The Legend Cycles: Part I: The Verza Cycle

by Fiachra Rottinghaus

A note on the legends of the Dracotauri-

The Dracotaur legends are divided into seven cycles, Verza, Tankil, Daerid, Fire, Stone, Air, and The End of Days. Each cycle is told in short segments, one to be recited every night. The Verza cycle and the End of Days are the shortest, at two nights each, and the Daerid is the longest at five or six.

This is the Verza cycle, or the Creation Cycle. -Hweyat, Scrollkeeper of the Gwentori

First Night

Once there was nothing. The sun flew alone in the heart of the Void, and she was lonely, for she was in herself the entirety of the universe.

She was the Verza, the sun-spirit, and she had been born out of the darkstorms of the Deep Void. As she dreamed of light, the stars appeared above and below her, until she swam in a vast sea of jewels. But the stars were cold and distant and unknowing, even as they gave light to the universe.

So the Verza created a planet, from the winds of the Void and the light of the stars and the marrow of her bones and the breath of her body. She was wounded, but she rejoiced, for she had made Delverzasson, Land born of the Verza. It was barren, and so she warmed it with the heat of her body and watered it with her golden tears, and from the tears of her eyes and the marrow of her bones sprang the grassy plains and the rugged mountains.

But the Verza was still alone, although her heart knew joy. She wished to give another the joy of the stars and the grass and the lightning, but she waited. She waited for many ages of the world, until the time was right.

Second Night

The Verza watered the young earth with the blood of her body, and from the blood clay she created all the small things that fly and run. Where her talons scraped the clay from the ground there was desert, and the desert, too, was good, like the mountains and the grasslands and the great northern rivers.

From the last of the blood clay she made the Dracotauri, and she gave them strong wings to fly among the stars and strong legs to run across the plains. But their hides, like the hides of the small ones, were weak.

So the Verza shed her scales, which fell like rain upon the weak Dracotauri to strengthen their hides and horns, and she became a being of light, and her wings were the wind and her breath was the fire rivers.

As she ascended high into the sky, a few last tears of sunlight fell, and landed on a few of the newborn Dracotauri. Verza Maerix was one of these, a firstborn spiritdaughter of the true Verza.

The Revolt of the Garden Hose

by Lane Bushmeyer

It happened on a hot summer morning

after all the dew had burned off, leaving

my front lawn dry as split ends.

I gathered its worn rubber coils in one hand

and began my rounds.

It sputtered and grumbled complaints about the early awakening

but consented to dribble a warm stream

onto my flowerbed, the soil shriveled and cracked between

stooped-over plants.

I urged it to get serious with a few good shakes,

its only response a snide remark

issued with the flow from its rusted lips.

This would not do.

I turned up the pressure.

A frayed spot in its skin puckered, snapped open,

and a cheap up-spray caught me in the face.

It leaped from my hands and whipped like

a snake with a grand mal seizure, lost in a wet-mouthed rant.

It soaked me from uncombed hair

to garden crocs and pounded trenches in the soil crust,

uprooting my new pansies and scattering their shredded Mardi Gras masks.

Then it turned its rage on the front of the house

and sprayed it down before I shut the water off.

Afterward it lay in the grass muttering obscenities with

its last trickle and no doubt scheming of social movements

that would change the world.

Change of Plans

by Abby Logan

  

    It was a hot day.  Blistering hot, but of course, Alastair Brant didn't know the difference.  He was sitting in a Taxi, the air conditioner turned up high.  Next to Alastair was his charge, an exuberant and enlivened four year old named Hazel Delaney.  Hazel sat beside him, her legs dangling haphazardly over the seat, her tongue stuck out slightly as she drew a picture.

   "Yes, it's finished!" shouted Hazel, startling Alastair from his thoughts.   Her crisp, babyish Irish accent was different then his own British one, and he was still getting used to it, plus her  hyper and emphatic character was extremely unpredictable.

   "Look! Look Alley!"  She squealed with delight.  He cringed.  He didn't know what to make of it when she called him Alley.  He looked down at the picture she had devised with her thick and chubby hands.  It was two stick figures, one tall and lanky, the other short and stout.  They were holding hands.

   "What is it?" he asked gruffly.  The little one laughed.

   "It's you and me!"  Hazel set the picture down and hugged Alastair's waist as best she could, being in the sitting position that she was.  She looked up at him her eyes large and shining.

   "I'm so glad you came and got me."

   Alastair had picked up the child from a rundown orphanage that had been disbanded.  He had been merely escorting her to a new orphanage in Dublin, but the plans had been abandoned when some vital information had been disclosed.  He felt sympathy for Hazel, having been an orphan in his early life.  It could be very lonely.  Alastair sighed and turned to look out the window.  What met his eyes was downtown London, all bustle and business.  Scores and scores of people peppered the sidewalks, gazing into shop windows or haggling with street vendors.

