Well, I might as well put some of my stories here, if I'm throwing up my poetry. Be warned a lot of these are... not recent. My recent work is perhaps better, but I'm also less inclined to share it, as I still consider most of them works in progress. Most of this stuff is stuff I've put on the back burner. So maybe it shouldn't see the light of day, but at least I'm not actively trying to fix it.

That said, I welcome criticism. While this stuff is old, I still want it to be as good as it can be, so if you have any ideas to offer please do. I will try to include brief explanations with each story, when I feel they're needed.

I like to begin with endings. This was meant to be the start of a much longer story, but the characters never quite fell into place. That, and I was rather too ambitious with what I hoped to accomplish. I thought to write it from two POVs, but have neither be the POV of the character that it was really about. Apparently, that's kinda difficult. I might try to write it again, one day. But it's become a very different story in my head at this point. Still I always liked this little piece. Though I've learned much about writing since then.

A few brief explanations to make it readable:

There are two sorts of people in the world I'm writing about.
The followers of the Day Goddess, and the followers of the Night God.
The day people are immortal, and relatively ordinary looking (they may have horns, I haven't decided yet), while the night people are incredibly exotic (wings, tails, the whole bit).

Day people are not supposed to consort with Night people. If they do, they lose the blessing of their goddess, and therefore become night people. In other words, they gain exotic features and become mortal.

Following The Night: Intro

There was energy between them, a pressure that made it nearly impossible for him to form the words that tumbled through his mind; the angry, fierce accusations he wanted to hurl at her. Aylenin’s body lay between them, the form he’d know all his life made strange by the obvious markings of his fall from grace. It could well be the corpse of a stranger, were it not for the long, dark strands of his hair, the fierce solemnity that still held court on his face.

"You killed him." He hurled the words at her, attempting to hurt, or at least bate the dark skinned female, whose expression held a pretense at sadness he found offensive. "You damned him."

"No." She would not look at him, was probably afraid to look at him. Instead, she stared at the stream that cut its crooked course next to them, stared at the thick leaves of the ancient trees that obscured the sky, stared at Aylenin. Her long fingers ran along the cold skin of what had been his friend’s arm, to where the blood was beginning to dry in ugly reddish brown along his forearm. He felt, more than heard the growl that was his response to her daring to touch him.

"He chose this." Her voice, like her expression, was thick with grief, convincing despite what he knew. "And what is it to you, who hunted him?"

"To save him! To cleanse the soul you defiled!" He shot back, hearing the fanaticism and anger in his voice and not caring. It was her fault, she had driven him to this, had driven them all to this. She had pulled the strings behind this dark and tragic show.

"Pretty words for murder." There was an icy calculation to her words, a detachment that comforted him as it placed her once again in the role of villain. "You seek to make sacred what was no more than petty jealousy."

"How dare you!" Without realizing it, he began to back away from her, began to rise to his feet, and reach for his weapon. "I loved him."

"You did no such thing." She seemed unaware of the danger of her situation, not reacting to his movements, still kneeling, still staring at the water instead of the pale bloodless body that her fingers continued to touch, "You lack the capacity. Love is a brief, bright flare in the night, a fierce moment of completion stolen from the rush of time. You deathless day creatures do not know the word: there is no love without death."

This one really doesn't need any explanation.

Aries In Capricorn

It was late December and Dara had begun to see being wet as a permanent part of her being, intrinsic as breathing. In downtown Sacramento it rained daily, an endless miserable drizzle that made her miss snow; at least it created beauty. Maybe Thor hated her, that was it, she had angered the storm god with her trickster worship and he had decided to drown her. Slowly.

"May Loki screw your wife," she muttered, giving the clouds a dark look. Her green umbrella, with its broken tines, dripped water down the back of her neck and soaked her braid.

The streets were barren, lined with skeletal trees. In the summer, the old town area were she lived was filled with music. There were old black men playing jazz, and the violinist who played sad Celtic tunes by the Undergrounds, Dara's favorite coffee shop. It was silent now except for the sound of cars splashing down the cobblestone streets, colourless except for the occasional garish umbrella.

If nothing else, the weather fit her mood. Everywhere she looked, people walked with their heads lowered, shoulders hunched, bodies lined with tension. She was the same and, in the unity of misery, no one could guess the source of hers. She’d been alone for over a year now, with only a fragile dream of an end in sight, but who could tell?

Stepping under the overhang of her workplace, The Garden of Enchantment, she shook off her beaten umbrella and opened the door to the soft ringing of bells. Warmth, the scent of incense and candles, the mingling smoke created a spicy sweet haze that could not be bought. Dara had tried.

