I can smell the rain on your skin.

Chilled goose flesh beneath my fingertips, stray strands of your hair tangled within my roaming hands. You taste of rushing water, like the eternal wellspring of Life itself. Oh, gods in Heaven, the taste of you!

The wind has whipped your soaked shirt around your soft form, twisted amongst the curves of this divine wonderland that is revealed as I lift it up and off, over your head and onto the floor, a forgotten puddle.

Your eyes! Bright with fervent fires beneath ardent blue--first cobalt, then as azure as the sky above the darkened clouds that drop torrents of rain from the heavens, roaring against the tin roof of our country home. I could stay in your gaze for forever, my love, if you would but look into mine for so long...

I long to taste you, with a desire that starts in my weakening legs and strengthens my love for you as I pull you to me, my mouth on yours, hot and soft, velvet tongue against my own. There is no space between us, and yet I need you closer still...

To be continued, if anyone wants to read it...

Chapter One

On this cold, autumn day in early October, there was a lot of cleaning to be done. The drafty castle’s bewildering warren of quiet, open passages and overgrown, ivy-choked plazas were bustling with courtiers and servants, whispering with excitement and nervousness. Kitchen wenches exchanged significant glances over washing basins under the still-brightening sky as muted exchanges seemed to take place in every passage and terrace of the great, towering metal citadel. Besides the weather as evidence to the contrary, one might have thought it was the first day of Thaw, judging from the air of breathless anticipation. However, the great twisting calendar set into the stonework of Temper Plaza declared a different reason for the bustle altogether: this day was the New Fire Ceremony Festival.

What made New Fire different from all the rest was the actual date—a date not many people actually understood the significance of. All they knew was what was about to happen: Quetzalcoatl was coming to the Coszcatl today. It had been sixteen long years since their godking had set foot in Coszcatl’s drafty halls, and now he was due at high noon. The cleaning girls hadn’t been allowed inside the Sacred—a warm, magically lit space on the top floor of the Coszcatl, free from the whistling wind that invaded every nook and cranny of the aging keep. However, with the dawning of light upon the Coszcatl’s glistening spire, the chambermaids descended upon the dust and unpolished surfaces like a whirlwind. Today, the godking would hold Court again, and every inhabitant of the palace bustled with purpose and rumor.

In all actuality, there was at least one resident of Coszcatl that didn’t care so much about the goings-on of godkings and hurried subjects. This solitary, simple girl was sitting cross-legged in a small alcove between the dull, warm copper glow of the bestial gargoyle Meridyn and the wall with missing panels that was open to all the glorious, rushing air, the rays of the newly risen sun giving her just enough light to see the words she burned into the wood block with her etcher.

Liza, named Xoco by the elder sisters of the Order of Chimalma, had never been anywhere except the Castle and the surrounding village of Sharlit. Coszcatl—meaning Jewel in the ancient language of the gods—was the central castle of the area, though legend said that there used to be more than the four that were scattered about the horizon. Coszcatl, from what Liza could gather, used to be the heart of Merricka, a place of great evil that the godking Quetzalcoatl conquered after a sixteen year war. She wasn’t sure on the exact details, because all of the history she knew came from Loko Grayse, the hedgewitch who came to town from her hermitage out in Gas Stone every other month for supplies. The old woman would hobble up the road on legs so unsteady Liza figured it had to be magic that kept her up and going. Her gap-toothed smile was as friendly as could be to the gaggle of youngsters who would gather around the hem of her tattered skirt as she entered town, but the scowl she bandied out to all else could make a man lose his bladder. Liza saw it happen once. It was awesome.

The surrounding buildings were of brick and metal make, though none reached even half the height of Coszcatl. Most of the servants lived in the great expanse of the Groj nearby, pallets and meager personal belongings separated by thick sheets of plastic that might have been white so many years ago, but this gift from the gods now was a light brown that tapered darker the closer it got to the cold concrete floor.

Coszcatl was older than anyone could remember, and only Loko Grayse ever talked about the ’Tants, who inhabited the lands of Merricka before Quetzalcoatl and his brethren came and saved everybody. The remnants of that evil civilization lay decrepit all about them, and though they were said to be of the darkest nature, the godking had declared that it was safe to use those tools which were still of use to his subjects.

Liza never had learned what the ’Tants called Coszcatl before they were wiped out, but in her heart of hearts, she knew it would have been something beautiful. Even though she wished with every fiber of her being that she could go out and have an adventure, exploring the Parishes beyond the Glen, she would always think of Coszcatl as her home.