 Her father and mother had been murdered after Hazel's birth.  The entire situation had been kept hush-hush, up until the procuring of the child.  Now, Alastair was escorting Hazel to a secure location where she would be kept safe and more analyzing  of her past could be done.  They had made an seven hour drive to London, then caught a taxi to take them the rest of the way.  Their previous driver, an agent named McGreevy, had been called off to "more important work" and left them stranded in the huge city.

   "Here's your destination, sir," called the taxi driver, who had been silent the entire time. The taxi pulled up to the curve.  Outside was a tall dilapidated building that housed secret headquarters underneath.

   "Are you sure you gave me the right address?" asked the driver, eying the building.  His face bore an expression of obvious confusion.

   "Yes, thank you."  Alastair pulled at Hazel's short arm as he opened the car door.  "Come on Hazel.  Time to get out."  He paid the taxi driver and watched as he drove away, making sure he didn't stick around.

   Alastair was extremely thankful that the car ride was over.  Throughout the long journey,  Hazel had been loud and curious, asking questions about everything.  The only moments of peace had been when she took a two hour nap, exhausted by the day's happenings.  Even then, Alastair and McGreevy had dared not to make a loud noise or even talk with their voices above a loud whisper.  The stakes had been too high.

   Hazel followed, as close to docile as Alastair guessed she could get.  She made a scrunched up face.  "It's hot out Alley."  There it was again, that pet name.  She was indeed an audacious child.

   "Yes, come Hazel, we'll go inside where it will be cooler."  Hazel followed him, holding tightly to his large hand.  He thought of the picture she had drawn.  She was a sweet child, despite her energy.  She had also attached herself quite securely to Alastair.

   Alastair had a fleeting image of life with a child.  It seemed to be more interesting and colorful.  His own life had been getting drab as of late.  Being a secret service agent could at times be exciting, but Alastair had not been assigned to an exciting job in ages.

   Maybe Hazel could come and live with him, in his own house in London.

   Alastair stopped with the sudden revelation.  He turned on his heel, Hazel right behind him.  He hailed yet another taxi.

    "Where are we going now?"  There was whininess in Hazel's voice as she stood, waiting with Alastair for the taxi.  Her hand was still tightly clamped around his.

   Alastair looked down at her.  She was, he realized for the first time, very cute.  Her eyes were vividly green and round.  Her mouth was slightly puckered with complaint.  Her hair was mussed about in frizzy, blonde ringlets.

   Alastair smiled at her.  "We're going home."

The Tree Community

by Lane Bushmeyer

I have come to learn that Christmas, like almost everything else, is a process of change rather than a constant.  Its meaning shifts focus as we grow up.  Over the years decorations break and lights burn out, and we replace them with new ones.  Schedules vary, so that no two Christmases are the same, as much as we might like to repeat a particularly memorable holiday season.  The gifts change as we mature.  Perhaps saddest of all, we lose the zeal and excitement of a child’s approach to Christmas, with its attendant sense of wonder.  But for me, one feature of Christmas at our house has stayed relatively fixed, and that is our Christmas tree, which is the subject of a tradition that has remained almost unchanged, and that seems to be ever more important as the years go by.

To begin with, I’ve always had the uneasy feeling that we’ve been committing the Cardinal Sin of Christmas Trees year after year, because our tree is artificial.  Now, I know that plenty of people have fake trees.  They’re on the shelves of Wal-Mart every year, which probably means they’re socially acceptable, but to me, lugging the tree down from the garage attic instead of venturing into the winter air to seek it out is a task that carries with it a faint sense of sacrilege.  Besides, I hate artificial plants.

So why do we have it?  When my brother and I were younger, we were allergic to quite a few things (and I still am), and bringing a needle-shedding conifer into the house made us flare up.  Although we’ve improved, we all fell into the fake tree habit.  Ironically, the notion of a real tree ousting our traditional pre-lit affair is one I would now approach reluctantly and with some distress.  As much as I dislike fake plants, I like change even less, and it brings out the obsessive in me.

The reason for my obsession in this case is our vast collection (I might venture to call it a community) of ornaments.  With a new tree coming in to host them every year, I would worry that they wouldn’t all fit, that the tree wasn’t tall enough, fat enough, full enough.  Because in our house, the ornaments aren’t decorations, they’re the main attraction.

At first glance our tree looks heavy, even overloaded.  If it was a work of art, it would be called garish, unbalanced, in very poor taste.  If it was a city or a town, it would be called “diverse.”  Aside from a few colored balls dimly reflecting the light, practically every object on the tree is an individual, distinct from all the others, with all the variation of an international airport.  There are, of course, snowmen, angels, and various renditions of Santa Claus.  But surrounding them is an unlikely multitude.  There is a delicate glass bird, a glittering nest complete with eggs, and a tiny wreath made of bells.  Pom-pom mice lie in walnut shell hammocks.  A tree frog and a salamander lurk among the branches.  There are Nativity scenes made of glass and of wood from the Holy Land.

