Tanabata 2018 (Photos and Script)

Quick update: Hannah went to the ER and got her gallbladder out on 7/7! Yay! Without health insurance the cost of the surgery is enough to purchase a new vehicle! Boo! But we are so poor that the hospital is writing it all off... so yay again!

Because Hannah's gallbladder decided it wanted to jump ship on Tanabata, we pushed back our annual celebration to the following Friday the 13th. This is totally my jam. I get pretty super excited over three celebrations: Yule (and Christmas Parties), Halloween/Samhain, and then Tanabata. There are other various things that get me really excited but these are my set big Holidays. For those who might not know what Tanabata is: it's a Japanese Star Festival celebrating wishes and love. I'll include the play I wrote for the celebration at the end of the blog post - but for now, behold all the pretty things:

My favorite sushi! Vegan and delicious.
This was my share item for the potluck. I brought 6 packages.

We strung a rope across the yard to represent a bridge across the Amanogawa (Milky Way) River.
Below the bridge is our Altar. 

Overview of the Altar. The long packet in the middle contained consecrated wish strips called tanzaku.

Another view of the Altar. 

We burned this absolutely lovely Japanese incense.
(Not very Shinto, I know but we loved it and it appealed to our witchy sensibilities!)

Hello Kitty Lantern decoration for the bridge.

A long view of the Amanogawa bridge.

These were Hannah's balloons that mom and I brought her for after her surgery.
We offered them up to the Amanogawa as well.

I had lots of different decorations for people to try and mostly people did the lanterns,
but someone did the pretty dangling rhomboid chain. I love it!

Here's a view of some participants and a sweet goblin child with red glowing eyes.
She's a mini-me. I love her!

Check out the exciting crystal ball in this picture!

Just a fun shot of the Altar.
You can see Orihime really close and in the distance is Hikoboshi.

I love this fox. He's guarding the tanzaku.

Excellent close up of the after festival treats!

Rachel of Lavender Moon Bakery provided two cakes to represent the lovers
 and Hannah baked Milky Way (Amanogawa) cookies!

                                                   

Across the Amanogawa

A short play for Tanabata

Retold by Amanda LaFantasie

Narrator: A long time ago, in a Kingdom in the Sky, there was a beautiful princess called Orihime. She was a very talented weaver and seamstress and she made the the most beautiful robes in all of the Sky Kingdom. Her father, the Sky King, was very proud of her and praised her often. For many years Orihime weaved in happiness, but as time wore on, her smile began to falter. The King noticed his child’s diminishing mood and grew worried.

King: I’ve watched you working these past few weeks. You look sad, my child. Do you no longer enjoy weaving?

Orihime: It’s not that. There is nothing I love more than weaving and bringing joy to those who wear my garments. But I’m lonely. All of my sisters have married and moved away to live with their husbands and I miss them.  

Narrator: This got the King thinking. Perhaps it was time that his treasured daughter should also take a husband. So he journeyed across the great Milky Way River, the Amanogawa. There he searched for a man honorable enough and brave enough to marry his precious daughter. He searched until he was exhausted. He went to the field where the Sky Kingdom’s best cows grazed on the finest grass. As he walked among the cows he rethought his plan. After a while, a young cow herder named Hikoboshi approached him.

Hikoboshi: I hope I’m not bothering you, but you seem troubled. Is there anything I can do for you?

King: Only if you can find me an honorable man worthy of marrying the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.

Hikoboshi: I’m very sorry but I don’t know anyone like that. I’m all alone now that my brothers have taken wives and left their herds to my care.  

King: You mean you watch all of these cows by yourself? Doesn’t that get stressful?

Hikoboshi: Not at all. There’s nothing I love more than tending the cattle and keeping them safe.

Narrator: The King asked Hikoboshi many questions and, in the end, invited him to dine with the Royal family in the Sky Palace that night. The cow herder hated to leave his cows but knew it would be rude to refuse. So he made his way across the Amanogawa to the Sky Palace. The King made sure to seat Hikoboshi next to Orihime and before the night was through the princess found something she loved more than weaving, and the cow herder found something he loved more than tending his animals. In no time at all, they were married.

[King ties a ribbon around their clasped hands]

Orihime and Hikoboshi: I will love you until the stars burn their last flame.

Narrator: With each passing day their love for each other grew. Over time they forgot about things like weaving and cow herding. Soon the fine garments of the Sky Kingdom became tattered and torn, and the prized cows across the river began to wander. They left their safe field and traveled on rocky, dangerous ground. They ate grass that made them sick and many of them died.

King: Orihime, you’ve neglected your duties far too long. Look at my robes! They’re in shambles. I’m the Sky King and yet I look a beggar. Get back to your weaving and sewing!

Orihime: I’ll do it. But please, allow Hikoboshi to sit with me as I sew.

King: Absolutely not! Hikoboshi, you must leave at once and go back across the Amanogawa and tend your cows.

Hikoboshi: I’ll do it but I won’t leave Orihime behind. Please, let her come with me and join me as a cow herdess.

King: No. I forbid it. She will stay here and weave and you’ll return to the fields. Your King commands it.

Hikoboshi: I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but if she stays, then I stay.

Orihime: I won’t be alone again, father. If Hikoboshi must go across the river, then I have no choice but to follow.

Narrator: The argument continued until the King had no choice but to remove Hikoboshi by force and banish him back to the field across the river. To make sure that his daughter stayed in the Sky Palace and did not run away to join her husband, the Sky King destroyed the only bridge between the two banks. With a mournful heart, Orihime resumed weaving and sewing. The Sky Kingdom dressed in fine garments once again, yet somehow they were less radiant than everyone remembered. Across the river, Hikoboshi returned to herding the cattle. They regained their health, yet somehow the beasts were less impressive than they’d been in the past.

King: I had to do it. They cared only for each other. They didn’t care about the kingdom anymore. If I’d left them alone we’d all be naked with no milk and no meat. The kingdom would fall into ruin. Wouldn’t it?

Narrator: Orihime worked diligently. But she never smiled anymore. The King didn’t want to recant on his order but he couldn’t stand to see his daughter so miserable. After a long time he came to a decision.

