds a knife, a long knife of blackest obsidian glinting the sun hanging high in the cloudless, cerulean sky. He stands severe, eyes raised, arms outstretched to the heavens. Is the stone structure on which he stands an altar? If so, where’s the warrior for the sacrifice?

Footsteps approach from behind the patter of lots of footsteps. The priest lowers eyes and arms, looks into the distance over my shoulder. He is sweating yet the air is cool.

Is it the king’s army coming to sacrifice him for failing to summon rain from the gods? A priest unable to persuade the gods to give the gift of rain is not much use for an agrarian society. Perhaps he will be forced to cut his own heart from his chest? Will a priest finally get his comeuppance? It’s high time they paid for their sins.

I have an issue with priests and the organizations perpetuating the defective of the lot. By defectives, I mean those like the pedophile priests so long protected and hidden by the Catholic Church. As if wearing a white clerical collar automatically exempts them from paying for their horrendous crimes. They are men in places of authority and must be held to a higher standard than the laity because of their widespread influence. Instead, the Church chose, still chooses, to ignore the trauma of the children and move the bastard priests to places they could unleash more terror unchecked. Unconscionable. No…EVIL!

It’s not soldiers but common folk, men, women, and children in farmers clothing, little more than loincloths on all. Most are barefooted, a few wear sandals made of what appears to be corn husks. They gather on either side of me, behind me, drop to their knees in reverence when they stop. Some prostrate themselves. They chant, Tlaloc, in unison. Tlaloc, literally he who makes things sprout, is the Aztec rain god. They are petitioning Tlaloc for quiyahuitl, rain.

The priest has pulled on a mask with large round eyes and long fangs. He has become Tlaloc. My answer to who will be sacrificed is soon answered as a family, a husband, wife, and boy child about 5 years old walk to the altar. The family must watch the warrior be sacrificed up close? It seems unusually cruel not to mention traumatic to one so young.

Of course, I view this ancient ritual with modern eyes. My society is individualistic. We are an I society. The rights of the individual are paramount superseding the needs of the group. Others are collective. The needs of society trump the needs of the individual. Rules promote selflessness and sacrificing one to better the all. I have read, it was an honor to be the first warrior sacrificed to the gods by the priests. Who am I to judge how they choose to live.

The father grabs the boys hands, the mother his feet. They pick him up, pull on his limbs until he is parallel, lay him on his back holding tightly so movement from his struggles is minimized. I am horrified to see the priest kneel and raise the knife. The chanting grows louder. Tlaloc, TLALOC, TLALOC. The voices become a frenzy. TLAAAAALOOOOC!

I scream “Noooo” with all the volume I can muster. Either they cannot hear me or I am drowned out by the chanting. I look toward Puma. It is still fixed on me. Why can it see me but these people can’t? I try to stand and run to stop the madness but can’t move. My knees are rooted to the ground, tendrils extend from me into the cracks in the soil.

The priest drops the knife into the child’s chest. TLAAAAALOOOOC! He wiggles it around deftly, then reaches in and pulls out the heart.TLAAAAALOOOOC! He raises it toward the heavens and squeezes. Blood spurts from the severed arteries. TLAAAAALOOOOC! When the blood stops dripping, he takes a bite opening the chambers and turns it over ensuring the last drops of blood are bled. In my disgust, I cannot tell if the priest ate the part he bit off or spit it out. TLAAAAALOOOOC! The priest reaches behind, picks up an axe and lops off the child’s head in one blow. TLAAAAALOOOOC! The parents move the corpse to the side of the altar. They place the opening where the head hangs over the edge allowing the spilling blood to feed the earth. TLAAAAALOOOOC!

My stomach constricts. I feel the acid taste of vomit swelling in my throat. I heave but nothing comes out. I heave and heave. Nothing. I’m forced to swallow the vile liquid stuck in my throat.

Three additional sacrifices are offered in the same manner. One more boy and two petite girls. Are they small because the drought is long and food is scarce? All have been in the 5 to 10 year old range. The crowd has grown quiet. I wonder, is the carnage finished? I hope it is. I pray it is.

Everyone, the people, the priest looks my way. No. They are looking next to me at a family, couple and an infant, kneeling beside me. They stand up. Oh god, No! The infant is a ginger, a redhead with light, almost white skin. I am surprised. I didn’t know gingers existed in the Aztec universe. The mother places the child against her chest, the smiling cherub peers at me over the shoulder.

Holy Fuck! The infant is the spitting image of my childhood photos down to the cornflower, blue eyes. It looks exactly like me. Wait…No, no, NO! It doesn’t just look like me. It IS me. I am an Aztec infant about to be sacrificed. I don’t want to die. Hold on. Hold on! This can’t be me. I’m alive now. If I was killed, I couldn’t be alive. But Grandfather did say I had blood ties in the ancient New World. Could this be an ancestor? He also said I have many destinies. Could he be one of my manifestations? Is it a he or a she? too young to tell. Or did Grandfather say I have had many destinies? Or was the conversation about destinies past and future? I can’t recall.

