Cogito Ergo Femme Interruptus

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I'm creating this thread to house and share some of my creative writings and ramblings.

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Prologue

The stone stood facing the boiling grey sea as it had for countless millennia. Behind it mountains rose, shifted, fell and restored again, as the land shaped itself around the will of the stone. Where the land met water all remained the same. The stone stood through time, sometimes considered sacred, sometimes enchanted, sometimes forgotten.

Nearly three meters high, covered entirely with etched spirals, carved by beings the ages have long forgotten, its design both pleasing and puzzling to the eye. Any meaning of the stones’ etchings had been swallowed up by the sea of time like ancient undertow. The stone’s matter, owing its unearthed pedigrees from the deepest abysses of the world’s core was born of fire and crushing remoteness, it stood in the deep cavernous spaces amid vast underworld seas until it was spat out of the deepest recessed earth over time, like a sliver from flesh.

Before that, for eons the stone sat bearing the pressures and the weight of the ocean itself, a black beacon for the creatures of the deep, beings that thrived and lived in the cold salted waters. The Merrow’s, Grindylows, Ashray’s; Furies that existed together, drawn to the power of the stone. Moving through dark waters like wraiths, they gathered in the deep blackness of their feeding grounds, turning the cold water colder, darkening the pitch as the temperature drops around them and the cold turns into icy tides, floating and swirling through endless undulations of frigid salt water.

Rising out of a turbulent and unforgiving sea, the stone was a lure to the creatures that made the churning cold waters their home. From time before time, creatures of the deep were drawn to this place, surrounded and caught in the deep unimaginable cold of its fluid embrace, some creatures even return to the waters near the stone with regular pilgrimages from the deep, following instinct.

Once there had been vast schools of these creatures, blackening the waters across the horizons, skimming waves and ravaging freely, leaving endless death spirals in their wake. Now there were fewer, those bountiful times nearly forgotten as the collective memory fades, once a truth now edging on becoming myth, the flotsam and jetsam of time.

So stood the stone, awash in the sun, the air and waters of the outside world, its power grew outside the confines of the deep, and each day for endless days, the sun and wind and rain fed it with unfathomable possibility and sway. For ages it was buried under ice so thick and deep, that it remembered the crushing weight of its own birth and coming to being. Ice melted back to water and the world turned.

With the guise of infinite patience the stone waited, knowing that it would be found. Willing those who would seek to find it, waiting with sly confidence that eventually this land would call to them, and they would travel over rock and water to find it. Lured by the pure restless malevolence of the creatures inside the stone they came, these Stone Age Settlers.

These Humans constructed elaborate passages and graves inland from the stone, working these passages and tombs over generations, creating megalithic structures in tribute of the Ancient Beings that lived inside the Stone. The entities, evolving steadily on the steady diet of reverence and awe supplied by the people, eventually were able to escape the limitations of the stone.

The Spirits, pleased to be free from the confines of the deep, deep earth, the crushing remoteness and the cold oceans, free of their dense imprisonment in the stone, became Godlike. They fed well on the fear and adulation of these humans and for nearly 6ooo years the people and the Stone lived together on the edge of the world.

When the Tuatha De Dannen crossed over, displacing these early indigenous inhabitants, they too came under the rule of the Ancient Beings. But the Tuatha were different peoples, with supernatural abilities of their own, and when they in turn were invaded on their colonized land, they chose to forgo their human bodies and the Ancient Spirits rendered them invisible. The Tuatha went to live in the already ancient megalithic mounds. They became known in time as the fey people.

The immortal Tuatha immediately longed for the freedom and ecstasy found in organic physical form and quickly found ways of escaping their invisible stone realm and crossing over into the world of flesh. But this escape was not with out conditions, for they were still under the power of the Ancients and the Stone. The Ancients, for the first time in forever and always now learnt the delicious exhilaration and joy of being flesh bound.

So addicted and enthralled did the Ancient Spirits become with the ability to control and manifest in organic form, that they attached themselves to bloodlines through the ages, so that they were ensured. Thus began the rule of the Fey Gods.

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Quinlan slipped out through the opening of the stone gate and skipped past the confines of the stronghold and the construction behind it. Behind her, the Mourne Mountains stood in silent witness to the industry and steadfast pursuits of the people inhabiting the land. The Castle rose, an imposing grey monstrosity, built from the stone and mortar of the land on which it stood. For all her young life, Quinlan had witnessed the efforts of men, laboriously committed to erecting the structure. The Normans had designed the castle, her Grandmother had told her.

Her older sister Phelan had been hand fasted with the Invader, who having succumbed to her beauty had asked for her hand in marriage. Outside the walls of the keep, and farther away from the Northlands, the was ill whispered talk of the keep, it was said that an enchantment was placed upon the marauders and that Aileach Brugh was safe and prospering while the rest of Erie suffered under the sword and might of the foreign aggressors.