King: The kingdom cannot do without its best weaver and its best cow herder. But, because they cannot do without each other, I will allow Orihime and Hikoboshi to see each other one day each year. On the seventh day of the seventh month, I will order the magpies of the sky to fly down and form a bridge between the banks of the Amanogawa. That is how they will meet and part.  

Narrator: And so, every year after the King’s proclamation, the lovers met on the seventh day of the seventh month. Sometimes the princess would travel to the cow herder’s side. Sometimes the cow herder would travel to the Sky Palace. But always, when the time came for them to part, the King’s magpies would seek out and carry the displaced lover back to their own bank. Many years and many meetings later Orihime’s weaving resumed its former brilliance, and Hikoboshi’s cattle grew into extraordinary beasts. But what they were most proud of was the vow of love they had managed to keep despite the river that ran between them.  

FIN

Storytime! So gay... so very, very gay...

From the start of our relationship, storytelling has always been an important element of bonding for Hannah and me. At night we often read out loud to each other or I will make up a bedtime story for her to listen to until she falls asleep. More often than not I'm the one who gets put to sleep but that's beside the point.

Sometimes my bedtime stories are innocent and about animals and mythical beasts. Sometimes they are epic Dungeons and Dragons type adventures. Most of the time though, regardless of setting, they are romantic (a.k.a. smutty) in nature. And because I'm a big old pervert I usually make the 'mating couples' same sex, related, or involved in some heavy BDSM. Because that's just how I roll. 

Last night's story was cutesy. Before bed Hannah and I had just finished watching Junjo Romantica Season 3 and were feeling particularly fond of jealous semes, embarrassed ukes, and light-hearted angst. So the setting for my story was of course college life and my protagonist and love interest were the nerdy virgin and the rebellious older boy. I do enjoy a good archetypal pairing of The Fool with The Devil. 

I'm going to chronicle it here for fun. This is going to be quick writing (don't expect amazing prose) and will involve male/male romance. I figure if you've followed this blog for very long the latter will not surprise you in the least. With that said, here's some word vomit:

Donovan Sharpe was the kind of boy who didn't go to bars. So how he ended up at Balboa the night before fall semester started was a bit of a mystery. Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for once, like he wasn't a complete antisocial loser who preferred books to people, or maybe he thought this qualified as an act of defiance against "the man." His brother was always telling him that he needed a little defiance in his life. But Donovan was more about compliance than defiance. Perhaps he was at the bar trying to comply with the expectations of every other college kid he'd ever met. Drink. Fuck. Party. Have fun. Well, he supposed he could at least drink. But not too much. There was class in the morning after all.

So he went out to the bar best known for regrettable hookups, mob-like brawls, and a stunning consistency for health code violations, looking for trouble. Maybe trouble. Mostly looking to eat something and have a beer. He ordered the Rocky Burger and Bud-Lite. 

Weirdly enough, on this night, right before classes at Hamilton Bay Community College were about to start up again, the bar was practically deserted. He guessed the fighting, fucking, fun crowd must have stayed home in preparation for classes tomorrow. That suited him just fine. On the few other times he'd been out to the bar -- dragged by those who pitied him enough to be seen with him in public -- the atmosphere had been chaos. This was better. He preferred the quiet.

When he finished his burger he brought the plate to the bar and took a seat there. The bar tender asked if he was ready for another Bud-Lite but he shook his head. 

Someone entered the bar. The air in the room changed. Barometric pressure or maybe cologne.

Donovan turned to see who had just come in and for a split second everything seemed to move in slow motion, like some bad guy intro from an 80's flick. There was a man there, walking - more like strutting - into the bar. He wore black leather pants and a black leather jacket. His shirt looked like this:

Donovan didn't know what Eisbrecher was but he figured it was music that could only give him a headache. However, it wasn't the man's shirt that really struck him; it was the man's eyes. The man had entered wearing a motorcycle helmet, but he'd just taken it off. Donovan found himself staring at at pitch black tousled hair, matted to the forehead, framing along the cheeks. All tufts pointing toward ice-blue eyes. And the man stared right back. He raised and eyebrow and looked around the bar then approached.

"This place always like this?"

Donovan swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "You mean, is it always this blessedly empty? I wish. It's usually a madhouse."

"Well, that's a relief," the man said and chuckled. "No offense, but I hate dead bars." He took the seat right next to Donovan. "I'll have a Guinness, please."

Donovan looked away then. This many was totally not his type. Which, he supposed implied that he had a type. Which was utter nonsense because the only chemistry he'd ever had between himself and another person was during science lab last year when the beaker exploded all over his partner. Donovan was a rock. He was island. He was all the lyrics to that song.

"So what you do for fun around here?" the man asked.

Donovan looked up. "What?"

"I just moved to town. So I don't really know the scene yet. What do you suggest for kicks?"

"Oh, I'm not the one ask about kicks. Or scenes. Or fun. Or anything you'd probably enjoy." He shook his head and lifted Bud-Lite to his lips.

"Wow." The man grinned. "Okay, forget about me for a second. What do you like?  What's a fun night for Mr. Lite-Beer?"

"You'll laugh."

"No, I won't." The man said.

Donovan narrowed his eyes. "I like reading."

"Really?" The man said and nodded with consideration. "Where do you like to read?"

"In bed."

"In bed. I see." The man was quiet a minute. His lips curled into a sly grin. "Naked?"

"What?! No!"

"That's too bad." He took a gulp of Guinness. "So what do you like to read?"

Donovan stared into the man's blue eyes for a moment and then looked at his beer. It was almost empty.

"Books. I don't know. Stuff. Look, I just came here for a burger. I don't even know you..."

"Name's Peter." The man hailed over the bartender. "Another round of whatever piss beer he's drinking please. It's on me."

And five beers later Donovan had told him pretty much every book he had in his personal library. They'd talked about music and poetry and science. Nothing too heady, just fun facts and popular ideas. They talked about Peter's shirt and the man even played an Eisbrecher tune on his phone and held it up to Donovan's ear. He was right, it was music that would give him a headache. And yet he didn't pull away, he leaned into the phone and picked out the a few German words he knew. All in all it wasn't too bad. And the music smelled like musk. Or maybe it was the man's wrist, dabbed with some earthy cologne, that smelled so good.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I was going to write out a lot more of the story thus far but this is all I'm in the mood to spit out. Also Hannah and I have decided to RP these goofballs a little bit. A lot has changed since I wrote this blurb last Friday (yeah, I know I'm a late poster!): Donovan's name has been changed to Declan and his major is now English and Writing. Peter is much the same, though we've learned now that he's much more insecure than he lets on. Yay for storytime! 