However, even with her love of the place, it seemed as though she were the only one who hadn’t settled into the niche she had supposedly been born into. The hunters would bring in their game with huge smiles on their faces; the cobblers seemed to be content with making and fixing shoes; the cooks rushed around the kitchen patio, clucking like so many fat chickens. Liza, however, had a different lot in life…

Before she’d even learned to talk, she’d been made to understand the significance of her role in the society here in Sharlit. Indeed—even the whole of Quetzalcoatl's domain. Raised by the Chimalmist priestess’s sect, she was given every advantage in life one could ever hope for in the kingdom of Sharlit—except that one thing she most yearned for, and yet was so out of reach: freedom.

She’d dreamt of going out into the foothills and then beyond the ranges of the Smoked Sierras, having adventures and dashing to and fro, saving the hapless villages stashed away there in the foreign lands from the ravages of the ‘Tants. She, with her trusty sidekick, Zella, would charge off in the company of Sir Xiuhcoatl, Quetzalcoatl’s Right Hand, Head Eagle Knight of Carolina, and defeat the hordes of savages that doubtless lay just within a few day’s ride to the west, learning the bow even as Sir Xiuhcoatl cut down the vile ’Tants with his mighty broadsword, backed by Zella’s spear…

Zella, known in the Sisterhood as Yoatlyotl because of her fierce demeanor and even deadlier skills with the tepoztopilli, could cut down eleven blooded warriors without batting an eye. The blade at the end of her six-and-a-half foot spear was almost a foot long, edged with the traditional obsidian that Quetzalcoatl’s warriors of the ancient past once placed upon their own weapons. The tepoztopilli had been a gift from High Priestess Quetzalxochitl herself, who is without a common name.

Zella… Yoatlyotl had been enlisted to fight the ’Tant threat beyond the western border of Carolina, where the Badlands lay. She’d been gone a fortnight already, and Liza missed her milkmate sorely.

Looking down at the dressings that had been prepared for her by the castle servants, Liza frowned. What was meant to be elegant and stylish draped across her bloated figure like a tent. Any moment now, she expected to see a family of four crawl out from under her robes and head off to the fields to start their day’s work. She hated being fat. She hated what she saw in the polished silver of her room’s mirror when she peered into its reflection: her pudgy, plain face staring back at her in slight distortion, her own glare hateful and accusing. If only she could...

She knew she’d never be anything more than the stupid girl that she was, but she always wished that she could do something else—anything else. As it was, she was stuck in the archives of the basement floor, learning from the multitude of scrolls and reciting the litany of facts to her tutors’ satisfaction. Sometimes she thought that if she had to learn a single thing more, her head would burst! But, alas, it did not, and so she was forced to continue.

What she really enjoyed, however, was scribing. She’d been given an etcher at an early age, and ever since she’d learned the letters and the spelling, she’d been scribing her thoughts and dreams when no one was looking. She’d been careful to burn the long blocks of wood with her beautiful words on them, lest anyone find out her deepest desires… For it was not thought to be right or fit for the Revenant of the Godking to be scribbling nonsense like she most undoubtedly was. No, she was supposed to be in second line to be the next High Priestess, should Quetzalxochitl fail in her divine tests. But that would only happen if something happened to Zella, which was impossible. Yoatlyotl was mighty and brave. No ’Tant could cut her down. Liza was safe from the inevitability of the final fate of the High Priestess, but it saddened her heart that Zella was destined for it.

Her thoughts had already started drifting to her stashed block and etcher, and the mean things she had to say about hateful ol’ Quetzalxochitl that no one else would ever read. She hoped. Probably. . . No, no one would ever see her private thoughts and dreams, her aspirations to get out of Coszcatl and travel past the Glen and see what the other Parishes looked like.

“Xoco! What the Haitia are you doing out here?”

Big Jon! She froze, her cold fingers numbly dropped the etcher onto the plated surface of the alcove, the metal-on-metal clatter jarring in the momentary lull of the howling wind. Slowly, she eased herself toward the lip of the alcove, doing her best to keep her block as inconspicuous as possible while trying not to get blown off the edge before she could make it through the hole in the plating.

“Nothing,” she wanted to say, but before she could get even a single syllable out, a strong, calloused hand reached out of the dark depths of the hole in the wall and pulled her in, accidentally scraping her calf against the rough metal surface.

She tried not to wince as she rubbed her scuffed calf with her right hand, careful to keep her eyes lowered and deferential. Big Jon was the Master Huntsman of the godking, and could be nasty when he was upset, and she’d sometimes be cuffed for even looking at him wrong. Every time she’d cried in the past, he would sit her down on his knee and tell her that she was too stupid a girl to know it, but the defiance in her eyes would get her killed someday, even if she was second in line to the High Priestess. She couldn’t really disagree with him about that. She knew she was stupid. Everybody said it.