The Garden was a maze of shelves overstuffed with figurines, mystical jewelry, occult books. Packs of tarot cards were stacked in unstable pyramids, colourful silk scarves hung on the wall, tied to silver rings. To her left was a display case filled with bright porcelain dragon figurines: dragons roaring at wizards, dragons in flight, dragons wrapped around their golden hoards their serpentine necks twisted to gaze at her. To her right a rack hung with plush velvet cloaks in dark greens, sharp silvers and gentle blues.

The store was bare of customers, unsurprising on a Wednesday afternoon. She caught the tail end of ‘Luck Be a Lady’ as she walked in, the music switched to gentle flute melodies when the bells rang. Must be Jason working then, he hated Celtic music, and always put on his own artists when he was alone in the shop. He stood behind the jewelry display laying out a Celtic Cross pattern above a display of silver jewelry. With all the silver crosses, ankhs and Libra symbols that hung around his neck, he was part of the display. His every movement glittered.

"What's the news?" She asked, rubbing her hands together for warmth. She leaned against the glass case, careful not to touch the cards.

"The usual. You’re going to die tomorrow." He tapped the center of the layout, “Cups, The Empress, The Lovers. And not a nice rational Sword in the mess.”

"Falling in love before you think again?"

"Who says I was reading me?" Jason had a way of smirking that always made her uncomfortable.

"Is the schedule for next week up yet?"

"Dara what haven't you been telling me?"

"Nothing. Jason. Seriously, schedule. Do you know if I work Sunday?"

"Why have you got the Three of Cups crossed by the Devil?"

"Jason, can we talk about this later? I need to know if I have time to visit my Mom.”

“Oh. Is she doing any better?”

“Not really.”

Jason turned away from her to rummage in the drawers behind him. The bright charms woven through his black hair caught the light and seemed to come to life. Dara had never been able to pull off the effect, her own thick hair tangled and hid the jewelry from view. She had finally settled for securing her braid with a leather thong, crows' feathers dangling at each end.

The schedule binder was a heavy black monstrosity, the cover decorated with runes and pentagrams in metallic gold pen. Jason flipped through the pages, demonstrating exhausted patience with a heavy sigh. "You work at 2:30. Plenty of time to go to the hospital. Now are you going to talk to me?"

"Not now. I'm going over to Undergrounds, do you want me to bring you something back?"

"You're not going to stay and keep me company?"

Dara glanced at her watch, the hands already at 12:40. "I can't. But I'll drop back by, if you like."

"What's the rush?" He tapped the Seven of Cups, "Stop hiding, Dara."

"Can we talk about this later? I really do need to run."

"To get coffee."

"Yes." She grabbed his hand, squeezing it quickly, "I'm not going to do anything stupid."

"Be good."

"Never." Twiddling her fingers in a quick wave, she retreated to the door, "I’ll bring you tea."

The cold air was an assault after the comfort of The Garden, though the rain seemed to have stopped falling, hanging in the air instead, a thick smothering mist. Glad to be saved from the struggle of resurrecting her umbrella, Dara glanced back for a moment through the window hung with dream catchers and wind chimes. She couldn't see Jason, but could guess that he was still puzzling over his cards, reading her life without welcome or invitation. The Devil. Was she doing as poorly as that? And was she to blame if she was too scared to reach for what she wanted? It’d never worked before.

It was only a short walk to Undergrounds, one block up, on the other side of the street. True to its name, the door opened on to a winding staircase, leading down into what had once been a basement. The walls were made to look like rough rock shot through with veins of crystal, dim lighting adding to the cave like atmosphere. The tables were clustered at the edges of the room, leaving the center free for the bands that played most nights. Like The Garden, Undergrounds was almost abandoned, only a few couples hidden away in the booths.

Janey was behind the counter, her violin case out and open. She held the instrument tucked under her chin with a gentleness she never showed people, coaxing sweet melancholy music from its strings. Her cargo pants were the colour of violence, the boy's t-shirt she wore slipped over one of her slight shoulders. Just off the stairs, Dara paused knowing that she could go unnoticed as long as Janey was playing. The song came to its mournful end to a spattering of amused applause. Glancing up from playing, Janey spotted her and waved with the violin bow in her hand.

“You braved the weather.” With the efficiency of someone following old habits, Janey tucked the violin away again, closing the case and sliding it under the counter.

"I guess I was thirsty." Tempted though she was to say something about the music, Dara kept her mouth shut. Janey played the Underground every Tuesday with her band Remembering December. She was always saying she didn’t want to hear compliments; she wanted to hear record deals.

"In this rain?"

"I wouldn't drink it. Even the sky is poisoned."