Spell 2: Tarot Attunement

Spells can take many shapes and serve a myriad of purposes. They are small (or large) sessions of spiritual therapy and growth. Since a rather large interest for me, spiritually and psychologically, is tarot, I've decided that today I want to work on a spell that features my relationship with tarot. As I've mentioned before, I believe that inanimate and 'non-living' things respond to and manipulate energy. For example: places and objects can be 'haunted.' And water, flash frozen, reveals emotional ice crystals based on the energies presented to it. So it only makes sense that to really get the most out of your tarot/oracle deck or other various divination tools, you should work on your relationship with them. You should attune.

I use tarot quite a bit and like to spend time with the decks I use the most. I often carry a deck with me to work or shuffle though cards before bed. Now, it is generally understood that to get a good reading from tarot you want to cleanse it of energies before use. I don't worry so much about cleansing. I shuffle and hold them to my chest and I feel that helps prepare myself and the cards for the reading about to commence. But overall, whether bursting with energy or stagnant and sitting, the cards do have a sort of life and personality of their own. Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about.

For this spell you will need one tarot deck (pick one you're pretty excited out). The aim here is to attune to the deck to help you have an easier time understanding what the deck is trying to tell you in readings. You might also say that attuning with this instrument will help you understand what the divine has in mind for you as well. So here goes:

Take your tarot deck and place it beneath your pillow before bed. Say these words:

"I am open to receive. I am open to understanding. I will never abuse the information you share with me. I respect your sacred mission to aid me on my path and in turn you have my trust."

The next morning, bring the tarot with you wherever you go that day. Keep the deck in your purse, pocket, or even held in your hands. That evening, as the sun sets, or as the night draws on, honor the tarot in this way: Gather a cup, an athame (or sword if you prefer), a small coin (a penny will do), and a small branch/twig to be the wand.

Lay out the deck before you, touch each and every card. With the deck laid out, lift the cup and say:

"I'm ready to journey with you beneath the moon's reflection on the water of my soul."

Return the cup. Lift the wand and say:

"I'm ready to journey with you and embrace the fiery passions that flourish within my heart."

Return the wand. Lift the coin and say:

"I'm ready to journey with you to and explore the sensuous secrets of the body."

Return the coin. Lift the athame and say:

"I'm ready to journey with you above the mire of confusion, to clarity of mind."

Return the athame and laid your hands on the cards. Say once more:

"I am open to receive. I am open to understanding. I will never abuse the information you share with me. I respect your sacred mission to aid me on my path and in turn you have my trust."

You are done with the spell/attunement at this point. I don't know for sure if this qualifies as a spell, per se, but I am eager to try it and get to know a few tarot decks better. I don't know if I would try this with more than one deck at a time since the purpose is to really open yourself up to a deck and get it to trust you in return. Perhaps this is a one deck at a time thing. Like a date. Or friendly one on one time. For me, a deck is a friend. It may be that the very deck itself is your friend or it is a phone, instant messenger, or post-it note board that helps you communicate with your friend (i.e. the divine). But just like a friend I like to play with the cards. When I say play, I do not mean that I take divination to be a joke. Play is the word I use when I want a relationship and I think after performing this attument spell, I'll be able to play even better with my dear decks. 

Door Charms, Playing Catch-Up

Lots has happened recently. But I can talk about that another time. Suffice it to say that I'm about to embark on a crazy journey into a new job, and I'm doing it without Hannah by my side as she is currently helping out her family in Wichita. She's only supposed to be gone for about two or three weeks but it's going to be a long two or three weeks. 

In an attempt to catch up with Creative October, I've begun scripting out the blessings/devotionals/invocations that will accompany the door charms. I know this is technically one part of a bigger project, but writing these things takes time and energy and I think they count as their own project well before they become part of their corresponding charms. This covers Days 4, 5, and 6. I'm still behind but not so far at least!

First, I created a devotional to Hestia who is one of the sweetest and cool headed goddesses of the entire Greek pantheon. I've only recently begun to study her and she is absolutely wonderful. She is a goddess everyone should have in their home. In fact, Zeus thought her to be so badass that he made it a requirement to pay honor to her at every shrine regardless of whom the shrine was erected to. So if you wanted to go and pray to Hades, you had to also tip your hat to Hestia. There's so much more to her and I don't really have the time or the brain power to write it all out right now, but if you get the chance, look her up!

I found the picture of Hestia on the internet, but the text is mine.

Next I did a devotional to Hecate. She and Hestia are both virgin goddesses (meaning they never married) and I have a certain affinity for virgin goddesses (Artemis included) probably because I'm my Astrological sign is a Virgo. That or I just relate to a husband-less female. Anyway, for both of them being virginal goddesses, they definitely have a different feel. Hecate is edgy as hell.

This artist rendition was just too cool! The artist's name is Dasha Pliska. Usually Hecate is pictured with three heads/faces, but I gotta say, I'm totally digging the three sets of arms.

Lastly, I wanted to show off my inner nerd and do a devotional/summoning/invocation to Yog-Sothoth from Lovecraft. He's the Gatekeeper for the Ancient Ones and is probably the nicest of the Old Gods. He's the only one you can gaze upon without instantly going insane. Or so they say. Anyway, here's the charm invocation for an Elder God complete with text from one of Lovecraft's stories. Oh, and by the way: Yog-Sothoth is usually portrayed as a bunch of glowing orbs with teeth and tentacles. But sometimes he takes on a less amorphous shape.

Click here for a link to the original artwork.

Because this font is a little hard to read, I'm going to add the text here: 

“Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and the guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke though of old, and where They shall break through again. He know where They have trod earth’s fields, and where They still stread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread.” –The Dunwich Horror by H.P. Lovecraft

Yog-Sothoth, The Oldest, the Keeper of the Gate,

Locked outside the universe, where You lie and wait,

I call You to my threshold, a wish upon my tongue,

Guard the creatures of this house, from dead to old to young.