The infant is outstretched on the altar. The parents are stoic. Are they drugged? Why aren’t they in agony? I would be fighting tooth and claw to prevent the pending insanity. Why aren’t they crying? How can they let this mad priest sacrifice their child to some mythological being and actually believe it will bring rain? This is fucked up. They are all brainwashed. I try to get up and stop the madness but the roots I have set won’t break free.

The instant the knife hits the child, I feel a stabbing pain in my chest like I am also being sliced open. I grab at the point of pain. My hand is instantly covered in warm pulsing blood. The priest pulls out the heart. I collapse to the ground, sense a void in my chest. He raises the organ to the heavens and the cloudless sky opens releasing a deluge. Rain from a cloudless sky?

The people leap to their feet, arms reaching to the skies shouting quiyahuitl, rain, and, Tlaloc, Tlaloc, Tlaloc. Puma pushes against the cage. The slats bulge. A loud thunderclap echoes, the slats splinter. Puma squeezes through. Miztli is free. The priest raises the ax and severs the infant’s head. Not even Christ had to suffer such an indignity.

The ground is too hard to absorb the water. The deluge becomes a flood, a land river. a mile wide and inches deep. My vision fades to a tunnel, a shrinking tunnel. I can’t move. My body rises with the swelling water, floats with the stream. What happened to my roots? A shadow hovers over me. Teeth grip my neck with just enough force to control my movement while not breaking the skin. I am being pulled. Am I going to be eaten? My vision goes black.

The River Cave

I come to consciousness in a cave. No idea how long I’ve been unconscious. My legs lay in a shallow rivulet. I sweep my mouth. No gold coin. I’m not dead. This is not the river Styx or maybe it is and Charon is waiting in the wings for death to complete its task then ferry me across.

“No, David. You are not dead.”

A voice? Who is talking to me? I look around. There is only Puma and me. It must be Puma that’s talking. I should be surprised but am not. I’ve experienced enough mysteries in the spirit world in the past year or so, an ancient ghost Grandfather, a talking Rattlesnake, a talking Gecko. And who knows how many spirits I failed to recognize. I seriously doubt anything can surprise me anymore. I don’t want to be rude here. “What shall I call you?”

“You may call me Puma or Cougar or Miztli whichever. You don’t really need to call me anything. We can easily communicate with our spirit minds. Words are unnecessary.” Puma is sitting stoically exuding the regal air of royalty.

“Spirit mind? I have a spirit mind? That means I am a spirit? Doesn’t that mean I am dead?”

“You have died many times. In this moment, you are alive. I can’t speak for future moments.”

“Alive in the earthly sense?”

“Yes, alive in the earthly sense. You are a living human being.”

“If it is all the same with you, I prefer we talk with words. I don’t want you wandering inside my mind. Hell, I get uncomfortable wandering inside my mind. I wouldn’t want to put that suffering on you.”

“As you wish. I will stay out of your mind. I, however, may revert to spirit mind. I have trouble correctly pronouncing words in your language. Thoughts are easier because they live outside the restricted confines of language.”

I stand up, move to higher ground, shake the water off my hiking boots. I’m feeling chilled in the cave’s coolness. The water exacerbates the chill. “That’s fine by me. Are you the same Miztli I saw at Teotihuacán?”

“That I am.”

I pat my chest. There is no blood. No wet blood. No crunchy dried blood. No evidence I bled at all. I feel the rhythmic beating of my heart. “Why did you not talk to me then? I tried. You purposely avoided me.”

Puma’s long wheat gold tail flicks in time with our conversation.

“It was neither the time nor the place. The Wanderers abhor sharing their spirit world with Europeans. If I had communicated with you, they would have raised a ruckus. There’s no need to inflame their agony. Five hundred years trying and failing to move to the afterlife has a way of deepening a grudge. They hold a might big grudge against your kind.”

“I wasn’t them. I had no part in the armageddon inflicted on the Aztec empire.”

“In the eyes of the Wanderers, all of you are guilty, all of you carry the spilt blood of the Aztec in your wretched souls. If they had the ability, they would wage a holy war against you not stopping until every white in your world suffered a similar living hell, forever shut outside the door to your heaven.”

“Grandfather said my bloodline runs through the original inhabitants of the Americas. I am one of them.”

“You are and you are not.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You will understand in good time. If not during your visit with me then during another of your destinies.”

“So, I have more destinies?”

“That was an assumption on my part. I am not a future seer like Grandfather.”

“Where are we?”

“We are in the Great Temple of Cholula.”

“I feared so. But, don’t you mean Great Pyramid?”

“To us, it is and always has been a temple. It is only you outsiders that call our temple a pyramid.”

“Why here? I don’t like being stuck in small places.”

“Had I left you outside, in your condition, you would have drowned.”

“Ya, but this is all imaginary existence.” Why can’t he comprehend simple logic? Is he a lesser spirit than Grandfather?

“If you died out there, you would also be dead in what you call ‘real life’ as well. Death does not distinguish between layers of existence. It merely collects.”

“What do you mean, my condition?”