Some of the ornaments are simple, like a handmade paper star with my name on it and a piece of twine to hang it with.  Then there are others like a little wooden Noah’s Ark, with a moveable elephant and giraffe and a whale suspended below.  The Batmobile hangs next to a golden T. rex skeleton and a grill.  The Star Wars logo looms heavily in the branches.  SpongeBob makes an appearance, as does Spider-Man, slinging a present from a rope of webbing.  Undersea life swims in midair—a humpback whale, a sailfish, and a jellyfish.  Other animals include a fox, a koala, elephants, and penguins.  Bigfoot peeks through the branches beside a large pendant ladybug.  There is our long-surviving pickle, which nearly shattered in a fall some years ago.  Among many others hang a piano, a guitar, and a knight with a feathery plume.

In my family there is a tradition in which my brother and I each receive new ornaments every year, and the community is often further diversified by additional ornament gifts in addition to these.  Fitting them all on the tree is an interesting challenge, and this year, for the first time in living memory, we’ve left some off.

It is the memories, I think, that make our tree community such a significant facet of Christmas, coupled with the novelty of discovering it anew each year.  I’m always amazed at what I’ve forgotten when we open the red and green plastic tubs.  But when all the ornaments come out, I can remember each one from previous years, as far back as I can remember Christmas.  Some are as old as I am, others even older.  As a child I would pretend they were alive.  I imagined them arguing over the best spots on the tree or hoping desperately to be placed beside their best friends.  They would assess any newcomers, sometimes with suspicion but more often with welcoming.  And in a way they were like friends, even though I only saw them for a few weeks each year.  Yet they’ve always been nearby, in the house or in the garage, and when I look at them they compel me to pause and remember previous years and, like a calendar with unfilled days, to look forward into the future.

I treasure the variety on our tree.  To me it serves as a reflection of the variety in the earth and in life and human beings.  I think this panoply of variation is one of the greatest blessings in this earthly life, and our tree and its ornaments remind me, every once in a while, to stop and wonder at it.





 

An Imaginary Journal: Remembering Christmas 2014

by Anatolia Kozinski

 

 

January 3rd, 2050, Looking Back on a Past Christmas

 

It was the year 2014:  A monumental time in my young life; it was a year of joy and sorrow, of seasonal and cultural discord, ending with an educating abnormality (our move to Australia), and coming home. Christmas that year, was for once, however, absolutely normal. I wasn’t worried as it approached, because, well, Christmas this year, as opposed to 2013, did not mean moving to a strange land.

I remember clearly our debate over the Christmas tree, that is, where it should go. I remember my brother, attached to our traditional spot, clingy and pleading and groping for control of the fatal decision like an anxious squirrel. To think he is now a marriage counselor! I think it was his value of tradition, which of course, I always admired, in rare moments when there wasn’t chaos intertwined.

I felt fresh from the snowy forest where we had cut down the tree; the crisp air rejuvenated my mind and most importantly my limbs to start doing something else besides cleaning or typing on my computer. I wish I could have that youthful energy again. Oh to be young! With my energy renewed, I heartily joined in the debate. I voted for a new and improved position, which harbored a bit of the tradition of the places of the past. My grandparents stood by giving practical, sweet grandparent-advice in phlegmatic, experienced, polite tones. After much arguing, the atmosphere emanating with depression, seething voices, and disgust towards the betrayer of tradition, that is, me, my mom called in my dad, playing the ‘head of the house’ card. Dad was to make the decision. As he came in like a big square with legs, there was a moment of refreshing silence. He is still a square now, and hasn’t really changed, although his beard is white and he has finally grown it out to a Gandalf-like length.

Anyway, it was time. Dad strolled around cheerfully, weighing each idea in his head. Everybody tried to lobby cunningly, and Grandpa ordered it to stop right away with his peaceful manner. I had a feeling Dad would chose my spot (he he) so I waited almost patiently. Well, he did, choosing the homey feel of the little corner I wanted, in memory of his Long Island home wherein his family had always put the tree in corner. TJ immediately flopped on the couch in sorrow with his head down. I felt rather bad. The decision, however, had been made, and I had a feeling that TJ’s Christmas tree desires would be fulfilled if he would only look at the tree.

I struggled with Grandpa beneath our lovely tree to drill the stupid thingamigs into the trunk so it would stand. Many times we did this, eventually emerging from the tree dripping wet with melted snow slowly dripping off the branches. Little did I know that the innocent cuteness of the tree was made possible through the grudging, exhausting experience of those who delved into the bowels of the darkness beneath.