And she’d learned a couple of years ago she couldn’t get him to show her any sympathy anymore. She’d grown too old to be able to wiggle into his heart with a well-placed sob, and now he would just hit her again, telling her to quit whining like a little shrishraka. She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she knew it wasn’t nice. A man like Big Jon—a bastard son who’d risen through the ranks of the Huntsman by being the most savage and bloodthirsty hunter of infidels—wasn’t likely to care about being put to death for the slaying of a Revenant. He was already condemned to servitude in the higher levels of Haitia for rejecting his Nahuatl title.

“Nothing—“ she tried again, but a blow from out of nowhere connected with her temple and she was suddenly on the floor, interesting colors flashing before her swimming eyes. She didn’t have to ask herself what had happened. She already knew: she’d been stupid again.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been doing nothing, you stupid shrishraka! I know that’s what you’ve been doing! What else would you be doing the exact moment work needed to be done?!” He reached down and pulled Liza to her feet, idly brushing off the dust and debris that was stuck to her pudgy face. She looked up at Big Jon’s looming figure, and decided against reaching out a hand to steady herself against his huge bulk.

“Please, sir, I’m sorry,” she began, her soft voice lilting unsteadily. He liked being called “sir.” Maybe he wouldn’t hit her again if she—

The entire right side of her face stung and burned as he slapped her with enough force to cause a twinge in her neck. “Don’t you ‘sir’ me, you stupid bleshna,” he spat back at her, the venom almost palpable with that last. No, she thought idly as she swayed on her feet. He knows lots more words than shrishraka. “The entire castle is getting underway for The Inner Sacred to land, and you’re out here pining after the Outerlands.” The cold shock of horror blew past her defenses and the malevolent grin that was plastered on Big Jon’s grizzled face told her that he’d seen it. “Oh, yes, you stupid girl. I know about that bit of wood you keep out there. How do you think I knew to look for you here?”

He took her by the collar and led her away, pushing her in front of him as they passed through the cobweb-strewn spaces between sheetrock and metal studs. In her heart, Liza despaired at the intrusion into her privacy. She’d kept up the walls around her thoughts as best she could in this towering place, but she never guessed that anyone in the castle could read ‘Anish—or even ’Lish, for that matter, and that was their native tongue. She’d known that Big Jon used to be Jaguar Knight of Carolina years before she was born, but she’d never suspected that he could read her etchings. She suddenly felt a crawling go down her spine, though she knew it had nothing to do with the cobwebs she normally ducked.

She was thus lost in her thoughts when a bright pain blossomed at the back of her head. Apparently Big Jon had been talking and had noticed she wasn’t listening. She obediently waited for the pain to subside as he scowled at her, demanding to know what lessons she’d been shirking. A doe-eyed look from her and he just spat, disgusted. Bustling her out of the Ruins, he shoved her toward the stairwell with warnings that she had better find something to do.

She had to dodge a gaggle of younger girls who were racing up the many flights of stairs wielding great big mops, their gray-tasseled heads swinging dangerously behind them. Their giggling defied reason, to Liza’s mind, because she knew they had come from the Lobby floor. Where did they get such boundless energy? Liza, at sixteen, wasn’t an old maid herself, but she was on the thicker side, and couldn’t seem to muster the energy to swipe a broom at a floor, much less run from one level to the other.

She was just contemplating the reasons behind her corpulence and lack of craziness that the other girls seemed to have when the very distinct sound of metal-soled boots came clacking up the steps below her. She knew those boots, that gait. It was Sir Xiuhcoatl, Quetzalcoatl’s Right Hand, Head Eagle Knight of Carolina.

She could feel her knees weaken and her cheeks flush as he came around the bend below her, his large, scarred hand grasping the delicate railing as he ascended, his attention focused on the papers—oh, gods, paper—in his other, a trail of attendants vying for attention as best they could without tripping him up or being so bold as to wave a hand before his face. Liza knew that anyone stupid enough to do that would get backhanded so hard they would fall down every flight before he made it to the Lobby Floor in a rag-doll heap. She hadn’t actually seen him do it, but she was sure she was right on the nose when it came to anything having to do with Sir Xiuhcoatl.

And oh, that jawline. She was sure Quetzalcoatl had crafted this one himself, he was such a perfect specimen. Those broad shoulders, his muscular arms, his strong hands. . . His strong forehead sloped back dramatically to further accent his sharp, pointed nose. His hair was arranged about his head in such a way that the only thing that Liza could compare it to was the majesty and bearing of an eagle.

She had to step out of the way in order to keep from being trampled, as he was too engrossed in what he was reading to even look where he was going. But that was okay. He was Sir Xiuhcoatl. She’d stopped and daydreamed in his way, hadn’t she? She was, after all, just a stupid Chimalmian acolyte. Well, the “acolyte” part of that appellation was debatable. . .

One of the aides, Joshya, called out to Liza as the entourage passed. “Hey, there. You! Xoco! Get yourself to the Mage’s chambers! He has need of a scribe!”