“You were exiting consciousness. You and ancient baby you…”

“Shit! That was me? I thought it looked like. I didn’t think it actually was me.” Why did I lie? There’s no need. I saw into it’s…my…soul. I knew we were one.

“Yes. The two of you, all of the previous yous, current you, and future yous are interconnected by a diaphanous web. What happens in previous lives impacts the next life. And what happens in future lives ripples back altering past lives which, in turn, affects every future life. Neither the future nor the past is set in stone. The further events are separated the less the energy the ripple has to impart change. The distant ends are highly viscous, change is minimal but not null. Your current life is the locus with extremely low viscosity. Think of current you as flowing water history adjusting course with every experience.”

“And when the baby died?”

“When baby you died the two loci were dangerously close. Both were highly fluid. Baby you’s death was flowing into current you’s existence. You felt the pain in your chest. You were moving into unconsciousness and would have died with baby you. If not, then current you would have asphyxiated in the water. I intervened. By pulling you away, I separated the loci allowing both to assume their own destinies. By pulling current you to higher ground and this chamber, I prayed you would not drown before regaining consciousness before the rising waters also filled this chamber.”

“Prayed?”

“As I said, I don’t see into the future like Grandfather. I am here at his behest. His hand has helped guide you since the beginning.”

“Beginning? Beginning of what?”

“The beginning of the beginning. Grandfather is an original.”

“You mean a god?”

“Not a god. An intermediary between the gods and creation.”

“You said before the rising waters also filled this chamber?”

“Yes, the deluge started when baby you died is the storm to end all storms. It is unleashing more water than this land has seen in the combined past twenty-three years.”

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Not possible. The rising waters have already blocked the exits.”

“Then we are going to drown?”

“Not necessarily. Grandfather said, when the time is right, a way will appear. I trust the ancient’s wisdom.”

“So we wait?”

“Yes. We wait. There are no other options.”

Fixated on the conversation, I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings. The water is now calf deep. Miztli leaps to a higher ledge with an elegance a prima ballerina could never muster. The tail still slowly flicking from side to side, a metronome keeping time. Time for what?

Conversation exhausted, for now, we dwell in silence. I hear the burble of water flowing over submerged rocks, the plink, plunk of water falling from the ceiling into the pool that is quickly swelling. I am now knee deep. I look for an escape route. There is one low tunnel mostly filled with water, an inlet filling our chamber. Probably the one Miztli dragged me through. I realize there are no lamps on the wall, no overhead holes for outside light to filter in. I wonder out loud, “How the hell am I able to see? And why am I seeing everything in monochrome?”

“David, I am allowing you to see through my eyes. I figured your fear would spiral out of control if you could only see blackness.”

“Very true. Drowning while stuck in a cave is, like, my ultimate nightmare, so, thank you.”

“What is the light cloud I see around you?”

“When you see in color you see the physical person. Monochromatic vision allows one to also perceive a soul. A light cloud indicates a kind aura. A dark gray is the other end of the kind evil spectrum.”

The inflow from the tunnel increases in pressure. The water rises faster. It moves from knee deep to chest deep in a matter of minutes. Puma leaps to the last visible ledge, one so close to the ceiling he or she must move into a crouched pounce position to fit. The tail flicks noticeably faster. His tension is also increasing.

“Miztli, are you male or female?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I am male and female and third gender.”

I would purse the line further but the water has risen to my chin. I tippy toe and angle my head up for the last space of air. Miztli is getting wet too. Half his body is submerged. What to do? What to do? There’s nothing I can do. I’m losing balance in the rising water, I lean against the wall to steady myself. It feels flimsy. I push harder. It flexes ever so slightly. Another, more forceful push, a stone gives way and falls through. The water flows through knocking other stones loose. The hole widens.

“This is our escape,” Miztli says. “When this wall crumbles we will be caught in the torrent. Grab onto my tail with both hands and don’t let go. Let go and you will end.”

“What about you? You could drown, too.”

“I’m spirit. I’ll be ok. I’m not so sure about you. You better grab onto my tail now. The wall will collapse momentarily.”

I grab onto Miztli’s tail. It is softer than I expect and smaller in diameter. Holding onto it is difficult. It begins slipping. I loop it around in a circle tight enough to fit my hands. Miztli screams. Too late to redo my grip. The wall collapses and we are sucked through into a vortex. For one of the few times in my life, I am going with the flow.

Underground River

We are helpless in the rushing torrent. I cannot see, cannot control my body. I reassert my death grip on Miztli’s tail holding as if my life depends upon it because it does. Hopefully, the tail won’t break leaving me careening and bouncing my head off any submerged rocks or the rock walls. We twist and turn with the bends in the frigid river.

I am unsure if Miztli is directing us or has submitted to River intelligence taking us where we are supposed…are destined…to go. Which of my destiny lines are we traveling? Is it my line or Miztli’s line? Could this be an overlap of destinies? Are we on parallel destinies? If so, how long until we separate? I hope it is not until this crazy underground river journey comes to a peaceful end and I can lay under a warm sun to dry off.