God of Outermost Darkness, let no evil in,

Discern with your all-seeing eyes, the foe from friend or kin.

I ask for your protection, may it never be undone,

You are the gate, You are the key, You are the All-in-One!

 Yog-Sothoth Nafl’Fthagn! I summon thee, so mote it be! 

So to answer all the questions for the creative projects: 1) I did three devotionals to be attached to key charms which will them be placed over doorways. 2) I learned a great deal about goddesses and an Ancient One; things that I had not previously known. I also learned to get over my fear of mixing nerdiness with divine practice. It was fun and interesting to write to Yog-Sothoth. I believe that because Lovecraft conceived of him that he does exist as least in our imagination and that is probably purer existence than most things in the physical realm. Also I learned that rhyming really does make a charm read better. I feel bad for Hestia's not rhyming. But she is so level headed and just downright sweet, that I felt petitioning her ought to be more conversational in a way. 3) Yes I completed the projects but way late. I will get caught up and then keep on pushing. This month is going to be nuts but the busier I am the more productive I am, or so I'm going to keep telling myself. I'll be back tomorrow with more updates!

Creative October Challenge Begins

BIG THINGS HAPPENING FOR LOCAL BRA-FITTER 

by Yours Truly

     Earlier this week, a local woman, Amanda LaFantasie, finally landed a full-time job after months of searching. After earning her MFA in Creative Writing in July she wasn’t willing to settle for just anything. “I’ve always wanted to be involved in an industry that values the written word as much as I do,” she explains. Starting next week, Amanda will join the Circulation team at the Spokesman-Review, the leading newspaper of the Inland Northwest. She leaves behind a long standing career as a bra-fitter and customer assistant at L’eggs Hanes Bali. 

     When asked how she feels about the change she responded, “In some ways I’m terribly sad. I’ll miss my coworkers and store. I’ve spent three years of my life there. It was sort of a home away from home and I took a great deal of pride in my work. But then I’m also extremely relieved. This new job will open up doors for me that no amount of bra-fitting ever could.” What are these doors? As a writer, Amanda has high hopes to someday move out of circulation to become a content contributor or copy editor for the Spokesman-Review. However, she states, “Even if I don’t get to write and edit for the paper, I’m still going to work on my novels, and I think working in a building surrounded by other creative and productive individuals is going to be incredibly stimulating.” 

     There are other things she looks forward to as well. “They (my coworkers) seem geeky and fun. Total nerds. I know I’ll get along with them. Also the place is already completely decked out for Halloween. And I’ll even get to wear a costume on the 31^st. I love it!” Amanda’s friends and family are also excited. Her fiancé of eight years, Hannah Richardson, says, “This means a new beginning. A chance to start over in a new city. We’re finally on the fringes of being out of limbo.” Amanda and Hannah plan to move from their Post Falls residence, a residence the young women share with Amanda's parents, to an apartment in Spokane Valley sometime around Thanksgiving. “Having our own place is going to be our Christmas present this year. In fact, instead of gifts and cards, what I really would like is for our loved ones to help us cart our millions of books over to the new place,” Amanda says. She laughs and adds, “I guess I would settle for moral support instead. After all, Hannah and I want a vaulted ceiling which means third story. So book moving might be a bit much to ask.” 

     But this change comes with a few challenges as well. While working for L’eggs Hanes Bali, Amanda could easily drive to work in fifteen to twenty minutes and had ample free parking at her disposal. Now that she is employed by the Spokesman-Review, in order to get to work, she’s going to have to get creative. For the first two months she plans to take the bus via the Park-n-Ride option out of Liberty Lake. “It’ll save on gas and wear and tear. Won’t save on time, however,” she explains. “But that’s just until we can get enough saved up to move to Spokane. Then I’ll either take the Spokane Valley-Plaza Express, or buy a parking pass for the Cowles Company parking garage.” The latter option is $50 a month but offers guaranteed parking 24/7. “I can park there even when I’m not working,” says Amanda. “Like, for instance, if I wanted to go to a concert at the Knitting Factory, I could park near work and walk over. Much better than trying to find metered parking or worrying about a bus schedule.” 

     Despite transportation and parking being a bit of a challenge, she’s ready to face it for the benefits of working for such a prestigious company. With a bittersweet smile, Amanda looks toward the future. “I’ve sort of got the jitters. But I’m ready for structure and growth. I’m ready for a life.”

This is my creative craft project for Day 1 of the Creative October Challenge. This is a mock up article for no newspaper. But all the juicy stuff is in fact true! I wanted to create a newspaper article style blog post in honor of my new job working at the paper. To answer my three questions for the COC (Creative October Challenge): 1) What was my project? Mock Newspaper Article; 2) What did I learn? I learned that newspaper writing style puts a great amount of psychic distance between the writer and the audience; 3) Did I complete the project? Yes. 

Faith and New Ideas for Death Man

The past few days have been a blur. My friend from Solstice, Faith, came to visit me while she attended the Sasquan (World Con) Convention in Spokane area. It was such a treat getting to spend time with her and she really kicked my ass on brainstorming and storyboarding for my novel. I asked her to help me figure out how the hell to make three books out of my massive missive of mischief. And she did. Now I just have to keep with it, I'm excited because I've restructured my hierarchy a little, changed some of my beloved characters' names (neither Faith nor Hannah were happy about that!) and also figured out the ten commandments of my theocracy. Pretty much I made everyone's lives a bit worse in the novel and have given the slave boys something very, very dangerous and depressing: hope. 

I have a French/English dictionary waiting for me at the Library and once I pick that up I'm going to begin fucking with the language. One of my goals when I started this Dystopian was to create a bastardized Frenchlish language similar to the Nadsat language Burgess created in 'A Clockwork Orange.' I freaking love that book. I'm going to re-read it this next week to get me in the mood for language making.

I'm going to reformulate my map of the city as well. I think for me the best thing to do will be to have a crystal clear vision of the defamiliarization of the novel before I really delve into this new draft. Now, don't worry, I'm not scraping the old draft. Most of it is incredibly workable. But I will be rewriting a great deal of it and then editing and revising from there. Which is why I need to get my ass in the chair and get going on the actual work. The novel is going to be tight. It really will be. And I know the changes I'm making are going to help. At least I'm fairly certain they are. So now I need to finish up the draft and put it away for a bit so I can work on number two and number three. By the end of this year I will have Book One of the Death Man trilogy print ready. That's my goal. I don't have much year left, however, so the pressure is on.