Janey laughed, a low, throaty chuckle, and turned to start making Dara’s usual, a latte, crowned with foam. Earlier plans churning in her mind, she only watched, incapable of making the usual small talk. She wasn't holding herself back, but Janey smiled razorblades.

"What are you angsting about, more of that crystal waving BS?" When she wasn’t working in Undergrounds, Janey was a pre-law student at CSU. Despite, or perhaps because of the time she spent with the sort of people that were bound to be drawn to a Celtic rock musician, she didn’t have much patience with anything she couldn’t see and touch. She slid the drink across the counter. "Or are you still thinking about the weather?"

"You get off at one today, don't you?"

"Same as every Wednesday. How's the latte?"

She had only toyed with the mug, tracing her fingers over the handle, not lifting it. “Divine. You gonna be busy?"

"After work? No. Four months and I still don’t know anybody."

“Well fine, I see how it is.”

"Except you. But hell, you don't write, you don't call."

Janey's number was recorded in her cell phone, and she called it to the screen enough to have memorized it. She'd never once hit the send key.

"We could hang out after you get off. Walk to the park."

"Dara, it's raining."

"Only misting now. And I've got an umbrella."

"I've seen your umbrella."

Shifting, Dara took her first sip of the latte getting only the mild taste of foam. "Well, nevermind."

"I didn't say no. Let’s hit the park. Eat the children."

"Slim pickings, it’s cold out."

"We'll make do."

Heavy footsteps announced the arrival of more customers, and Dara retreated to a booth with a wave, watching Janey deal with the cluster of decadent black butterflies. They spoke too quietly for her to hear, but Janey was listening attentively, arms on the counter, head tilted to one side. Without warning, she laughed, her head back, exposing the pale skin of her throat. Dara, sipping at her latte, found herself choking.

Smothering the sound of the coughing as much as possible, she fixed her eyes on the table, tracing the grains in the wood with a fingernail she'd chewed to nothing. She only bit her nails when something was bothering her, a habit that’d always annoyed her mother. With all the pain killers in her, it wasn’t like she’d notice. She missed the summer, everything had been better then. No hospitals, no Janey to remind her of how alone she was. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the sun.

"Brooding?" Janey’s unexpected question made her jump, skittish as a small animal in the shadow of a hawk.

"Considering the weather."

"Don't." Reaching out, she grabbed the edge of one of Dara's flowing, envy coloured sleeves. "My shift’s over. Let's go."

She stood, schoolgirl awkward, shrunken from twenty to fourteen, all knees and elbows. Stepping wrong, she managed to get her gypsy skirt caught on her shoe, black fabric swirling in a cloud around her as she stumbled. Janey's steadying hand on her arm only further confused the matter; she froze, thinking if she could just hold still the light touch wouldn't leave.

"If that's your idea of walking, maybe we should stay here."

"I'm fine. Just, umm, dizzy. Stood up too fast."

The staircase seemed narrower than she remembered, walls everywhere, pushing the two of them closer, claustrophobic. Caught between rushing for open air and dragging her feet, Dara managed an even pace, leaving the darkness in favor of wet winter air. She looked everywhere but Janey. Eurydice had faded. It could happen again.

The mist had lifted, bringing back the distant silhouettes of young skyscrapers as they cut rifts in the low hanging clouds, revealing promising patches of forgotten sky. She stopped walking, letting it sink in; remembering that spring would come again, that every rebirth had a period of darkness. A hand cut across her vision, fingers wiggling, leading her gaze back to Janey.

"If you stare at the sun, it's all you'll see."

"I wish it was."

"C'mon, if we don't hurry, someone will have eaten all the fat ones."

Janey talked about work as they walked; the customers they got, good and bad. A man had tipped 1.25 for a .75 bottle of water; a tiny girl, all in pink, came in everyday and stayed for hours, but only spoke to give her order, always different. Dara hung, not on her words but her voice, reminding herself to nod at appropriate moments.

As they passed The Garden, her promise came back to her; she brushed her fingers over the doorknob. She could duck in and not come out again, leave the afternoon to hang forever, unsullied. She could keep the sunlight, the freedom of Janey's laughter, the way the light got caught in her hair. December would be back by nightfall, but as they walked it was April. She wanted to steal time, a tiny bubble of possibility caught in crystal to stare at on dark days. They kept walking.

"Janey?" The park was over the next slight hill, and every destination was an end. There was nothing more to say, so she laughed, a soft nervous sound on the false spring air. Reaching out, she caught Janey's hand dragging her the first few confused paces into a run. They were both laughing the low sound of Janey's chuckle getting tangled up with Dara's hesitant birdsong. The park grew ahead of them, a door. Dara no longer knew whether she was running toward something, or away. The air tasted like spring and promise, and maybe like rain.