Oomph! Damn rocks! I crash into and bounce off another something. Thankfully, most collisions are with surfaces softer than rock. Does that mean we have passed the boundaries of the pyramid? I want to open my eyes but worry the debris hitting my face will slice open my eyeballs. Unforgiving surfaces slam into me causing pain winces. I almost lose my tenuous grip on the tail. Is this what it feels like to go over a waterfall in a barrel? So far, none of the surfaces have felt sharp enough to pierce my flesh. But, I am so disoriented, so pumped with adrenaline I might not feel a gash, might not feel a severed limb.

We have been under for minutes? Longer? I can’t determine the duration. Time has lost meaning. How am I still conscious? I can’t have been under too long. My lungs are not burning from lack of oxygen. Then again, in this messed up between world, oxygen may be irrelevant. Am I spirit? Am I live? Am I Memorex?

The water grows warmer. Tropical. Red shadows play on my eyelids. Why aren’t we stopping? We’re not even slowing down. This would be a fun slip and slide if I were not so terrified. The water cools again, becomes uncomfortably chilly. Darkness embraces me. We slow down. There is smooth gravel beneath me, rocks worn by incessant water polishing their souls. Puma drags me onto a pebbly shore.

“David. You can open your eyes now and let go of my tail.”

I drop the tail. My hands are numb, legs wobbly. I ache all over from the rough and tumble ride. “Ok.” I open my eyes. I think I open my eyes. It’s black as pitch. “I can’t see anything.”

“Ah, yes. Human eyes. I will again allow you to see through mine.”

I pull myself to a sitting position, allow my vision to focus. “I…I can see now. I don’t think I will ever grow used to this monochromatic sight. It’s good for photography when I can adjust for colors but, real life, there aren’t any adjustment knobs. Where are we?”

“We are in a large cave system made by the river running at our feet.”

I smell a whisper of fresh air on the dank odor of the cave. The exit mustn’t be too far ahead. We are on a sandbar, no, a pebble bar. I stand, marveling at the great expanse of the cave’s interior. There are stalactites hanging from the ceiling, stalagmites growing from the floor. There are pillars where the two met. This must be an ancient cave. I cross an ankle-deep rivulet. The flowing water deposits tiny stones in my boots which work their way to the inner sole. I gingerly walk to a ledge along the wall, take a seat, and shake out my boots. There is something familiar about this cave. An undercurrent of fragrance I recognize. But from where?

Yum Kaax, the Maize God

It is then I see the Mayan fetish carved into the cave wall, the one my wife and I saw on our first trip to Belize. I wonder, is it Yum Kaax, the Maize god? We were in the jungle on a tubing trip inside a river caving system. It was the terminus of our route. The place we ate our lunch before the inner tube float back to the cave entryway. The guide told us the history of the fetish, how some Mayans sacrificed their firstborn under the belief their fecundity would soar resulting in the births of many additional children. Sacrifice the one for the many. If we waited here long enough, there was bound to be a tour group and I would be rescued. Did I need to be rescued? Are we really in the cave?

“Miztli, where are we?”

“We are in Yucatan.”

“Yucatan as in southern México?”

“In my world, there is no delineation by country. There is only mother Earth. To orient you, we are in the land you call Belize.”

A hear voices heading our way, voices and the splish splash of a paddle dipping in water. The rocks bounce sound carrying it quickly in these caves. I listen closely to the words. They are not Spanish or any other language I recognize.

“Miztli, what language are those people speaking?”

“They are speaking K’iche’, one of the Mayan languages.”

“Do you speak k’iche’?”

“As I told you, I am spirit. I have no need of language.”

I think I may have asked Miztli the wrong question. It is not where that is important. “Miztli, when are we?”

“We are in the time before the invasion of the Americas.”

“Is this before or after the sacrifices outside Cholula?”

“It is hard to say. Time in the spirit world is nonlinear. Before and after are irrelevant concepts. We exist at all points in time. I can’t accurately say if we are before or after Cholula. To me, they are the same time.”

I can see a halo from a torch bouncing off the cave walls and ceiling. The rhythmical splish splash of the oar grows louder, the voices clearer. Correction. The voice clearer. Only one person is speaking. The voice sings a repetition of sounds as if…as if…chanting?

A shallow dugout canoe paddled by a man slides onto the gently sloping sand and pebble shore. They are all standing in the canoe. How do they maintain balance with such ease? The chanter, who would turn out to be a priest, has a dark aura and stands in the front, the paddler, in the middle, and the woman in the rear both emit mid tone auras. I guess they, like most, beings are a mixture of good and bad.

The priest wears a plumed headdress of orange feathers standing in a half moon, vertical halo. Green feathers extended backward reminding me of a high knotted ponytail. He carries a staff. The top is carved into an animal, a demented jaguar or some other totem fetish I can’t figure out. A gold and turquoise pendant attached to what looks to be a deer hide lanyard hangs around his neck resting in the middle of his chest. It is exquisitely blue and polished to a sheen.

The priest exists first followed by the man and the woman who first bends down to gather a bundle. Food, I hope but, based on my Cholula experience, fear otherwise. The evidence confirming my fears was soon plain. The bundle was surrounded by an aura so light it appeared white. There was an innocent in the mix.