Quinlan made her way directly to the sea’s edge. She stared out to the grey horizon, the sky and clouds blending in tempestuous harmony with the living sea. The temptation to bare her feet and legs to the swirling water was strong, but inside her mind, Móraí’s voice cautioned against it. When the water was cold the Grindylow’s were present, and any chance to grab a person (especially a child her Móraí was fond of reminding her) and drag them down into the deep was taken. It was not the existence of these creatures that frightened Quinlan, but rather the responsibility of knowing that these creatures existed and were in particular, drawn to the waters near their home. Móraí had told her the accounts, over and over, about how the creatures of the deep were drawn to the Stone and the descendants of Ailech Bru. There were many creatures drawn to the stone and thusly the bloodlines that spanned generations, from Mother to daughter for thousands of years, creatures that came through air and mist; creatures that lived in the dark and shadows of forests and the rocky crag’s of the land.

Móraí had told her the stories of their own home. An ancient site, as old as time, the oldest keep in Eire had stood and survived through countless insurgences and carried a gruesome history of battles and blood. Sons and Fathers giving way to new Sons and Fathers while the daughters of the Ailech Bru endured and passed on the lineage and legacy. Oldest and youngest through the ages, through the keeping and sharing of stories, does knowledge survive.

Quinlan raised her gaze from the far slate horizons skyward, trained onto the large black bird that circled in flight above her. As always the bird made a noisy show of recognition and circled in ever closing spirals until it landed only a few feet away from Quinlan. Its sharp intelligent eyes peered intently at Quinlan, taking a quick inventory of the girl. Quinlan returned the assessment. Noting the bird’s impossibly shiny black feathers, and bright emerald eyes, she reached inside her cloak for the small bag tied to her bliaut girone and withdrew a few choice morsels of fatty pork for her. The Raven cawed in perhaps anticipation, perhaps impatience and hopped closer, its head cocked with a keen interest.

“Where is Abbey’s silver bangle?” She asked the bird. The Raven, like most other creatures at Ailech Bru did not like Quinlan’s elder sister. She was petty and unpleasant and impatient with those around her. Being 2nd eldest, and therefore free of the matrilineal obligations of the family, Abbey instead spent her time creating toil and angst for those around her. Móraí hastened caution of her older sister, as she was weak willed and in Móraí's accounting, there was no worse an attribute, save for feeble minded.

“You must return it! She’s raising a ruckus, and you know she’ll eventually turn to blaming me! Return it, Raven, and all is well between us”. She passed the Raven the fatty morsels from her small delicate fingertips and the Raven carefully picked the meat from her, swallowing it in one fell gulp. Quinlan sat down comfortably on a large boulder and continued to feed the Raven with slow, practiced measures.

The Raven, witness and confessional to the girls’ childhood and dreams, listened intently as Quinlan spoke, re-sharing the tales of ancient times gone by.
When one of her Grandmother’s serving maids came down the small ragged path towards the shore, the Raven called out a warning and immediately flew up to a high vantage.
Unwilling to be called back to the chore of being near her sister, Quinlan stood and ran westward along the shoreline, towards the Stone, towards unflinching destiny.

Quinlan ran across the slick stones that littered the uneasy shoreline with a lithe grace that defied the slippery roundness of the washed stones, avoiding the cold water and greedy beckoning waves, respectful of what lived in these waters both seen and unseen. Above her, the Raven cawed in pre-cognition of the girl’s destination.

The ancient burial site contained the bones and remains of her ancestors and the ancestors that begat them for a lineage that even Móraí knew not the beginning of. The unfortunate location on a small peninsula of land jutting out into the grey turbulent sea ensured that the site was constantly accosted by bitterly cold salted winds regardless of season. The Raven flew threw, flapping large glistening black wings, before settling down to preen the white salt from its feathers.

The staircase spiraled downward, carved from stone, and constructed in an endless series of archways and porticos. The moss-covered stone circled its descendent past where any natural light could penetrate the dark, coiling its serpentine way into the heart of the world. How long the steep, deep passage had been there was beyond any memory, as was the last time anyone known had descended down them, or returned. Mystery and myth surrounded the spiral stone passage as heavily as the mist that encircled the round opening.

The air sat sodden and heavy, hovering over the corkscrewing stone staircase and bringing with it the dank scents of wet stone and earth, and something odious, an undercurrent that wafted unpleasantly alongside the earth smells.

Quinlan stood at the top step, a large flat stone elaborately carved with spirals and symbols dulled through the ages. With the tip of a leather-shod foot, she traced the outline of one of these twisting shapes absently, while staring down into the unblinking black eye of the spiral.

There had been a good deal of tensions around the castle and keep of lately. Quinlan, attuned with a vast natural empathy she sensed the growing shift with an increasing apprehension. She wished her Móraí back from her travels with some fear and impatience. Worse still, she understood instinctively that the mounting anxiety had to do with Quinlan herself and the whispered “Changeling” that had followed her most of her life.

Late fall was an ominous time, past the harvest and lingering on the dormant side of the sun, many cast a wary eye to the low dreary ceiling of sky, dreading the coming threatening horizons. The nights grew long, and in the perpetual twilight and gloom the cold came and settled. It was to this silver dusk that Quinlan looked up, to see her Raven soaring back towards her. It landed on the cistern like wall, and walked bow legged over to her, placing the offending bangle on the ledge where she stood.

She held it over the deep well of stairs, the silver of the bangle warring for definition in the low grey light of dusk. The Raven watched, it’s head cocked, black eyes keen on both the girl and the prize. Quinlan stared at the bangle intently, and then with a sure deft flick of her wrist, sent it hurtling downward into the black.