The Commandments of the Theocracy

1. The Luminary is God incarnate. The Luminary’s Word is Law.
2. None but the Luminary and the Elderkin may read or compose writing. Slaves, Paysan, and Gendarme shall not read or produce writing of any form. To read or write on their own is to incur death
3. Apostasy is the greatest crime and demands the highest restitution else the offending party shall die.
4. All shall attend at least one Tournament and ten executions a year and will be punished for lax behaviour.
5. Slaves must obey all commands unless it directly violates an order given by the Luminary. All Paysan and Gendarme must obey all commands given them by their Patrons unless it directly violates an order given by the Luminary.
6. All Death meted in honor of the Luminary is sacred and celebrated.
7. Women must obey and satisfy their Masters/husbands as it is the will of the Luminary.
8. Unless acceptable restitution is offered for crimes of civil disobedience, theft, fraud, and attempts to upset the social order, the penalty is Death.
9. All children born out of wedlock are slaves. 
10. There are monsters beyond the wall. No one shall go beyond the wall. To go beyond the wall is to incur the wrath of the Luminary and verily ye shall die.

Student Anthology Submission for Your Enjoyment

This past semester, one of the students with my MFA program started an anthology project for all students and alumni to feature short pieces of work including excerpts, poems, flash fiction, and vignettes. Last time I submitted a short scene from my Dust Bowl novel and this time around I am sending in the beginning segment (almost a prologue I guess) to my creative thesis. I thought I would share it here just for fun and because my mentor, who hates prologues, absolutely loved.

The Lesson

Excerpt from The Death Man

By Amanda LaFantasie

“Isn’t one blade enough. Why do we need three?” he asked.

“The same reason a painter needs more than one brush.” The Death Man ran his finger down along the smooth and perfectly chiseled blood groove of the executioner’s sword. “It all depends on your goal. If you just want to kill a man, you use the ax. If you want to dismember him and decorate the stage with his blood, then you use the machete. But if you want to deliver the kiss of death, you swing this sword through his neck and you give him peace.” He lifted the sword, holding it horizontally before the boy.

Beyond the old man’s window the sky was red with a summer sunset and it cast a crimson hue upon the blade, making it look as if it had drawn blood from the air itself.

“The tip’s broken,” the boy said.

“It’s not broken. It was made this way. Blunt and smooth. This sword was never meant for stabbing. It is a work of art. Light enough to wield with grace yet heavy enough to part skin, muscle, and bone with a single flick of the wrist. And it’s sharp. Hold out your arm.”

The boy did as asked. He knew his mentor would cut him, but all fear of pain had been beaten out of him long ago. Sucking in a breath, almost excited by the promise of blood, he waited. His mentor pressed the blade to his flesh and gave a quick slice. The boy felt nothing.

In silence he examined his arm. His eyebrows drew tight in confusion. There didn’t seem to be a cut.

“Wait for it,” said the Death Man.

A moment passed. As if by magic, a thin beaded line of blood appeared and with it came the first touch of pain, a hot concentrated sting. The boy watched in fascination as the beads grew fat and spilled out from the cut leaving red tributaries on his skin. It was deep, much deeper than he’d first thought. He put his hand on the wound, but it did little to stop the blood from squeezing out and dripping all over his mentor’s floor. But the Death Man didn’t seem to care. About anything.

“Take a man’s head with this blade and he will not suffer. It is a blade reserved only for those who deserve a painless death.”

“And who deserves a painless death?” The boy couldn’t take his eyes off the sword.

“Everyone,” the Death Man replied, and in the same breath he amended, “no one.” He returned the sword to its sheath and set it back on the stand. “Only the beloved of the Luminary are granted such a death.”

“But if they are his beloved then why kill them?” The boy knew he shouldn’t ask so many questions but his mentor was the only person he’d met in a long time who was so willing to answer.

            “Sometimes we have to kill the ones we love.” He pulled a wad of gauze from his medicine bag. “Wrap up your arm. The lesson’s just begun.”

Plans and Plots

I cannot say for sure but it seems my other coworker has bowed out of the 'Third Key' race.  While this means I have a much better chance now (almost a guarantee), I don't feel any better.  I'm excited for this job but at the same time it won't be enough money for Hannah and I to take the next step in our lives and move to Spokane.  I adore my parents but it is time.  It. Is. Time.  We need to be responsible individuals living on our own again, making all the decisions, decorating how we want, cooking how we want, staying up and sleeping in, or vice-versa.  We need to be independent!  And Third Key would help but it would be just another step up the retail ladder that I plan on abandoning someday in the future.  However, there's another job, a library job, that I'm applying for in person tomorrow.  I don't think it will pan out but if any of my readers can spare some positive energy... this is kind of the one I want.  Bad.  It is same amount of hours as Third Key but almost twice the pay and it has the makings of a career.  Also, books.  Lots and lots of books everywhere!  And I would get to play with them all day!  It just seems kind of like the perfect job for me.  

No matter what I hope I at least get an interview.  The application is one of those that you fill out on the internet and have to print out right away because the information doesn't save.  Well, I did the backspace thing a couple of times where you have highlighted more than just one line and then push the button and the entire page goes back, not just the text.  So I lost the application twice.  Had to refill it it out over and over again.  I now have everything about my last three jobs completely memorized.  Not something I'm proud of.  Anyway, the application is a three fold: long ass application, spruced up resume, and a signed cover letter.  All of this must be turned in by tomorrow at noon.  I will be there a bit earlier because I have to be back in Coeud'Alene to pick up my friend's brother and drive him home from NIC, but also because I kind of hope they talk to me a little bit.  Even if it's stupid chatter, I hope the Human Resources people remember me.  And then I hope they call me back in for an interview.  And then I hope they hire me.  I could really see myself being happy at a job like this.  And I tell you what, it would be nice to have enough money to actually make it for a change.  