The woman is wearing a just past the knee length white skirt with a deeply notches circling the hem. The notches stop just before a horizontal golden band. Red lines crosshatch the dress forming a diamond pattern. He is in a white kilt with a red band just below the waist.

All three have strong Mayan noses, Roman in profile, tattoos. They are short by Western standards. The priest has raven’s whiskers tattooed on his face. The men are around five and a half feet, the woman under five. When they speak, they reveal teeth filed to points. It looks like two rows of jagged mountains with the peaks touching. Even in the torchlight, the whiteness is astounding.

The priest builds a fire. They must have brought the wood in the boat for there is no timber in the cave. The woman places the bundle on the natural rock shelf. There are corn stalks, ears of corn, and a baby, a very young baby. She picks him up. When she turns toward the fire, I realize he, too looks like me. I assume also a ginger but can’t tell in this colorblind state. Not again! But it may not even be me. I need to know so I inch closer. They are oblivious to my presence. I move closer yet for a better look. The torch throws a nimbus around the baby’s head. Shit! It is the spitting image of me. I twirl toward Miztli.

“Yes, David. This firstborn is you.”

“Firstborn? Wasn’t I also a first born in Cholula?”

“You have always been a firstborn, David.”

Another sacrifice? To what fucked up purpose? Absurd attempts to bend the gods wills to human wills? Assinine attempts to appease omnipotent deities? Are they to brainwashed to comprehend with omnipotence comes anything the god’s want? There is no need to trade a current life for rain or the potential for future children. Madness, all this, madness. Is ancient baby me nothing more than an oblation to appease a hungry god? Were my sacrificed lives atonements for the sins of others? None of this is right nor makes any logical sense. Religion and sensibility? Antonyms. Mutually exclusive concepts people hold in their heads denying the impossibility of coexistence.

“How many times, Miztli? How many lives have been a child sacrifice?”

“These two you’ve seen. A few more I can see scattered through your many past human manifestations.”

“Why me? Why was I chosen for sacrifice?”

“For reasons, I don’t know for sure. One possiblitity, you always return to life as a ginger. In this land, in all lands, you are an anomaly, a blue eye ginger in an ocean of brown eye ravens. So it has been with gingers through the ages. The people either fear or revere the extremely different. Albinos suffer the same curse. The fearful sacrifice because they are worried, the oddity, if allowed to exist, will bring bad luck upon the people. Better to destroy than risk potential suffering. The reverent trade the choicest diamond for a promise of future blessings.”

The chanting increases in pitch and cadence. I don’t want to look but can’t keep my eyes from watching. The burning fire emits a lovely scent reminding me of countless glorious evenings sitting around a campfire seeing flame reflections in smiling eyes moist from laughter. This may ruin fires for me forever. The priest walks in a circle around the couple waving a censer burning what smells like sweet sage. I have not seen sage in Belize. It must be a trade good from Northern peoples.

“What is the priest saying?”

“The priest is calling on the gods to accept a blood and burnt offering of a first born and return many child blessings on the couple that their line may not disappear from Earth.”

“Craziness!”

“Who can know the minds of the creator gods? What you are witnessing is a corn people’s belief. When an ear of corn dies, the seeds are scattered resulting in many more plants and a bountiful next harvest.”

“I…the baby me…is not corn.”

“No, but life is life is life.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only the gods can create life. All lives are valuable in the gods’ eyes. All lives exist to feed on and be food. In the end, it is simply a circle.”

“There’s no purpose in this insanity.”

“You are blessed with luck.”

“How is it lucky to be sacrificed as an infant?”

“Not all souls find another vessel to inhabit. Many are stuck between. To use your concept, a soul purgatory. You have, so far, been spared the non-existence existence. You have always found a suitable vessel to carry you through the four life cycles described by Grandfather.”

“I remember. He said I was in the fourth cycle, the final cycle before liberation.”

“Few, relative to the population, progress as far as you have. Many get stuck in one cycle for eternity never learning enough to shift. By being sacrificed pure, your soul was given a choice for the next vessel.”

“A choice?”

“Yes, a choice. Those who die after the age when they understand right from wrong must atone for their sins, pay for their crimes against creation.”

“A kind of Karma?”

“Yes. The baby you being sacrificed chose the Aztec vessel sacrificed at Cholula. Both were sacrificed why still sinless allowing the choice of positive energy vessel making phase shifts more likely. The positives have greater knowledge and shift the phases more easily.”

“So, I was sacrificed in Belize followed by Cholula.”

“Time is nonlinear, sometimes circular, frequently erratic. It is just as likely you were sacrificed first in Cholula then Belize. In circular time, you were sacrificed in Cholula before and after Belize and in Belize before and after Cholula. In spirit time, both sacrifices occurred simultaneously.”

“Crazy!”

“Only crazy because you exist in physical life. When you finally finish the fourth phase, transcend to spirit, and exist at every point in time, it will make sense.”

“So I will transcend?”

Miztli smiles, whiskers twitch, says nothing.

“¿Miztli?”