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Center to the necropolis was the well of stairs, a masterpiece of engineering, constructed with a cylindrical base diameter of nearly 17 meters, with only the first 300 or so wide wedge steps visible as they form a helix that corkscrews downward past sight. The site itself was a dense manifestation of megalithic barrows, with nearly a thousand tumulus situated in clusters. The mounds of earth and stone are meters high, with varying diameters of 6 to 30 meters. The Cairns and mounds had kept the dead here for thousands of years, but Quinlan felt no reserve in lingering here. In fact, because of the uncompromising privacy the mounds and barrows gave her, the gravesite was one of her favourite places. Only her Móraí spent time here, Quinlan thought she enjoyed the quiet solitudes also.

In the closing dim of evenings, Quinlan would light small strips of cloth on fire, and send them cascading downward into the well, flickering tongues of fire that would illuminate the dark wet walls of the stairwell and create shadows that crept alongside the flame. Once, she had stolen an enormous length of twine from the keep, and tying a small wooden bucket to the end, and had lowered an apple down the confines. Feeding the rope down slowly, pulling each length through her trembling fingers, she fed it endlessly down until Quinlan had reached the end of the rope and could offer no more. The damp air swallowed her scream when after a pause; she felt a long and deliberate tug on the rope. Terrified, Quinlan resisted the urge to run and forced herself to calmly retract the bucket, reclaiming it empty of the apple, with a small obsidian stone in its place. Smooth and polished, the egg like shape felt cool in the palm of her hand, and Quinlan quickly closed her fist protectively over the offering, feeling strangely proud of her first trade and commerce.

Although over time, she had tied addition lengths of pilfered rope, forming a chain of knots, the bucket never reached bottom and the rope never sagged. Quinlan continued to send offerings down, always receiving something in trade. An ancient cowry shell with a hole carved through it, for a warm piece of bread wrapped in cloth. A small-petrified bird skull attached to a fine length of leather cord in exchange for a shiny bronze plate she’d pilfered from the cookhouse. A large thick oval Abalone shell, studded with 7 holes, it’s inside iridescent with silver, blue and green nacre for a small flagon of pilfered wine.

One year in celebration for her 8th birthday, her grandmother had presented her with a cake, made sweet from the rinds and fruit that grew in far away places, spiced with cinnamon and poppy seeds, a delicious honeyed confection. Carefully wrapping the treat in a thin cloth, Quinlan lowered the bucket slowly to it’s consistently heart lurching conclusion. The trade, her best yet, stared back at her with large unblinking dark eyes, tiny dark feathers framing a small flat head with ears that feathered upward, giving the creature a constantly quizzical look. The owl, calmly shuffled from foot to foot inside the womb of the bucket, tranquilly turning its head to follow her, despite her excited shrieking.

The owl, standing nearly two feet in height, she named Asio. Its large eyes, big head and short neck gave the creature a tubby appearance, and when it flew, its broad wings flapping with irregular wing beats, she gave the appearance of a bat or moth in flight. Asio’s bill was short, strong and hooked, her plumage a mottled tawny brown with a barred tail and wings. Her upper breast significantly streaked, and her strange yellow orange eyes were exaggerated by black rings encircling each eye, giving her the appearance of wearing kohl, and then finally a somewhat lavish display of large, whitish disks of plumage surrounding the eyes like a mask. Quinlan stared in wonder at the creature that had travelled up from the deep recesses of the well of stairs.
When she had returned with a tiny owl cupped in her hands and cradled against her chest, Móraí had simply said. Mostly, Móraí said nothing about her ongoing trade ventures, but would carefully and silently examine the treasures and trinkets that her granddaughter returned with.

“Well, you must have made some Imp happy to be given that creature!” Móraí finally spoke, after breaking from her work to carefully consider the remarkable trade.
She watched as her Móraí continued to use a mortar and pestle, as always making a salve or concoction for someone at the keep. She settled down on the soft fragrant rushes that lined their floor by the hearth.
“You must be careful and kind Quinlan” Said her grandmother, eyes on her directly as her old wrinkled hands worked from memory. “Birds such as these are from the Otherworld, granddaughter…they are creatures of flight, they are a bridge between worlds, between the earth, sky and the Underworld below…”

Just then the ruckus of cawing and flapping alerted them both that the Raven had come to the window, walking stoutly along the ledge, pecking at the corn and barley left for him, his sharp quick eyes taking in the feathered bundle on Quinlan’s lap. Móraí watched her granddaughter intently for a moment “You seem to be acquiring a collection of them, Quinlan…messengers bringing word from one world to the other…many see their mere presences as an omen, though whether fair or foul depends on the bird itself”
“I haven’t heard any messages Móraí” She answered truthfully.
Móraí nodded and continued to finish working on her remedy.

Móraí had a large sturdy stand created by some craftsmen, with a large rounded cage made of metal, with a permanent opening and no door or latch to close it in. Móraí explained that creatures such as these should not be controlled or kept confined, and needed to respond at will to their instincts. Móraí had the stand and cage situated by the large window in the tower she shared with her granddaughter.

