alle_k00l

 DUST

     Dust.  The dust surrounds, dancing around itself, slowly falling once again to the ground.  Occasional swirls mark the passing of a truck on the dry dirt road winding into the distance.  Slowly, I walk forward, away from the road, into the wastes.  The horizon stretches, endlessly empty, faint lines of darkness along the very edge of the earth frame the glaring sun, cliffs and cities spattered across the desert.  A curious hawk, resting on a lone cactus, cocks its head sideways, contemplating me.

     My throat tickles with floating particles of dirt and stone, as I try not to inhale the chocking debris.  I roll my tongue around my mouth, trying to escape the gritty, swollen feeling of dehydration.  The heat waves across my field of vision, rippling reality, painting watery illusions ahead in the sand filled space.

     The smells of fuel from the last passing auto-mobile dance through the dry, sterile smell of the air.  The fickle breeze whips my hair against my face, pushing me back toward the highway, back to where I came from.

     With a hasty cough into my arm, I continue to walk onward, felling the pebbles and rock particles slide treacherously under my tough boots, the catalyst of dried mud holding the sand flat collapsing under the weight of my footsteps.  Every movement is registered, every sound is infinitely louder in the stifling quiet of midday.  A lizard skitters underneath its rock, sensing my presence.

     Ahead of me suddenly looms a shape.  A ruined house.  I trudge around the collapsed glass sliding doors, managing to quickly stop myself before I tumble into the dried shell of the pool.  With a small jump, I push myself over the polite little ornamental wall of orange plaster, strolling across sand-covered lotus-patterned tiles, to the porch over looking the pool.  One small cactus dares to grow in this abandoned place.  Once pure white painted columns rise, majestic in their round strength, holding the weight of the sky, of the sun, of the roof.  Little else stands, as the desolate, and pummeled mansion continues its solitary existence, abandoned by its rich, fickle creator.  Nothing contends with the desert.  The quiet emptiness swallows all, pulling it away into the distance, burying it under the sand of ages.

     I sit in the shade of the columns, on a pile of scattered facing stones, and wonder how many dry ruin’s bones lie under my feet, how many testaments to the failed attempts of humans to infringe on this secret nothingness.

     A week later I return to the lonely stretch of highway with the bent and rusty sign, and the single cactus, now empty of perching birds.  The news said a sandstorm blew through.  No one was harmed, since no one was out here in the blaring expanse of summer.  I stroll out onto the sand, feeling the familiar crunch and give of the earth.

     There is no house.  There is no tiled court, no empty pool, no sad, majestic pillars.  Only sand dunes, endless, waves in an ever changing sea that is always the same.  Scuffing my boot in a pile of sand, I turn and head back to the car, stopping only to bend over inquisitively and pick up a small piece of glazed, lotus-patterned tile.

     This desert world is its own.  It belongs to the empty, lonely sun, to the endless horizon, to the occasional bird, lizard, or kangaroo mouse.  It belongs to the midnight spring monsoon, to the blooming cactus, to the rare frisk of breeze.  To the deep, frosty nights, to the tapestry of the far away stars, to the endless blue sky.  To the red blood of the sunsets, the peach tinted sunrise.  It belongs to the dust. 


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THIS BELONGS TO MEEEEEEEEE.  dust.  this was for school, just a little something i whipped up in a few minutes.  i thought it was fun, so i wanted to post it. enjoy.  and COMMENT!

luvs, AllE-K00l

AN: Just a little doodle story I ended up doing when I was supposed to be working on something else.  It is by no means finished, and not even a complete chapter, really, but I am tired, so I will just post this.  If you like it, please review.  I doubt I will write more otherwise, but if I get reviews I will just keep going where  I left off, since it’s a horrible end for a chapter XP

Callers

The 1st

The song of The Lost

By Alexandra Kronz Kaethler

     Stealthily, the raven haired girl crept out from behind the wagon.  The savings box, which was completely unnecessary, but was kept for aesthetic purposes, lay open on the creaky wooden floorboards, its lock picked.  She would run away tonight.  Being a Caller was a tough business.  She didn’t feel like tough.  She just wanted to be entertained.  Anything that was funny, she liked.

     She would have thought she would be sick of entertainment, growing up in a gypsy caravan (all staged for her mother’s amusement: there was no need to travel) but the ‘family business’ seemed to have affected her.  She loved funny things.  The clowns that danced and juggled, their movements so graceful, yet their faces silly, almost sad, as if hiding something behind the cheerful makeup.   The performers who swallowed fire, dancing with the devil.   The ladies who acted out the dramas of the opera.  I am so similar to them in all those ways.  She thought.  Trapped inside my very own little performance, hiding behind a mask.  Silently, she tip-toed through camp, clutching her satchel with the bread and cheese, and all the camp’s money, unabashed at stealing.  After all, what were performers but thieves?