“It is my understanding, you are on your way, that it is one of your possible destinies. Remember, only being a present, past seer, I can’ know for sure. But, Grandfather has given you special attention so I expect you will achieve spirit existence. Or Grandfather likes playing games meaning there is a distinct possibility you are stuck.”

“What is the stuck between, soul purgatory you mentioned?”

“All in good time, David.”

“Is not all time good, Miztli?”

“Yes.”

“Then now is a good a time as any so tell…aah!” A hot pain sears into my chest cavity.

The priest places the heart on top of the Mayan fetish then throws the still twitching corpse into the fire. My eyes burn as if touched by habanero oil. My skin sizzles. Puma grabs me and drags me into the river separating the life ripples between me and baby me from interfering with each other.

The water is thick, tastes of blood. Why couldn’t it be wine? I can’t breathe. Struggling, I grab Miztli by the nape to steady myself, find a way to the surface. A great surge as if a dam has burst slams into us breaking my hold on Miztli. I am thrown about like a rag doll, tumbling head over heels. Blackness engulfs me. I fear my premonitions, my reoccurring dreams that I’m fishing in still waters with my dad, have come true and I am dead again.

Isla de las Muñecas (Island of the Dolls)

After another long body numbing journey rendering me completely disoriented, I surge upward until I’m thrown clear of the waters and crash back down onto a muddy embankment. I lay still dappled by the sun filtering through verdant leaves in what appears to be a jungle. But where exactly am I? And what has happened to Miztli? I scan the area.

There are paths radiating from the pool. They are all too narrow to have been made by humans, probably the natural outcome of small animals sneaking in for water under cover of night. I pick the one lined with the most colorful flowers to explore. I’m thankful for the return of color vision for I love being bedazzled by colors. But wish I still had the ability to detect a person’s aura. I don’t know who I will encounter wherever I am. Knowing if they are bent toward good or evil would be helpful in choosing to trust or flee.

The foliage is canopied 3 feet over the trail. Too low for me without crawling. I force my way through suffering the slapping of tree branches and small cuts on my legs, face, and arms. The sound of scampering feet is in front of me. They stop then start when I get near moving off a short distance. The leaves prevent me from seeing what type of animal I’m spooking. Strange that it would not just flee far, far away. I fight the attacking branches for another fifteen sweaty minutes before breaking into a clearing nearly devoid of leaves. I drop to my knees and plant my head on the cool ground. Oh, that feels good. But it smells musty.

When the coolness of earth seeps into me, I right myself to a kneeling position which doesn’t last long because my knees ache when deeply bent. It’s painful to raise myself from a squat. I grab a thin tree using it to pull myself into a standing position. When fully erect, I’m staring directly into the face of a weathered, plastic doll. It’s naked, bald, pink, and blue-eyed. The left leg is broken off at the knee leaving jagged plastic exposed.

I jump back. There are more. A black hair rag doll above, another plastic doll, headless lower on the tree. I whirl around almost falling in the process. There are dolls in all the trees. Some are tied, others nailed, still, others wedged between branches. Naked dolls. Clothed dolls. A spiderman doll. A construction worker doll. Stuffed animals, too. I want to run but every which way is blocked by this army of grungey dolls.

Doll Island

Doll Island

Doll Island

“Where the HELL am I?” I scream.

“David, you are at one of the Islas de las muñecas.”

“Miztli? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“We are outside the spirit realm. I’m only visible in the spirit realm.”

“This is real? This is sickening? How is it you can talk? Can you and see me?”

“I can see you.”

“What is this muñecas place?”

“Remember when I told you, you were lucky to find vessels so quickly?”

“Yes.”

“This island is filled with the souls not so lucky as you. This is their purgatory.”

“Purgatory as in the intermediate state after physical death where souls await expiatory purification?” I find it enjoyable showing off my school smarts.

“No. That is another case of organized religion usurping a spiritual state and applying their own irrelevant concepts in an erroneous attempt to explain.”

“Then, please explain it to me.”

“The beings you see here…”

“Beings…you mean they are not dolls?”

“Yes and no. The beings you see here are awaiting suitable conditions for their next birth.”

“This feels like an island of misfit toys.”

“Most are societal misfits. This island is populated primarily with those who committed evil in their previous lives. The vessels they have tried to enter rejected them. Those with a positive aura quickly find a new vessel. The evil must wait.”

“So, the vessels are not simply births yet to be?”

“Correct. Both the vessel and the soul are spirits. They combine to be a new being in birth. Each can reject the other. Vessels look for souls with a pure aura that will, hopefully, enable them to maintain their physical integrity outside senseless violence. Souls are less finicky. They prefer one of the few vessels likely to be born to a life of leisure but will settle for significantly less. You see, it is the soul that determines the goodness or badness of the birthed being. So, a bad soul will choose a substandard vessel with the ultimate goal of achieving power and wealth by whatever means it takes.”

“Freaky!”

“Some of the souls on this isla have, over time, deeply meditated on their ways and migrated away from evil toward goodness so there are some with lighter auras. They are few for a jaguar almost never changes their spots. They are more likely to combine with a vessel. Of course, some revert back to evil so the vessels are leary and play it safe. Some of the souls have dwelt here for ages.”