During the day, Asio slept in the dim quiet confines of the tower room, her cage covered by a large soft pelt, that kept her comfortably in the dim, and by night, coming and going as she saw fit, hunting and often times bringing back a snatched hare, captured in the strong relentless grip of her talons, in offering.
So passed the time of Quinlan’s girlhood, with her two feathered companions on a tiny island at the end of the world. Her grandmother had sent for a tutor from far lands across the sea, who taught Quinlan to read and write in the languages that were required, Latin, Greek and Gaelic. The Phoenician, a small dark skinned man named Bathazar, possessed a quick wit and love of language, and stayed as a guest of her grandmother until Quinlan reached the occasion of her 12th birthday.

Her Móraí insisted she spend the mornings in pursuit of knowledge and study, which Quinlan, being of an inquisitive and bright nature enjoyed. But moreover, she enjoyed the afternoons, which Móraí also insisted she spend at the leisure of her whim, suggesting that all creatures needed freedom to engage in their own true behaviours and instincts. To mark the occasion of twelve successful years upon the earth, Bathazar gifted her with a dye and a cloak of Tyrian purple. He explained that the dye, a natural purple-red secretion that was produced by a species of predatory sea snails had been used since ancient times and was greatly prized because the colour did not easily fade, but rather, became brighter with the weathering and sunlight. Bathazar explained that the purple dye fetched its weight in silver, and was a status symbol used by the Imperial courts, and became a signifier of the nobility.

“But I’m just a girl!” Quinlan exclaimed, holding the vial of costly dye carefully in her hands. Bathazar exchanged a quick glance with her Móraí and nodded sagely in agreement.
“That you are, but a special girl none the less, and I think most befitting robes of purple and blue.”

So it came to be, that in the winter of her twelfth year, dressed in a gown and tunic of royal purple that shone with almost iridescent brightness in the sun, an extraordinary girl named Quinlan stood at the precipice of the well of stairs, and began her descent.

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Quinlan’s decision for the journey came at the same time her foot, sheathed in a soft leather boot, made delicate contact with the rough hewn stone of the first step. Quinlan there paused, aware that the journey had begun with this single step, and aware that she would be taking many more before she reached her destination.

For all her life Quinlan had wondered at what the bottom of the well would hold, questioned where those steps, with their wide and ever narrowing decline would lead to. Until she began her trading, she only questioned what was down there, now she questioned who was down there, living in the dark and deep, making trade with a precocious young girl being old woman raised.

Quinlan’s second foot fell silently, and there she paused, momentarily thinking of her Móraí and second-guessing herself and her long held impulse to take the stairs down to their inevitable and unimaginable conclusion. The stone walls of the stairwell felt cold and damp, as if the stones themselves were weeping clammy tears. The wet felt slick and somewhat viscous and Quinlan resisted the urge to wipe them off on her cloak, which seemed to shimmer even in the shadow of the well.

The frantic insistent cawing had Quinlan looking up, skyward, shielding her eyes despite the heavy clouds that obfuscated the weak winter sun. The raven flew in concentric circles above her, creating quite a commotion with its adamant cries and its long strong wings extended in flight. Quinlan waited, and the raven as always, found its perch on the rounded wall of the well. Staring at the raven, Quinlan said nothing. The ravens head tilted, considering the young girl and her strange shimmery purple cloak, and then hopped down onto the step beside her.

All her life Móraí had explained to her that all creatures were sentient, and that it was a flaw in human nature to lean towards an arrogance that removed this universal trait and credited only people with awareness. Quinlan’s heart swelled, constricting her throat with tears as the raven, ever her constant companion and cohort in all things, deemed to take this exploration with her. Turning back into the curved embrace of the well, Quinlan took another step, and then another. The steps were rough and heavily textured under foot, directly in contract to the sleek surface of the walls, which she could see up closely were constructed out of giant stone bricks, each easily her height squared.

For the first time in a long time, Quinlan suddenly thought of her mother, who had died along with her infant brother in childbirth when Quinlan was only a baby herself. Though her mothers’ mother had raised her, and shown her love and affection, had seen to her every need, and had sought to educate her in all the ways she felt important, Quinlan felt the empty disconnect of every motherless child, the lifelong lament that lay in the heart of every orphan, a yearning that would never, could never be met nor extinguished. In truth, because she was the last and youngest daughter, she would have been turned over to the eldest female to be raised as was the tradition and duty of their family. But Quinlan, feeling the chill of both the damp cold and the fluttery unease of fear, suddenly longed for her mother.

Continuing her steady helical descent looked down the endless center depths of the stairwell, concentrating on the high rise of the steps themselves, creating the sensation of steepness that was dizzying. On her left side, the carved balustrades supported large arched windows, and some of the balusters were ornately carved, some with grotesques and faces captured in varying displays of fear or agony.

Quinlan had been descending for a long enough period of time to feel the effects of the efforts on her upper thighs and arms, which remained outstretched, feeling the slick wetness of the outer wall, and the for the sturdy stone railings offered by the bottoms of the arched windows and the ever winding colonnade of the staircase. Behind her, eerily quiet, the raven stepped in easy time, hopping downward with little fanfare behind her. Her legs tired and beginning to tremble from exertion as well as fear, Quinlan then came upon a riser so large as to create a landing, with a bench carved into the stonewall of the well. Quinlan sat immediately, grateful for the support and the raven, flapped its black shiny wings to effortlessly roost on the stone banister the endless columns and arched windows offered.