Tonight, before I began the brutal process of filing out and refiling out the application, I read three new pages of Death Man to my mother.  She was pretty invested in what I wrote and she's a bit surprised with how different its turning out.  Cutely she suggested we sit down together and work on the story all day on Thursday.  We're going to storyboard the whole thing (or finish what I started in the storyboard department) and I'll pump out the next few scenes.  I'm glad she's showing such interest and attention.  It should be fun and honestly she's a pretty tough editor/slave driver when she wants to be.  And her reaction to the new pages was, for the most part, exactly what I would hope for from an audience so that was rather encouraging.  Onward and upward I go with this stupid novel!  It's been the bane of my existence but it's getting somewhere, slowly but surely.

I don't think were in Kansas anymo-... wait, no, we're totally in Kansas...

This is a tiny segment of what I've been working on.  I'm a good deal farther along in the story but I am rather fond of a few images in these first few paragraphs.  Things to keep in mind as you're reading this is that Bertram has a bandana tied over his mouth as a makeshift medical mask to keep the dust out of his lungs, and it's the year 1936.  We're smack dab in the middle of the Dust Bowl.  This is very short and just meant as a taste, but comments and critique are always appreciated.

One of the boxcars was open, just a slit, and there was a man leaning out – old or young, I couldn’t really tell. His hat blew off. I squinted. Sweat dripped down into my eye, startling and stinging me. I blinked and the man was gone. At first I thought it was all a mirage – wasn’t Edgewater a dessert after all? – but then I saw a tangle of arms and legs tumbling alongside the train, stirring up a fresh thick cloud of black dust. The fellow must have jumped, though why anyone would purposefully throw themselves from a train into our little corner of the world was a mystery to me. Finally he ran out of inertia and sprawled out on the ground like a sacrifice on the slab. I blinked again. He was still there. 

The entire event had taken four, maybe five, seconds but somehow I felt like I’d been sitting there, holding my breath, willing his rag doll body to stop tumbling for the better part of an hour. Suddenly there was a man where there hadn’t been one before and the violence of his arrival reminded me of the time I watched Mama pull an oversized calf from Mr. Morris’s heifer. Before I knew what I was doing, I hopped down from the pick-up and ran toward the new arrival baptized in Kansan dirt.

My legs were jelly when I got down the hill.  My heart thumped so hard it rattled my insides. I’d never been this close to a moving train before. For a few seconds all I could do was tremble. The train seemed to breathe; exhaling gust after gust of friction heated air. The little bandana was no match and it fluttered about my mouth, the corners snapping my chin and cheeks. Up ahead of me was the man. He was on his hands and knees now, pawing through the dust like he’d lost something.

As I walked closer to him I saw a small bag in the dirt and wondered if this was what he was looking for. I picked it up and brushed it off. It was made of leather and had turquoise beads and feathers attached to the fringe at the bottom. On the front flap was an intricately beaded emblem of a bird. It looked like a Medicine Bag but the man in the dirt didn’t look anything like an Indian.

I shook the bag. It seemed empty. I looked at the man again and saw him looking right back. His face was absolutely caked in dirt but I could see his eyes just fine and they were the most vivid color of green I’d ever seen. The caboose finally passed us and the metal heartbeat of the train faded into memory.

Amanda LaFantasie © June 2014

Bertram's Atheism (a brief segment)

            “Bertie?”  It’s Mama’s voice.  I picture her standing by the chicken coup, her hands balled into fists and driven into her thin waist as if she’s squeezing my name out from her body like how I squeeze toothpaste from the tube.  I think about ignoring her.  She only calls me ‘Bertie’ when she wants something from me and right now I don’t figure I’ve much to give.

            I pick up my magazine and thumb through until I find the story I’d been about to read when I fell asleep.  It’s by Lovecraft, so I know it’s going to be dark, but it’s called “The Cat’s of Ulthar.”  There’s nothing all that objectionable about cats, is there?  Maybe Mama wouldn’t mind if I let Sissy read this one, but then again, Mama didn’t even like Daddy reading Weird Tales.  I reckon it’s the covers she finds so distasteful.  The last issue that came to the house before Daddy’s subscription ran out two years ago had a very provocative cover.  It’s one of my favorites.  There’s a girl, or a woman I ought to say, naked as the day she was born, kneeling all shameful-like before a man in a hooded robe.  Her wrists and ankles are bound, her breasts firm, and her hair like golden wheat, a memory to me now. 

            When that particular magazine came in the mail, Mama said to me, ‘You’ll go blind looking at those things,’ and I thought long and hard over what ‘things’ she could have meant.  Breasts?  Is that what would blind me?  Why now?  If I didn’t go blind after the September issue from 1933 what chance did this new issue have in rending me sightless?  Maybe she meant real breasts.  I considered this and decided there must be some sort of talisman to protect married men from losing their eyesight during the dangerous task of love making.  But what about babies who breast fed?   Surely everyone should be blind.  No, it couldn’t be that.  Perhaps my blindness would come from the stories contained within.  But Daddy was a voracious reader of pulp and fantasy, yet he was always the first to see a duster coming, sometimes when it was still just a haze on the horizon.  And why should the words in Weird Tales have any such power over a man’s sight when the words in the bible do not?  So perhaps, and this is what I finally settled on after a good deal of rumination, Mama doesn’t know a damn thing about the real world.  Her mouth would move and the Preacher’s words would come out, mixed and remade to sound like her own, but I knew better.  Had it always been like that?  Had she ever had a thought that was her own?

            I cried myself to sleep that night.  Mama overheard me and lectured me thinking I was crying because the subscription had come to an end, but that wasn’t it at all.  I sobbed because it suddenly seemed that my mother had never really belonged to me.  Even when she used to sing me to sleep, it was always for Him; I was just an excuse for the song.  Whenever anything good happened it was God rewarding us, and whenever anything bad happened it was God testing us.  It wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I wasn’t so sure there was no one up there listening to her.  Thinking on it now, I guess she was right.  I did ‘go blind looking as those things’ and now I’m lost in the dark, no God to save me, no Preacher’s assurances to make it better, no life-everlasting-world-without-end, amen.  I’m fine with it, though.  Life everlasting would be pretty boring, anyway.

"The Night Before" and "Money"

Two segments from my work in progress 'Death Man.'  These are pre-workshop and pre-mentor critique, which means they very well may suck.  Please enjoy. 