     Pushing through the tangled undergrowth at the edge of camp, she made her way in the direction of the road, covering her tracks by way of the forest excursion.  She did not want her people to follow her.  They always worried over her, but never because they actually cared anything about her.  Most were simply enslaved souls, their only purpose to guard her.  The others stayed caring out of fear for their own necks.  And with good reason, she thought, giggling a little to herself.  When she got tired of the continual stream of maids and governesses, she simply had the most recent killed by one of her many Familiars, birthday presents from the head of the family, the Master.  He, at least, cared enough to pay attention to her.  But only because she was a pivotal component of his plan, with her extra powers, and superb cunning.   How else would she know all the intrigues of camp, and of the goal that had been her family’s work for many a generation when she was but six years old?  You didn’t pick up on these kind of things easily.

     I wonder what they’ll do when they find I’m gone, she mused to herself.  It didn’t really matter.  Mother would probably have the most recent governess killed, but the girl was not too fond of that one.  Nor of any before.  She had long since lost all feeling toward humans.  Or so she thought.

     As she crept on through the forest, the moon rose, peeking shafts of pale, promise-less light through the dying faded leaves of autumn.  The twilight forest rustled with the activity of animals readying themselves for winter, and the long cold nights.  Only around the small girl was there complete and total silence.  The whispers of forest noise quieted as she walked, rising again in her wake, recognizing the power the small child held.

     Time passed.  The moon ducked behind the looming shadows of mountain, and the sun began to send the first shy tendrils of dawn creeping over the hills.

     The gypsy caravan far in her wake, the girl marched on, weary, yet determined to reach the road.  As the sun began a gradual ascent into the crisp autumn sky, the girl realized that she should have reached the road some time earlier.  The mile or so between the camp and her destination should not have taken all night to walk, even on her short legs.  She was lost.

     Quietly, she vented her rage on an unlucky bird that happened to be passing.  With a twist of her fingers, and a whispered incantation, the bird was brought down to the ground.  With a calm face, and complete ease, she slit the bird open with a word, leaving it to bleed out its life on the forest floor.  Wrinkling her nose at the smell the panicked animal produced, she walked on, feeling a little relieved for dispatching something.  After all, she thought, it is what I was born do to, isn’t it?

     Suddenly, the woods opened up around her, into a small clearing, with a few lonely ferns dotted here and there among the blanket of moss.  Suddenly realizing how tired she was, she paced to the center of the opening, gave it a scrutinizing glance, and then settled comfortably into the moss, to wait for the night, her preferred time of travel.  She had no doubt that she would be able to find her way to the road, when the time came.

     In a large city situated on that same road, somewhat closer than the girl expected, a ten-year-old boy stood, aimlessly tossing stones into the port town’s river.  The wharf docks rose on either side of him, all encompassing, in the shadow of which he had lived most of his life.

     There was nothing to do.  His street gang was mostly off gathering food, though he suspected that a few of his fellow boys were paying visits to the wharf-side gals’ house.  He would have to talk to them about that.  They had no money to waste on the cheap entertainment offered there.  Food was the main point of interest for his gang.

     Hearing approaching steps behind him, he turned away from the Beautiful vista of the port, with its bustling ships.  He raised a hand in greeting, expecting his own gang members, so the impact of the club blow to his head was lessened.  Clutching his stinging fingers, and reeling backward, he stumbled into a wooden pier, farther jolting his head.  The world swam nauseously before him, as he tried to regain his balance, and assume some sort of fighting stance.

     “Tha-tha was dirty!  Wha-wha th’ ‘ell is goin’ on?”  His tongue rolled in his mouth, tripping, and tumbling his forced words, similar to the feeling he got from lack of water.  He squinted blearily, trying to focus his disjointed mind on the group of figures standing warily before him.  they had him completely at their mercy, and still they were cautious of him.  he grinned inwardly at the affect his reputation had made, but quickly lost any satisfaction as he recognized the blurry figures of some of his own gang members.  “Flag?  Bitty?”  He asked, naming the two whose faces he could pick out from his blurred vision.  “Wha in hell’s name is goin’ on ‘ere?”