Sharing the only food she had brought with her, a small sack of dried dates that her tutor often shared with her Quinlan looked up, unable to see the sky at all. At this point in the well of stairs, there was no natural light at all. Downward there was nothing but darkness. It was then that Quinlan realized that the columns and balustrades seemed to glow with a white blue hum in the dark. Quinlan had never seen anything like this before, stone that emitted light, had been used to create the covered spiral staircase. Were the stories true; was the well under an enchantment? Her eyes, which had accustomed themselves to the dark pall of the well, failed to recognize at first that there was indeed light, emanating from the stairwell itself, a ghostly cold blue luminescence. Observing the raven as it pecked at the sticky sweet meat of a date, Quinlan could see the blue black of its plumage in relation to the paler, icier strange blue light of the archways.

Quinlan lost all track of time and distance as she circled her ever-deepening descent. She heard the brittle tapping sound of the raven’s claws as the hopped down onto each riser, a click click click in the darkness. She heard water dripping, the ping and leaden plop of it hitting stone and rock, and sometimes, from below something else, a shuffling sound that rose up and crossed the vertical distance with a whishing sound that made Quinlan’s heart jump in her chest.

Sometimes Quinlan could smell a peculiar gassy scent like rotten eggs or sulfur. The dark damp place was alive with fungi, mold and algae, and at times they collectively created the unpleasant odor of rot; a sluggish scent that permeated Quinlan’s nasal cavity and clung there with unfortunate tenacity.

Quinlan sighed, tempted to cover her mouth and nose with an arm, but unwilling to sacrifice her balance to the malodorous distress. The raven cawed in sympathy behind her, and Quinlan patted her narrow shoulders, the raven at once flapping upward to sit on one iridescent purple shoulder. Grateful for the ride, the raven tucked itself in to the curve of her neck and should blade, and Quinlan turned her face towards it, inhaling the familiar organic scent of her longtime companion.

The cold had settled in deeply, a gripping deep bone chill that seemed to place a giant shard of ice inside Quinlan’s core, and forced the cold, outward, through the very essence and flesh of her body, only to be shivered back inside, wave after wave of freezing misery. Quinlan’s steps were slow and sure, but her feet were nearly frozen solid, and she twice stumbled for cold and fatigue. The raven, ever faithful cuddled Quinlan’s neck like a love bird, offering what heat it had, and fluffing up against her neck, Quinlan instinctively kept rotating her face to its living warmth, trying to keep her nose and cheeks from burning.

She had no idea how much time had passed, nor the hours she had been descending, each downward step on the rough-hewn stone risers, the walls wet and clammy, and then painfully cold and slick. Would she make it up again, she wondered for the first time. Was this why no one had ever come back? Quinlan shuddered in violent spasm against the cold. She could send the Raven back for help, but that would almost certainly mean her Móraí taking these very steps herself. Quinlan, instinctively self-soothing, began what comforted her most. Stories.

“This is the story of a tiny little ant, and a beautiful white dove...you’ll like this one, Raven” Quinlan said, her voice steady and sure, echoing mutedly through the damp wetness, giving a warm fullness to her tone.
“The tiny little ant felt very thirsty, and so went down to the riverbank to quench its thirst…drinking the refreshing waters greedily, the was so involved drinking, that it had bent far over, and the ant over stepped the shoreline, only to be carried away by the rush of the stream---“

Quinlan paused dramatically, remembering what her Móraí had told her about the greatest and best story tellers, ”Quinlan” She’d say “Timing is everything!” So Quinlan took another deep breath and continued, ever stepping downward into the cold gloom.

“Unable to swim the ant was at the point of drowning when a dove, who happened to be sitting on the branch of a tree overhanging the water, plucked a leaf off the branch and dropped it into the stream—“ Quinlan stopped with a startled gasp, her numb feet stumbling on the cold steps, jolting her into gripping the stone ledge of the portico with a tight death grip...taking a deep steadying breath, just as her Morai had taught her, Quinlan continued, her voice ringing out in the dark, a rich full honey, bringing amber into the darkness, and warmth to the night.

“The current carried the leaf towards the ant who climbed up onto it and floated in safety back to the bank on the back of the leaf. Shortly afterwards a bird catcher came and stood under the tree, and began to lay his bird trap for the dove, covering with twigs. The ant, understanding the intent of the bird catcher, stung him dead on the foot. The bird catcher cried out for pain, startling the dove, making it take flight to safety.” Quinlan’s voice, shakier now with exhaustion paused.

It was important, her Morai told her, to linger the finish of a story, stay quiet and never be the first one to break the silence, because people often liked to linger over the ending of a story, to contemplate or even savour, if it were a particularly good tale. So quiet Quinlan remained, breath coming out in little foggy bursts, vaporizing as yet another layer of the deep cold set itself upon her.

The raven shook and fluffed its feathers out, keeping warm and shuffling closer to Quinlan’s neck, and Quinlan managed a small miserable sob into the fluff of its black belly. When she turned back to face the long winding blackness, she was astonished to see shadows dancing upward on the stone, she peered over the railings looking down into the dark eye of the spiral well, and amazingly could see the orange glow and flickering tongues of a lit fire.