“Is Cortés here?”

“Yes, along with many of the marauding invaders.”

“And the dolls?”

“The dolls are put up by the locals to trap evil. The souls see the dolls then, thinking they are available vessels, crawl inside and wait for rebirth. If they were not waiting in the vessels they would scour the countrysides looking for a living vessel to steal. There are rare instances when stealing is possible.”

“There does not seem to be enough dolls on the island to hold the world’s evil.”

“This is one of many doll islands in México. Still, you are correct, there are not enough. Evil continually leaks into the physical world. If it’s not leaking then new evil is generating. The nefarious activities of humanity are never-ending. Just when we think America is on a positive path, racists of all colors ooze from their slime committing heinous acts.”

“Yes. I do live in a corrupt world.”

“Do not think you are immune. Every time you look the other way, every time you don’t speak up when you see a person being shamed, you are complicit in creating space for evil to flourish. You are part of the problem, David.”

Ok. This was getting uncomfortable. I knew I wasn’t perfect but am not in the mood to have it thrown in my face. Come to think of it, there’s never a time when I like my foibles given voice. I need to smoothly change the topic. “How do the locals know to put up the dolls?”

“In days long past, there were powerful empaths with insights into the spirit world. They placed straw dolls to fool the souls. There are very few powerful empaths living today but the custom has become deeply rooted and the locals continue the tradition believing the dolls have the power to trap ghosts. The souls are not actually trapped, just fooled into believing birth is imminent. They don’t leave for fear they won’t find another vessel willing to accept them.”

“Why do all souls congregate here?”

“They do not. It’s common practice to put dolls out in yards, on verandas, in windows to catch the ghosts. When they believe one has been caught, the dolls are brought here because souls are unable to cross the water.”

“That’s a silly superstition.”

“No. It is true. The souls are incompatible with water. Once here or any of the islas, they are stuck until they encounter a vessel or hitch a ride on a living empath.”

“I guess, I can’t see the auras because I’m not an empath?”

“Almost correct. You are weak in your empathic abilities, still, stronger than most.”

“Hmmm…you’ve had me in spirit realms twice today. Why can’t you help me see these?”

“I can.”

“But you won’t.”

“This place is laden with evil. Seeing strong evil even in aura form has a way of damaging the human psyche. I’m not sure you have strength enough to protect yourself.”

“I want to try. If I feel any discomfort whatsoever I’ll shut my eyes and you can disconnect from me.”

“I warn you, the damage inflicted can come quick.”

“You will be inside my head. You can use your attuned spirit to protect me.”

“Ok. As you wish. Close our eyes.”

“Close them? But I want to see.”

“Once I have bridged our minds, you may open them. It is easier if you’re not distracted.”

“Gotcha, boss.” I close my eyes and wait one minute, two minutes. I feel nothing. Was Miztli messing with me?

“No, I am not. Open them slowly and remember, if anything feels out of place, slam them shut.”

I open them a sliver but am unable to make out anything beyond the blur of my eyelashes. Fuck it. I open them wide. Color is gone. That’s still a freaky feeling. The dolls have auras. All of them are deep black, black so black all light is absorbed. It feels like my energy is being siphoned out of my body. I become light-headed. I grab onto a tree to keep from falling and close my eyes until balance is restored.”

“Are you ok, David?”

“Um…sure…I’m ok.”

“I reopen my eyes and look around.” They black auras seem to be energized, little sparks light them up. The dolls start moving. “Miztli, the dolls…”

“What about the dolls?”

“They…they are moving.”

“They’re moving. How are they moving?”

“They all turn their heads, the ones that have heads, the ones with eyes are staring at me. I’m getting scared.”

“David, quickly close your eyes.”

I try to shut them but they are stuck like they are propped open with little sticks as in the old cartoons. “I can’t. I CAN’T”

“I’m disengaging from you. Hold on a moment. There. We are separate again.”

I feel a pop like when a wine cork is freed from the bottle. “Um…I can see color and I can see the auras. How can I see both? I thought you said that was not possible.”

Miztli paces frantically keeping himself between me and the closest dolls. “I said it was only possible for very strong empaths. This is not good. Worse. This is bad. You must be stronger than I believed possible.”

“Miztli, the dolls are climbing down from the trees. A couple are hobbling. One without legs is crawling. They are coming toward me!” A zombie apocalypse of dolls is coming for me. Are the flesh eaters? Are they soul eaters? What happens to a soul eaten by evil zombie dolls? Would I too become evil? Would I be stuck on this island until finding a suitable vessel?

Escape

“Listen closely. There must be more to your spirit than I am able to sense. Whatever it is, it has disturbed the souls. They, in turn, have animated the dolls. The only explanation is they see you as a way off this island.”

“Shit!”

“When I tell you, you need to run as fast as possible back to the pool through which we entered. Don’t look back. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or feel. You got that?”

“Y…yes.”

“Dive into the pool and swim down the throat as far as possible. You will come to a lip. Swim horizontally beneath the island until you are past the edge. Then swim upward angled away from the island. You will pop up in the waterways of Xochimilco. There are many boats traveling the canals. One of them will surely take you in.”