The Night Before

            Sometimes when they left the windows open, the apartment felt almost bearable, but on that day the cross breeze that cut through the living room and into the hallway was hotter than breath.  It seemed to the boy that after months of slowly baking his meal, here, at last, was the huge mouth, God’s perhaps, blowing on his food, gusting idly before devouring North City in a single bite.     

            Nothing could break the heat that summer.   The Elites enjoyed the luxury of air conditioning units, but for civilians and servants there was no escape, not even temporary.  Electric fans did nothing but move sweltering air from one place to another and the lake’s water, now tepid, left swimmers feeling fatigued rather than refreshed.  Everything slowed down.  There were hardly any executions, and the few that did take place were done with little showmanship.  It was too hot to do much more than just a quick beheading, and what was the point?  The heat acted like an honorary Death Man, executing quietly and efficiently, without the need for an audience. 

            The boy had seen it for himself, down in the dungeon with his mentor.  It was an elderly woman.  She was alone in her cell with no one to comfort her as she convulsed and sweat herself to death.   It seemed to the boy that in the moment she died, her skin turned transparent revealing the orange and red of the fire raging through her body, burning her up from the inside out.  When she finally cooled the boy wondered if there was anything but ashes left inside her.  She was but one of many to die this way.  The honorary Death Man worked tirelessly, killing over and over until there were too many bodies for the crematorium to process.  A pyramid of corpses lay in wait for a different kind of heat to burn them from the outside in, and while they waited for incineration, they bloated and burst one by one until the perfume of putrefaction blew through North City, thick enough to choke.  It was a familiar smell to the boy, almost like the aroma of the blood fed flowers beneath the stage. 

            Every day was bad, but night time was the worst.  The boy had resorted to sleeping naked and even though the digital thermometer in his room told him the temperature had dropped a little, he didn’t believe it.  Behind his lids the darkness sparked in ghost images like grease splatters from a sizzling pan.  No matter how much water he drank he couldn’t put out the fire in his skull.  He saw things, he saw Scarlett, and he was never sure if it was dream or fantasy.  There were nights he woke himself up groaning.  When that happened, he’d roll onto his stomach, half in a trance, and thrust his hips into the mattress, jerkily, until he sweated everything he had, until he trembled and collapsed.  Then he’d sleep, because there was nothing left inside of him for the heat to prey upon.  But in the morning it would start all over again.    

            Everything made him sweat, even meditation.  He would sit there – legs crossed and hands placed carefully in his lap, palms facing upward, one hand on top of the other – and melt.  The heat pulled sweat from him the way ointments pull infection and yet, he thought, he withstood it better than most people.  Most people, citizens and elite alike, busied themselves with doing nothing, only venturing out to attend the performances of the Arène, furiously fanning their faces with folded paper while watching sun burnt little boys grapple with slippery palms.  None of the fights could have lasted long.  Most of the casualties of the Arène that summer were from heat exhaustion.

            He didn’t remember it ever being quite so hot during the years he’d fought in the Arène, but every second away from the fighting pits felt like a stolen eternity and it was easy for memories to get lost in the forever ago between then and now.  And in the now, all he knew – all it seemed he’d ever known – was right in front of him.  He blinked sweat from his eyes and looked down at his almost Death Man hands.  Even after wiping his hands on a rag, he still wore gore up to his elbows.  Blood gathered and congealed under the white of his nails and in the creases of his palms while perspiration from his arms thinned the remaining red and kept it from going brown.  It had been maybe ten minutes since he’d executed the killing blow on his last practice victim and he was still a little giddy.

            “Is the bath ready yet?”  The boy stood before the door wearing nothing but boxers and blood.  He didn’t understand why his mentor had closed the door in the first place, but he knew better than to open it.  That had been one of his lessons under the apprenticeship of the Death Man Roy Kim and repeated failure to respect closed doors had once cost him riding privileges for a week.  It occurred to him that he would be a man in the morning and no longer subject to his mentor’s rules and regulations, but for now he was too tired to disobey. 

            “Roy?” he called.

            There was no answer.  Roy might not have heard him over the water.  The boy sighed and rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door.  “Let me in already.”

            The water stopped.  Roy Kim opened the door and stepped out into the hall.  Steam puffed out around his frame.  “Don’t be impatient.”

            “I’m filthy,” he said.  They looked at each other a moment.  Something was off about Roy’s eyes.  The black parts seemed dull and the white parts were swollen with red and pink spider webs.  Had he been crying?

            Roy Kim drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, starting with his eyes.  “I put crushed rose petals in the water.” 

            “What for?” 

            “For spiritual cleansing,” he said.

            The boy looked at the bathtub.  Shredded flowers floated back and forth on the crests of frustrated ripples while swirls of oil formed here and there on the surface.  He stepped back and frowned at his mentor.  “Is this because of tomorrow?” 

            “Yes.”

            “What exactly happens at one of these graduations?” 

            “A lot of talk,” Roy Kim said.

            “Could you elaborate?” 

            “It’s actually kind of boring.”  He wiped his eyes again then sighed.  “From what I remember of mine, it starts with the Luminary standing there reciting the usual dogma about hard work and faith.  Then he’ll talk about you specifically.  I don’t know what he’ll say exactly, but he likes you. It’ll be kind whatever it is.”

            “And after that?”

            “You’ll take an oath of service.  And then you’ll be a citizen.”

            “No I won’t.”

            “Well, it’ll seem that way.  You’ll have a home of your own as well as a stipend.”

            “What’s a stipend?”  The boy frowned.

            “Money,” he said.  “You’ll have your own money as well as the autonomy to spend it.  So my recommendation is to do so wisely.”

            The breeze must have cooled.  Goosebumps prickled along the boy’s flesh.  He felt like he’d swallowed ice.  What would someone like him do with money?

            “I don’t want all of that.  I don’t need all of that.”  A sharp twinge near his elbow made him jerk.  He scratched it and realized that it was just the blood.  It had dried and tugged a hair as it crackled.    

            “How do you think you’ll get clothes?  Food?  Blankets for your bed? You’ll be all on your own.  You’ll need it soon enough.” Roy Kim pointed toward the bath.  “Go.”

            The boy glared a moment before marching over to the tub. “You know, Roy, you’re an asshole sometimes.”

            “Then, good news,” his mentor said from the doorway, “after tomorrow you’ll be free of me.” 