Quinlan Greye McKenna descended to the grate and the lit fire that burned with life saving warmth on a large pie shaped wedge of stairs. An iron kettle waited patiently to be hung from the iron hook of the thick iron spits that bracketed the heart. With shaking hands she lifted the kettle and it settled over the ember and flame. The warmth from the fire immediately shot a thousand pins stabbing through her as her blood warmed and circulation quickened. Quinlan warmed herself, peering off into crags and shadow of the curved wall of the staircase. The landing ended under the arch of tall windows and a heavy carved balustrade, ending into a tiny wedge of stone as sharp as an arrowhead.

“Thank you!” Quinlan called out softly, her voice swallowed in the damp echo of the well. The raven, eager for space flew off her shoulder and up onto the edge of the stone railing that made up the inner wall of the stair case, where there it looked keenly, it’s head cocking, off into the black shadows. Quinlan removed her cloak, which in the deep had turned a deep sapphire, shimmering like the deepest parts of the sea. She held it to the fire, drying it and warming it for her use again, when the fire had taken the cold chill out from everything.
“I know a story about fire, and how fire came to be” She said, a slip of girl standing on a slice of stair deep in the earth.

“Once a cold came, snow fell endlessly, and ice formed over all waters. At first, the snow and cold were a novelty to play in, but as the cold grew ever bitter and piercing, the animals began to worry. The smallest of the animals were being buried alive in snowdrifts and the largest of the animals could hardly move through the weight of such deep snow. The animals knew they would soon all perish."

"The Rainbow Crow, the most beautiful of all the birds with shimmering feathers of rainbow hues and an enchanting singing voice, was chosen to go to and find help." Quinlan continued.

"The journey was arduous, and for three days and three nights the raven flew up into the heavens, past the trees and cloud, beyond the sun and moon, above the stars. With no protection from the winds and no place to land and rest, the Rainbow crow began to falter and tire. With the last of its energy, the rainbow Crow began to sing his most beautiful song.”

“Suddenly, drawn to the most lovely and pure of sounds, came the Creator. The Creator greeted the Rainbow Crow kindly and asked what gift it could give in exchange for another song.”

"The Rainbow Crow explained about the snow and ice that covered everything.
The Creator stuck a stick into the blazing hot sun. The end blazed with a bright, glowing fire, which burned brightly and gave off heat. "This is Fire," he told the beautiful Rainbow Crow, handing him the cool end of the stick. "You must hurry to Earth as fast as you can fly before the stick burns up."

"Rainbow Crow sang his thanks to the Creator and flew as fast as he could go. The stick was large and heavy, and for 3 days and 3 nights the fire kept Rainbow Crow warm as he descended from Heaven down to the bright path of the stars. The fire had burned down so intently, that the crow, unwilling to let go of the flame, caught on fire, turning its shimmering beautiful feathers black. He plunged from the heavens and sky and fell, black as soot, through the clouds, coughing through the smoke, strangling his beautiful singing voice.”

“By the time Rainbow Crow landed among the freezing-cold animals of Earth, he was black as tar and could only Caw instead of sing. He delivered the fire to the animals, and they melted the snow and warmed themselves, rescuing the littlest animals from the snowdrifts where they lay buried.
It was a time of rejoicing, - Fire - had come to Earth.
free."

"As for the Crow, all the rainbow left remained in its eyes, which simmered with the hues of the rainbow, and ever it came to be”

By now, Quinlan was curled up inside her cloak, laying bundled close the fire, while the Raven considered the story, its eyes gleaming iridescently in the dim. With one last look at the Raven, Quinlan succumbed into a deep and exhausted sleep.

Quinlan woke a few hours later, stiff of muscle from both the cold and the laborious descent. She stretched her legs and then her arms, turning to look to her sides, when she saw the basket directly to her right. She found the hamper full of peculiar looking tubers and corms, tiny scarlet red potatoes and tiny bulbs in a rich azure that had a rich nutty taste and a dense texture. The tiny potatoes tasted sweet as melon, soft and moist under their fragrant thin skins. Inside a wrap of oiled hide cloth, was an iron spit, with three plump carcasses skewered neatly through. Salivating with hunger, Quinlan adjusted the grate and place the skewer across both ends, the meat glowing like ripe peaches over the fire.

So Quinlan stayed, and told another story, and then another, and another, until all the stories she knew had been exhausted. By then Quinlan had received gifts in exchange for her own sweet songs, the tales told with her clear bell like voice, pure and inflected with the passion and pleasure of childhood, and unwavering belief.

The still unknown creature gifted her with powers and magick that would see themselves down through all the generations of her linage, matriarchal gifting that would never lessen nor wane, so long as the her descendants stay near the well of stairs, near the stone itself. Quinlan bade her goodbyes and began her arduous ascent, stepping up, up into the light, up into the world of men once again. Quinlan couldn’t wait to share her story with her Móraí, and reveal the gifts she had been given. Some of the gifts, such as longevity, an unnerving good luck, and the power to find precious metals and earthly commodities with uncanniness that often felt as if they were indeed calling the stones and gold through the earth itself to them, would only reveal themselves through the test of time. It was with these gifts, both known and still to be revealed, that Quinlan Greye McKenna finally stepped back out of the well and into the light.