“What about you? I can’t leave you behind.”

“I will keep the dolls from following you. I’m spirit not physical. They can’t hurt me. I’ll be ok.”

I run back along the path I took to the clearing. It is easier this time with the branches I broke on the way in. Still, running is a challenge. Roooaarrrr. Miztli is screaming. Is it pain or a diversion. I want to go back and help but She said not to. There are black auras in my peripheral vision. They are coming. How fast can they move? Roooaarrrr. I can’t wait to find out and run faster and longer than I have since my soccer playing days. When I think I can’t take another step the forest clears.

I’m at the pond. My hiking boots won’t do for swimming. I squat and fumble finger the laces until I can kick the boots off. I hate to lose these. The plants are rustling. I consider removing my pants but half nakedness will be hard to explain to anyone rescuing me. The pond is not wide, about my body length. I dove in shallow water as a kid and hit bottom. I was lucky not to break my neck. I dive in. No resistance. I’m in the throat. I should be safe now but can’t be sure. The adrenaline is in high gear driving me into the dark depths.

I cannot see. Navigation requires reaching out to the wall and feeling for the lip. I’m not a strong swimmer. I don’t know how long I can hold out. The wall ends. I turn left and kick like a mad man probing the top with my fingers searching for the end. The bottom of the island is not smooth like the throat through which I descended. Something sharp slices into a finger. I pray its only exposed tree roots and not a colony of snaggle tooth critters with a hankering for warm flesh. I use quick slaps with my knuckles to test if I’m still under the island. The first time, I hit nothing I angle 45 degrees and shoot for the surface.

My lungs are burning. I need oxygen. How much further? Is it possible to die without sucking in lungs full of water? If I don’t breathe will I pass out then float to the surface? No. I will probably inhale and drown. My mind starts fading. I kick frantically, pump my arms doing my best to claw my way to the surface. I break through and suck in fresh air too fast. My mind sees black spots. After that, things get hazy.

I vaguely remember someone calling, “Señor! Señor! ¿Necesitas ayuda?”

I think ayuda means help. “Sí. Sí.” I respond. I am pulled into a colorful boat and throw up before passing out.

Cholula Pyramid

“David.” The voice sounds muffled as if my ears are under water. But, I’m dry. I’m laying on my back on a very hard, uneven surface. The horizon is dimming to red. I don’t smell any water.

Sunset From Cholula Pyramid

Cholula Pyramid Stairs

“What are you doing in there, David? That area is off limits. Didn’t you see the fence?”

I pull myself to a sitting position. Look around. I’m outside Cholula. Cholula? And I’m on the mini-pyramid where the kids…where young David and the kids…were sacrificed to bring rain. How did I get here?

“David. You need to get out of there. It’s off limits. Get out before security throws you out and we all have to leave. I want to see the rest of the temple grounds.

“Uh…Ok.” My boots are next to me. I pull them on, lace ’em up, tie ’em snug. It’s much easier when terror is not running through the fingers. I hop off the pyramid, walk over to my wife and our friends.

“How did you get out here ahead of us? I didn’t see you pass us in the tunnel.”

“I took a different way, the uphill tunnel we saw.” A half-truth. To tell her the whole truth would be received as a full lie. To tell her I had another spirit world experience would do nothing more than raise her ire. I was able to talk her out of an MRI last time. The thought of being in one of those machines is scary. I doubt I could talk her out of it again. She thinks I have cancer.

“But that was gated.”

“The gate wasn’t locked so I took a side excursion.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She’s not good at hiding her feelings. I can see the annoyance in her knitted brow. We are with friends so nothing will be discussed now. She smiles and we continue our excursion.

What’s Next?

The trip did not end here. We visited another Pyramid, spent time walking the Puebla Zocalo. It’s a beautiful, relaxed city. But there was not a sign of Miztli anywhere.

Puebla Street

Puebla Cathedral

Puebla Cathedral

Sign in Puebla Zocalo

Door

Doors

Street: Cinco de Mayo

Yellow Building

Me Against a Wall in Puebla

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Cross On Pyramid Mound

Cross On Pyramid Mound

Pyramid

Pyramide

View from Pyramid

View Up Pyramid

Pyramid & Clouds

Pyramid Stairway

Excavated Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Cinco de Mayo Square

Cinco de Mayo Square

I spent those last days lost. My last experiences in the spirit world concluded with a foretelling of a next step in my destiny of destinies. When I first met, Grandfather in New Mexico, he foretold of a trip to the Philippines. There I met Tukó who informed me I was on a vision quest. When I returned to New Mexico, Grandfather foretold the vision quest would continue with a trip to  New Mexico where I would meet Puma. Puma, though, told me nothing about my future. True, he said he was a past seer, not a future seer so would not have the future sight. So, I wonder, is this the end of my vision quest?

“Rooaar.”

    Puma & Pirámides in Old México This fifth sun, the sun of movement, illuminated the Toltecs and illuminates the Aztecs. It has claws and feeds on human hearts.

#Aztec #Maya #Puma #sacrifice