Telemacha

My Muse has deserted me, and never have I felt so cold. Once words flowed freely and surely, as fluidly as does A warrior’s sword, and almost as cleanly did they cut. But strangely, now, in this blessed silence I sit Wondering what words I might find myself able to speak; And I find myself thinking back, back so long ago: I see myself there, sitting in the audience of the greatest Word-crafters to have ever lived, shaping their art as perfectly As would an artisan of metal or even of stone, and I hear Them, too, calling out for their Muse, and receiving those Blessed words that come to their pen much more readily than I. So I am here, f

        Rayyan sat up suddenly. “Oh! My mother is calling me,” she said, though no one else was around.        Then, from far away, “Rayyan! Rayyan, come eat now.”        But we want to keep playing!        Yes, yes, please let us play!        I must not disobey my mother, soothed the young girl. We can all play again after dinner!        The twin spirits inside Rayyan’s soul radiated excitement at the prospect. They had so much fun together. Today Rayyan was learning how to read the clouds above her to know when storms were coming. She was a very quick student, and after only an hour had started moving and

     Min Yi stood among several others from the Jin City, anxiously awaiting the coming birth. Min Yi paced, her sharp features accentuated by the deep scowl.     “What is taking so long?” she demanded of the others, who exchanged glances. Min Yi was the Elder of her tribe, the Shu, and as was typical of advanced age her human characteristics were becoming more subdued. Her long tail twitched nervously as she walked, clawed hands tucked deep within the sleeves of her many-layered robe. Though the child that was expected was not of her blood or even of her clan, it was expected to be the next priest or priestess; if female, the ne

     "Mother..."     "Mother!"     The scream tore through the black night, echoing through the silence and carried away by the wind. The dream was vivid, too real, in fact, and too close for comfort. With a gasp, the man tore off his leather gloves and discarded them, staring intently at his hands. His blue eyes were wide with shock, and in a moment they seemed to flash, the pupils becoming slit like a snake's before returning to normal. Closing his eyes, he balled his fists and buried his head in them.     It was infuriating. The anger, the frustration, it welled up inside, causing pain and agony whenever he looked at his own body. He

Il était une fois un vieil conteur. Bien qu’il fut vieil, les pétits l’aimèrent et les contes qu’il raconta chaque matin. Il raconta ses voyages du monde mais aussi des contes très fantastiques! Un jour, il raconta une histoire en ces mots: --- Je voyageais une fois à voir les montagnes et des cavernes! J’avais entendu les contes charmants d’une fée, et je pensais qu’un jour j’y irais aussi! Ce jour, un groupe des enfants lui écoutèrent. Dans le groupe, une fille seule écouta attentivement, mais un garçon cria: --- Les fée n’existent pas! J

     Murail had paid for Jaxim’s room another night so the two could speak quietly, and Jaxim had told Murail everything that had happened since Murail and the lady Urobi- the possessed lady Urobi, had left Jaxim and Gehina behind at the gates to the city of Lost. The scholar spoke quietly and slowly, and his fear at not being believed was apparent. His fear increased when Murail shook his head.     “Your story is...hard to accept.”     “You don’t believe me?”     “No,” Murail said gravely, shaking his head, “it is not that I do not believe you, Master Jaxim. That is the problem. Your s

Slowly, the four tables emptied.        At first, it seemed the Slytherin table had completely emptied, but to McGonagall’s surprise, and that of everyone else left in the hall, it was not. Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows raised upon finding a handful of students still standing, defiant, at their table.        “I thought I asked the Slytherin students to leave with Mr. Filch,” the professor said in a hard voice. One seventh year student, Azalea Moss, was holding her third year sister’s hand.        “You did, Professor,” acknowledged the older girl.        “And you are still here.”