[femmeInterrupted]

(posted previously on another site: Sharing it again)


In the lunacy of this summer rain we writhe on fine cotton sheets and listen to the lament of the tin roof above us. Beyond the staccato wailing of the ceiling, the sonorous pounding of surf and crashing waves permeate through to conceal the quieter sounds of our moans and sighs.

A near silent communion through the whispered onslaught of your burning tongue. Every second is a precious memento that I collect in the safe chambers of my heart.

The tips of my fingers and the press of my lips speak to you in ways that words never could, and I sooth you with a soliloquy of adoration. Beneath the surface of this bliss, you will remember that I have loved you before, other times, other places.

You echo through me, consuming madly with unspeakable lust, the scorching tirade of our merciless desires. Quietly, and with unfathomable longing, you listen to my love song: unspoken and swallowed in the hush of damp flesh.

This is how you claim me: Not with a whimper, but a bang.
My lips are ready scarlet; parted for your hungry kisses, and you are demanding, wanting, a steady libationary vice that I succumb to willingly and with great abandon.
Our kisses have transcended the confines of this thatched space, your lips forging hunger into tangible need. I am desperate for breath and reason when your tongue sweeps into my mouth, its' place is easily secured in the warm welcoming cavern of mine.

I already know that given time, this kiss could last for forever.
I sigh in contentment and response, we whisper against our fused lips, words and sounds that are channeled from the most tender parts of our hearts.

You evolve into passage across the voluptuous borders of my body.
Hands in my hair, splayed like science fiction against my skull
(oh my! Your precious Butch hands)
are tracing down the smooth column of my throat to stay at my collar bone and feel the pulse that pounds out rapacious desire for you.

The bamboo creaks with the force of warm island winds and I am swaying, adrift in the tantric place we create.
Without thought, with only the innate and carnal awareness that we are both slaves to the fuck.

:cherry:

[femmeInterrupted]

i am

bent over as she fucks me from behind.
She fucks me until the slut comes out to play, and that simple thought alone makes me ache and swell.
i am so full, i hurt, i drip.

Her cock is riding high up into me, slamming up to my womb.
She is at the end of me. i moan and howl.
She likes to hear these sounds, and i am instinctively grateful for that.
i would have to be gagged to muffle the music that she orchestrates from me.
i howl because i cannot contain these delicious sensations within me.
i moan because i must offer these sounds out into the room, to the goddess, to the universe.
They are too precious to keep selfishly inside me.
i am not really cumming, what i feel is so much more unrefined than orgasm, so animalistic, it's raw.

i am her dirty grrl.
i am .

my arms are stretched out in front of me, wrists bound in restraints, and i simultaneously resist and offer myself to their comfort and control.
my mouth becomes an instrument of sexual music.
i sing, i sob, i groan…
fuck me fuck me fuck me…
i cannot keep from singing this mantra., the words are the sound of carnality.
Desire. Craving.
i no longer hear them, i simply feel them.

i am
bathed in the slick sweetness of my sweat, my body is basting with addicting flavours.
Sweat and pheromones that basely signals to her that i am fuckable, that i am deliciously open, wet, wanting.
i am ripe and present and eager for her fuck.
my body centers in on itself with this desire, until i am only my cunt.
It is hungry, so hungry and this need is so good.
This need is what makes me crave the fuck again and again.

i am orborous.
The serpent swallowing the serpent, craving that perpetuates its own need, hunger that feeds itself only to want again; it creates a constant steady yearning.
She is responsible for this. She brings this out, hones it.
A master at her craft, and
i am
Her labour of love.

i feel drifty, afloat in this fuck and i feel her behind me, her cock in me and the base of the leather harness slapping against my asshole, teasing it, making it as hungry as my cunt.
My emotions are completely unchecked, impossibly needy, the urge to grind so strong.
She is grabbing my ass with splayed fingers, digging her blunt fingernails into my flesh; deeper and she is pushing her cock, deeper.

It's not enough.
It's never enough.
This is the point where my hunger is greater than anything in my universe.
A low melodious tone resounds inside my head, i am humming with this hunger. All of me wants more. i'm not cumming.
No, hardly!
i am fucking and i'm getting fucked enviably.
She pulls me back into focus and awareness by tugging at the collar that is attached around my neck.
It is surely the Sadist in her that causes her to stop now.

She can read my body like a mariner reads the skies, and she slows down, i hear her growl, and i become desperate.
i whisper "Please, please"
At the verge of tears, almost crying, not from sadness or sorrow, but from sheer reaction: shock at the depth of this need. In this place where i submit to her, where she owns all of me
i am a hungry baby grrl, demanding, and unrequited with hunger.
i am a living cunt who needs to be fucked.

Fucked hard. Fucked Good. She tells me "Wait. you don't have permission to cum yet". i can taste the tears collecting at the back of my throat.
They mix with the wanton palate of my hunger.

The tremors begin; spasms that possess my thighs and i start to shake. Trembling, i groan and push my ass high into the air, backing up, scooting as much as the restraints allow on crumpled sheets.
My cunt searches for her cock, and i feel it stab at my bottom, i turn my head into the pillows and moan, biting and trying to consume as i want and need to be consumed.

More more moremoremore more.