After this, the decorating began, during which I received many spiteful remarks from some unnamed siblings. Lights circled the tree bedecked with electric magic as I struggled to attach the golden star atop the highest bough, as they say. Soon the whole endeavor was finished, something that felt new and old at the same time each year.

Millions of present lay underneath, reminding me of a Frank Sinatra Christmas song. Although they weren’t about Jesus really, there was a subtle truth in them. They were the carriers of traditions, as Jesus was. To think how long ago that was, I can’t believe how old Justin Bieber sounds. That’s old-school “man”.

As I looked at the symmetry and softness, as well as the ruggedness and strength of the tree, I saw memories. Each light rang a little bell in my mind.  I saw memories of previously discussed arguments, harmonies, discords, little siblings, love, sorrow, and many other various and random things. I saw the different parts comprising the tree itself, and I saw in it the representation of the history of life. Mostly, I gave my love to the tree, because it had become a symbol of memory and tradition, just as Christ, by being born, had become a physical symbol of Himself, of Love.

 

 

Lost

by Fiachra Rottinghaus

Where once shone love, love is no more;

Oil drips down onto the floor

In a room without a door.

Immortal husk without a chance

Trapped within a final dance.

Doomed to live, a darkened light

Cursed to linger in the night

Dark what once shone dazzling bright.

Yearns towards peace he’ll never find,

Doomed to live within his mind,

While his shell still stands defined.

Fading in the dark alone;

He is lost, he will never go home.





 

Roar

by Abby Logan

Once in the land of Sodius, ruled by King Griffith, lived a Harium Goblin named Roar.

Soduis was a very interesting land, ruled by good kings, evil dragons, and a couple of evil kings thrown in, too.  Among all these were the Goblins.  Some were incredibly evil, with slime dripping of their reptilian skin, but others were like the Harium Goblins.  Harium Goblins were large, almost eight feet tall, with a furry body like that of a human, feet of a cat, and husky dog ears.  Their noses were upturned too, giving them a fierce and yet strangely cute air.

Roar was such a Goblin, and as brave as he was, was one of King Griffith's best warriors.  He was large and could wield a battle axe quite effectively against slimy goblins and giant dragons.

One time in the year of the reign of the 31st Hundred king, King Griffith the Kind and Strong, as he was called, Roar heard of a battle to be waged between King Griffith and wicked King Berne. Roar naturally was called to fight in this fearsome battle.  He decided he  better bring his invisibility cloak as well.  After all it might come in handy. He'd found the cloak floating in a river, three years ago.  It had a spell cast on it from an evil sorcerer who had once roamed the Claddel Mountains.  The cloak had, up until then, been used for evil purposes.  Once Roar had found it though, he had decided to put it to good use.

Once on  the battle field, after King Berne had commanded his minions to attack, Roar slipped on his cloak.  Instantly he was rendered invisible. Now that the enemy could not see him, he damaged their numbers greatly.  He went about smashing their ugly skulls with his immense hammer.  While he was distracted by two large brutes, who were giving him a hard time, even without being able to see him, an arrow pierced his back.  Now, arrows did not do much harm to Roar, for he was a mighty Harium Goblin, but it did start a tear in his cloak.

As he kept plowing through the ranks of King Berne, the tear began to widen and spread, as grasping hands tried to catch the Goblin. At last, the cloak could take it no longer and rent in half, right down the middle, leaving the tied half visible around Roar's neck. Roar was oblivious to the fact that the minions could now see him.  He continued to smash heads and bones.

Some minions gathered at his back, bows at the ready.  The command was given and they shot 40 arrows into his back.  One arrow, was not a big hindrence, but if you've ever been shot by 40, you know it is no small pain. The Goblin fell to his knees, grunting in pain.  The minions surrounded him, watching as he rolled onto his stomach, dirtying his soft belly hair.

King Berne who had been watching the proceedings, glided through the dense circle of armor clad minions, to address once and for all, the fallen Goblin:"So, you will die at last, Roar, by the hands of my foolish henchmen," he sneered. Roar did not answer, he merely glanced up sullenly.

"Well, my courts will rejoice when your pelt is placed as a rug at the foot of my throne."  With that he swung his sword where it would drive a lethal blow in the Goblin’s neck, but he did not see the ripped half of cloak at his feet. Somehow, he tripped on it, and fell forward, his arms flailing.  Before Roar had blinked, the wicked king lay dead at his side, impaled by his own sword. Seeing their leader fall, the minions felt all the rage of battle flow from them, and raised their arms in submission.

King Griffith's troops took them into captivity and recovered the body of King Berne.  Roar was submitted to the King's infirmary where he healed up nicely with only the scars to boast. And now all of Sodius wonders at the happenings on that fateful day, when the brave Goblin Roar's cloak killed the king.