            The boy stilled.  It was really going to happen.  Everything would change tomorrow.  Everything he did tonight, it would be for the last time as a boy.  Everything happening now would be for the last time as the Death Man’s apprentice.

            It seemed to him that time worked like a disease, quiet and hidden and waiting.  All these terrible, large, adult things – like the Arène, or that night in the dungeon with a little baby dug out of its mother’s belly, or even this moment – had existed like blurred lines laying his life’s road before he was even born.  Time took a little boy who didn’t believe in death and threw him into the fighting pits when he was only ten years old.  Time made every wicked thing possible.  For the past two years, graduation had only been an abstract idea, something too far ahead of him to worry about, but his mentor was right.  Tonight would be his last night in the guest room.  Tomorrow he’d have his own apartment and a new room in which to suffer insomnia.  The infection had begun the day Roy brought him home and tomorrow it came to fruition.  Two years could have been two hundred and it wouldn’t have mattered.  Everything would have turned out the same.  Welcome to eternity, money included.  He would be all alone, nothing but his own death ahead of him and, just as with everything else, it would seem too far ahead to worry about it now.

            “Roy?  You’ll be there tomorrow, won’t you?” he asked.

            “No,” Roy Kim said and grabbed the door handle.  “They won’t let me in to watch.  But I’ll be right outside.”  He swallowed hard, the boy could see his neck move, and then he closed the door. 

            Alone now, the boy pushed his boxers down and stepped out of them and into the rose water.  The steam made his nose run.             

           

Money

            “Presents?  You got me presents?”  He looked down at the kitchen table where a small package wrapped in cloth and ribbon looked back at him.  The boy felt a weird heat rush through him, not the kind that made him sweat, the kind that sent little tremors up and down his spine.  He’d just gotten out of the bath.  His tank top and shorts stuck to his damp skin and, even though this was his usual evening attire during summer, he felt indecent.  People who looked like this didn’t get presents.

            “You know you didn’t have to do that,” he said and sat down across from his mentor.  His hair dripped water down his face and back.  At least it wasn’t sweat. 

            “I know.  That’s what makes it a present,” Roy Kim said and produced an envelope from his pocket.  He set it on the table and slid it toward the boy. 

            “I’ve only ever gotten presents from my mom.”  Back then he’d known what to say to presents.  He’d known how to smile, how to be gracious, how to treasure every little token.  Looking at Roy Kim now, he was more afraid than thankful.

            “It’s not much.  But I thought it might be nice to have something to take to your apartment tomorrow instead of just the clothes on your back.”

            Reaching toward the gifts he selected the package first.  His fingers shook as he pulled the ribbon.  Red silk fell away and the cloth wrapping unfurled to reveal a small wooden box.  There were two hinges in the back and a plated keyhole at the front.  It looked like an old trunk only miniature, small enough to lie across his palms.  Carved on the lid was a cat, but it was unlike any cat the boy had ever seen.  It had a thick body, a large head with an open mouth full of enormous teeth, and weird gashes, almost like stripes, all over its coat. 

            “It’s a tiger.”  Roy Kim reached over and tapped the box, startling the boy as he did so.  “It’s got something inside.”

            The boy pushed up on the lid, but it didn’t budge.  He frowned and tried to manipulate the keyhole, running his fingernail all around the little plate, looking for a latch or button.  When he didn’t find anything, he asked, “Is there a key?”

            “No.”

            “So how do I open it?”  He thought of Scarlett.  She could open anything.

            “You don’t.”  Roy Kim smiled.  “That’s where the tiger keeps his secret.  He doesn’t give it up easily.  You’ll have to break the box.”

            “I would never do that.  It’s too pretty.”  But someday he might.  He never could resist digging his way inside of things, destroying what he needed to, pulling the pieces apart to uncover their secrets.  Still, he’d try Scarlett first.

            “Pretty things don’t last forever,” his mentor said.  “Don’t forget about the envelope.”

            With a nod, he set the box down on the table.  It was difficult to pull his fingers away from it.  He liked the way the carved grooves felt, how the smooth parts turned rough, how the rough parts became sharp.  But he’d have plenty of time to touch it later.  Smiling at his mentor he reached forward and picked up the second gift.  It was money.
            He laid the credit notes on the table.  Words covered the page, tiny words, typewritten and perfect and overwhelming.  The boy had never seen a note up close and it took him several seconds to find the credit value.  When he did find it, he jerked his face up to look at his mentor.

            “Ten?” 

            “Well, I did say it’s not much.”  Roy frowned.

            “Are they all for ten?”  He didn’t wait for an answer.  Gathering the notes up into his hands he examined each one.  Four were valued at ten.  The last one was for twenty-five.  He shoved them into the envelope and pushed it toward his mentor. “I can’t take your money.”

            “It’s not a matter of taking.  I’m giving it to you.” 

            “But, it’s too much.”

            “It’s a pittance.”  Roy pushed back from the table and stood.  “You have to learn about money sooner or later.”

            The boy chewed his cheek and stared at the envelope.  “I don’t have a wallet.”

            “So go buy one.  Leather if you can manage it.  Just don’t let anyone swindle you,” he said. 

            “I’d help if I knew what swindling was.”  His stomach tensed.

            “You’ll know it if it happens.  Now go get some clothes on – ”

            “Wait,” the boy stood and nearly knocked his chair over.  “Will you go with me?” 

            “No.  I’m going to bed.  We have an early day tomorrow.”

            “You say that like it’s something unusual,” the boy grumbled.  He shrugged and pushed in his chair.  “I think I’ll just go to bed, too.  I don’t want to go out alone.”

            “That’s a very boy thing to say.” 

            “Well, that’s what I am,” he said, “a child for one more night at least.”

            Roy Kim let out a deep sigh and set his hands on the boy’s shoulders.  With a sudden tug, he pulled the boy into an embrace and held him.  Startled, the boy stiffened.   He’d forgotten all about hugs, but his arms knew what to do and they wrapped carefully around his mentor.  It didn’t matter that it was a thousand degrees in the Death Man’s kitchen, neither seemed to want to let go. 

            As if he were apologizing, Roy Kim whispered the boy’s name and said, “You may be a boy, but you’ve never been a child.”   The hug ended and the intimacy of their connection disappeared as if it had never been.