An eternity of rebirths in this serpentine desire.
my cunt is pounding, throbbing.
Her hands are under my hips, sliding over my soft pussy, lower to tease and feel how wet i am.
This is her applause.
i concentrate on not cumming. She is making it hard with her perfect touch. The tempo increases and i am so close.
She stops again.
One more flick, of her beautiful finger and i would be undone.

i begin to cry out and beg her. i am too needy for the cock, too needy for her. This is part of the dance, i know.
i give myself and the endless expanse of energy one preamble before i am swept away into the core of this deliquescence.
Please, let me feel this hunger always, let me have these cravings, this desire, this decadence: let me always be desperate with the need to fuck, to want, to yearn.
To be taken and consumed mercilessly.

i am enslaved to this.
Fated,
liberated,
i am.

i rear back and i feel her fingers on the cheeks of my ass again, stretching pulling, prying. Her cock in my cunt, rocking, slowly.
Teasing again, building desire like a house of cards.
i will surely crumble.
Then: wetness and the head of her cock in my ass.
She is perfectly still and i am so open, so yearning for her cock to fuck my ass. She has taught me this voracious appetite.
i pull at the restraints and in this hunger, i realize, not for the first time, the deliciousness and depth of the control she exerts over me.

She is taunting me, asking me "baby what do you want? What do you want?" my body quivers like an oboe taught with the symphony of this lust.
i cry out as i feel the stinging slap of her displeasure on my bottom.
She has asked me something…but my mind can barely focus.
"Answer me, little grrl…tell me whose ass this is and what it wants"
Unbearable. my response is like chanted prayer.

Yours. Yours. Yours. Yours.

i am
Begging now.

In this miasma of desire, i feel both shame and pride for wanting her, for wanting her cock, for wanting her so badly, for wanting it so much.
She holds me still because my hips want to dance to the rhythms of this ambrosial debauchery.
Her butch’s cock slams into me with such force i see white light.
She is murmuring words of praise and adoration through this gracious debasement.
Her hand reaches around to my soaking pussy.
my clit jumps as her fingers play over it and i moan softly, as she moves in me. i instinctively know she will come against my ass.
Her own hunger is always equal to mine, and she will satisfy her own lust by taking my bottom.
She is watching this valiant debauchery; Her large cock as she moves it, in and out of my ass, and i feel deliverance building in her strokes.

Emancipation from the shackles of this wretched hunger.
Fuck me. Use me. i am Yours.
i am.

[femmeInterrupted]

Flash Fiction

She had been travelling with the Creature for 118 days.

Her sense of absurdity was ripe and eclipsed only by her startle response. Despite suffering from a raging case of PTSD, she entertained herself with idioms made ridiculous in these bizarre times. Like “Zombies of a feather flock together” or “ Never look a gift Zombie in the mouth”. Her travelling companion was another problem. She understood that the Vampire was helping her like a cattle farmer might ‘help’ cows back from pasture and into the abattoir.

She’d sometimes glance sideways at the Vampire sitting in the captain’s chair and think ‘Odd to be interacting with a creature that see’s me as simply a step above poultry on the food chain’.

Now she existed in the hollow steel bowels of a Winnebago. Once she would have refused on moral grounds; road trips supported the burning of fossil fuels and were bad for the environment. Turns out, there was something way worse than emissions lurking around sharp corners of the future.

The Vampire clichéd the sunniest of days away locked in the coffin like upper bunk of the RV. Often while alone in the solitude offered by sunshine she’d fall back into the “This Ain’t Happening” game she tortured herself with.

“This can’t be happening…. I’m a kindergarten teacher!”
“This can’t be happening! Why did no one ever describe how Vampires smell?”

Vampire’s smell wet. Like the sodden earth of wine soaked bodega and cellar floors. Vampires carry top notes of rot, sweet undercurrents of tainted meat and decayed fruit. When the first olfactory assault is over, a second battery is volleyed as they exuded ambered middle notes: a sickly saccharine animalic perfume of ambergris and fecal odor.
Once desperate to escape the cloying stink of her travel companion, she had it use hand sanitizer. Then it smelled like a dead martini.
She had learnt to control her gag reflexes.

Vampires were self-serving, which apparently, in Vampire culture is perfectly O.K. The undead didn’t rise to the occasion until almost too late. Turns out, on that whole food chain deal, Vampires can’t suck the blood of the violent animated dead.
Imagine that.
So humans became to Vampires what clubbing baby seals, saving the Iberian Lynx of Europe or the Big Pocket Gopher were for humans before.
They became humanitarian activists.

Zombies weren’t really “zombies” in the full grindhouse understanding of things. Vampires couldn’t feed on them, something her malodorous companion explained to was because of whatever ‘it was’ that ran virally rampant and viciously through their raging bodies. Then add that Zombies couldn’t stop gorging on us, the ‘flock’.

There was a lot of hunger in the world now. And not the kind of hunger that some Feed the World type musicians could rally around and fix with a jingle that tugs at the heart an guilt strings of the psyche. Aid organizations like UNICEF and OXFAM had literally been devoured into oblivion as the plague swept the planet. Humanities next best hope was now the blood sucking undead, which now roamed around like pale nocturnal Green Peace agents, collecting and saving the last vestiges of civilization.

Problem was, they were really saving humanity for dinner.