  Suddenly, he felt hands tighten around his wrists from behind.  With long trained reflexes, he whirled around, and lashed out at his attacker.  But the struggle was over before it started.  He received a quick cuff to the head, on top of the where the club had struck, and fell to his knees, trying painfully to hold onto reality, as the world spun even more quickly, and a dull ache in his head began to eclipse his senses.

     His vision slowly narrowed to a small slit, while swirling figures circled respectfully around him.  Laboriously, the last strains of a sentence drifted to his ears;

     “-sorry, mate, but what we gots ta pay, we gots ta pay.  It’s off to th’ slave market wi’ you.”

     Then everything went black.

     The girl drifted awake, evening’s chill chasing her off the cooling ground.  She rubbed her eyes, and looked around, briefly taking stock of her surroundings, and remembering why she came to be there.  A sudden rumbling in her stomach alerted her to how hungry she was, and she grasped around for her satchel, with the bread and cheese. 

     It was gone!

     The smell of the food must have attracted some animal as she slept, she reasoned.  She was lucky that it hadn’t been something dangerous, and that she was safe.  All the same, she was infuriated.

     Another grumble of protest from her stomach reminded her of the more urgent matter of food.  She had now gone without for a full day, and she needed water as well.

     Rising, and stretching her arms above her head with a groan, she set off in the direction she deemed most likely to lead to the road, from where she would proceed.  She remembered the carcass of the bird from last morning, but whatever had gotten her cheese had probably found that too.  She wasn’t that adventurous in her eating habits anyway.

     There must be some kind of inborn sense in all animals that kicks in when physical needs are denied, because in very little time flat, she stumbled upon a dirt trail, leading up through the woods towards a woodshed.  She had found one of the many wayside camps used by travelers, stocked with dry wood, and graced with a fire pit.  She found it somewhat ironic that she had stumbled upon this saving grace by way of what was probably the trail to the john.

     Hearing the loud ringing of almost-drunken voices, she crept closer to the flicker of firelight, coming from between the trees.  She still had the safe box of the caravan, and she did not want to venture being robbed, or even noticed.  She would be being searched for very thoroughly by now, and any person could be an Akuma.

     As she neared the circle of light, with the growing dusk in the forest to her back, she began to make out words.

     “Got a real nice ‘un today, from some lads up at th’warves.  Musta been jealous o’ their mate or sumthin’.  Tha’s no fine way t’ treat a bud, sellin’ ‘im to slavers like us, but, y’know, I ain’t complaining.”  A chorus of harsh voices chuckled at this last comment.  “’Ny ways,” the speaker continued, “Th’ boy’s as pretty as you please, but ‘e looks to be quite th’ strong li’l ox.  E’ll fetch a nice price at the next market.  We have t’ wait till there, since there’s no sayin’ what kind o’ relatives he might ‘ave, what might try ta’ get ‘im back.  I says we get far away from th’ port, an’ sell our haul at a nice inland town, and move southerly.”  Muttered grunts of approval, and agreement were uttered at this plan.

     This, the girl thought, is what I ran away for.  Excitement, and adventure, and the rough of the highway.  I want to see some people treated as badly as me.  The dregs that civilization spat up.  Crouching closer in the thick underbrush, she grinned to herself, absentmindedly pulling twigs out of her long, dark hair.  She could imagine how frantic they were back at the caravan, busy as ants, searching for their lost queen.  I’m more important than mother!  She thought with triumph.  The Master really dotes on me.  But just because I’m part of his plan…she gloomily admitted.  No one really cared about her for her.  That was the real reason she ran away.  If she had wanted uproar, all she would have to do would be to kill a few of her family’s demon familiars, and claim there was an exorcist around.  That would roil up a thundercloud.

     Sighing, she settled deeper into the ferns, hoping these coarse highway men would entertain her.

     They certainly did.

     The one who had spoken earlier, left his seat on a log by the fire, and rumbled off towards the edge of camp.  There, the girl could make out the faint glint of metal, and a few muted murmurs, which ceased as the big man neared.

     She watched as he carelessly tossed aside a few of what looked like rag dolls, but, to her surprise, made small, cowed noises of protest when jerked away.  Finding what he was looking for, he pulled a heavy iron key ring out of his satchel, and set to work.  A few seconds later, he made his way back to the fire, carrying a limp bundle, that the girl realized with a shock was the body of a boy, no more than ten years old.  She watched with mounting glee as the rough man talked about the circumstances which had brought this ‘prize catch’ to him.  He said he had bought him at the Warf town, while the other slavers were out to lunch, from a bunch of kids who were desperately trying to sell.

     “An’ I would ‘ave given twice as much, but they looked so desperate…,” and here he gave a hearty guffaw, “I just had to take the boy right off!”

      “No, Tom, you could ne’er be so kind!”  One of the others replied, giving the speaker a mock bow.  Angered (mostly from drink) the speaker made a swat at the teaser, which the second man evaded with a bit more trouble than he would have had without that night’s ration of alcohol.  The teller got back to his story while the others grinned at one another.

     The girl watched all this with cold amusement and scorn, until she noticed that the boy’s eyes were open, and looking at her!  He would give her away!  Or he might……but he might not, and taking the chance and getting rid of him would certainly draw attention.  No, she wanted to watch for a while, and then steal some food when deep night came.  Besides, the boy could hardly do much with that soiled rag of a gag in his mouth, and his hands bound tightly behind him.  The girl briefly wondered if it would ruin their ‘merchandise’ if the boy lost the circulation in his hands from the binding at his wrists.  It was possible that he could lose his hands completely, and would then be useless.  But, perhaps they were not planning to sell him as the working type of slave.  The apparent leader of the band had mentioned something about his being ‘pretty’, and that being an asset.  The girl shook her head, smug, and disgusted at the same time.  Surely other girls’ mothers would worry if their daughters knew so much about the world?  But not hers, of course.  All her mother cared about was her fun little play of being a gypsy.  And the Master humored her.  The girl sighed again, and absentmindedly brushed some twigs from her hair, stoically ignoring the looks of pleading the boy was giving her.  She would watch, and wait some more.  But her stomach was starting to rumble again.  She had to get some food, and soon.

     They boy had awoken, his head throbbing, to the sharp jeers of highway men.  Groggily, he tried to remember what had happened to him, but all he could think of was his gang at the Wharves, and something about betrayal…..he could not quite grasp it.  He had listened to the frightened whispers of the other prisoners around him, but tried to talk to none, a sour feeling rising in him as he guessed what must have happened.  He had been betrayed.  For money?  For bribes from a rival gang?  Maybe, one of his right hand men had wanted prestige?  Any way he looked at it, it roused a boiling anger deep inside of him.  The anger that he had kept locked up since the night his sister was killed by the drunken sailors, high off of adrenaline and pumped up from bar fights.  She had been his last tie to happiness.  But then he had found his gang, and made them a good reputation.  And, in the end, they had betrayed him as well.

     His fury surged, and he struggled against his bonds, and gag for a while, but to no avail.  Seething, he calmed himself, trying to take stock of the situation, and decide what to do next.  He could see no way to get free from these slavers on the road, but that was his best hope.  Once they reached a town, he would be sold, and tattooed as a slave.  He had seen it.  And any half decent sorcerer could trace the distinct signal of slave-ink.  He would have to try to make his break here, in the forest.  Thinking furiously, he ruled out all the plans he could come up with.  Every single one had a fatal flaw.  Fatal to him if he messed it up. 

     He would have to wait, and see what might come.

     Ah, le fin.  Wheeeee.  I’m so dang tired right now, I have nothing to say.  EXCEPT:  FRICKEN REVIEW, valued readers.  Than you very much.  I love you.  XP

This is true love, they all do say

 But I don’t really think that way.

The poets speak of love so true

The love that makes its user blue.

The children speak of future love

The kid ‘round the block they’re so sure of.

The bachelors speak of love so shallow

It’s not for them, some weep and wallow.

Other types love do disdain

They say it’s brought them too much pain.

But I don’t buy that kind of love

The kind that flies high like a dove

Then is shot down by poachers mean

From that kind of love I keep myself clean!

The kind of love that I respect

Is not an instant blind percept

But a love that’s earned by work and play

A love that’s worked on every day

A love where all participate

Where looks and cooed words are not the stakes

Where two can talk for hours of

Important things, not simply gush.

Or when you come home from work or play

With downcast head, and deep dismay

A true good love would come and sit

Next to you just for a bit

Talk about troubles in your life

And confide about the daily strife.

A true love means you’re never alone

Your house is not a house, but a home.

You have a friend when you’re in need

Not a painted puppet to feed.

A child’s laugh

A dog’s joyful bark

Some children wrestling at the park.

That is what I call true love

Not the poachers shot-down dove.  




Well, i have absolutely no idea.  Someone asked me to do this.  i normally write about nature when i write poetry.  i hate the gushy stuff.  so, even when i write about love it turns out like this.....XP.

luvs, Alle_k00l