Liza stared at his retreating form, mouth agape. She’d actually been told to go to the Mage’s quarters? Almost everyone was forbidden from going down there! And she’d always wanted to go! A toothy grin split her face as she turned to dash down the stairs as fast as her squat little legs would take her.

———————————————————————————————————————

On the moon Io, orbiting the planet Jupiter, the interstellar craft Citlalmina sat twenty degrees north of the volatile moon’s equator, its landing gear clamped to the frigid chemical ice as the refueling drill hung just beneath the surface, rigid against the torrential currents raging unseen beneath.

Inside that incredibly vast vessel stood row upon row of force cages, invisible energies keeping in a menagerie of flora and fauna from a dozen different worlds, including a rather nasty carnivorous tuber-like vegetation from that very moon. One cage sported a Viriliyne lion-hawk, its mane-like tentacles bristling with stingers that somehow missed all three wings as they writhed about in Medusa-esque grace; whilst another held a genetically modified Blue Whale from Earth, shrunk to be a hundredth the size of the original extinct species. The largest cage in this impromptu zoo, however, held the most exotic creature of all: the godking Quetzalcoatl.

The medchair he reclined in was busy at work, rejuvenating the cells of his aging body even as it performed cosmetic surgery to change his face to the perfect image it had once been a millennium ago. Throughout the various iterations of clones he’d transferred his mind’s consciousness into, Quetzalcoatl’s. . . look had changed. The visage that made him appealing to his kind frightened his subjects on the backwater planet of Earth, and though he always changed his appearance to establish rapport with whatever race he was with, he always felt more comfortable in his own skin, so to speak.

That wasn’t to say that he felt comfortable around his own kind, however. His ancient race’s proclivity for destroying cultures that had the potential to challenge their own was barbaric to him, and even though he remained within the strict letter of the law, he’d done everything he could to prevent the total destruction of those cultures under his rule. Take Earth, for instance.

Not only had he let his subjects keep the names of their surviving regions and cities, such as Ostrella and Frankefurt, but he’d also established an Order that, while he did not supply them with his own technology, he allowed to keep remnants of the humans’ technology and knowledge—though not enough to threaten his rule over them. This Order, over time, became referred to as Mages of Tek, which was fascinating to the old immortal alien. Humanity’s proclivity toward the supernatural was something that interested Quetzalcoatl more than any other quirk of the broken civilization’s varied belief structures.

They were, by far, his favorite pet project—one which was looked down upon by the High Court. Recently advisors to the Grand Adjunct had been snooping around Quetzalcoatl’s datasphere, and though he had nothing (almost) to hide, he did not like the intrusion into his virtual space. The world he had created there was exclusively for him, and him alone. He felt. . . violated was the word that came to mind.

And then there was the problem of his brother, Xolotl, who had, after two thousand years of silence, reached out to him. Despite not having heard from his twin in such a long time, Quetzalcoatl loved him, even though he didn’t trust him. What his brother had done to him on Earth—

No, Quetzalcoatl did not trust his brother. But he missed him fiercely.

They were due to meet at the outpost in the system humans had once called Alpha Centauri, a quick jaunt from his present location, in four days time. However, the godking had an appointment to keep on Earth first. In a few hours, Quetzalcoatl was due to show up at the ersatz capital building on Earth. From there he would take care of any matters of state, squash any uprisings that had arisen within his sixteen years’ absence, and reinforce his image as a benevolent godking.

And then, after a dozen lifetimes, he could finally see his brother again. . .

And ask him why he’d betrayed him like he had. . .

Title:  Revenant Rising: Vessel

Genre:  Post-apocalyptic alien-ruled dystopia (mesh of different science fiction subgenres)

Age range:  16 - 99

Word count:  3,518

Name of the guy who wrote it: Jason Wallace

Pen name: Jason Lee

Why your project is a good fit:  Basically, there's something in here for everybody.  Want some action?  It's got that.  Romance?  Oh, yeah...  Good, old-fashioned sci-fi quirkiness?  You betcha.  Harrowing danger, thrilling adventures, and back-stabbing double-plots that'll make ya go, "Whut?!"  Definitely.

The hook:  The world seems different now, but some of it's the same... until you find out that it's being ruled by an alien, and everybody's worshiping him as a godking.  And there's some intrigue, because not only does the MC have a destiny--she's second-in-line to be the head priestess (who's probably gonna die soon)--but there's something going on with Q and his brother, and a troubled past.

Synopsis:  A thousand years removed from the invasion and subjugation of Earth by the Alkeni, Liza is a simple girl caught up in a millennia-long conspiracy in which she is the key to either the world's destruction at the hands of a vengeful alien--or its salvation.  Trained by a wizened old man who bucks at the strictures against old Earth tech, Liza must journey to find the mysterious 'Tants, in order to deliver something that could change the destiny of all men.  Chased by the relentless assassin droids sent by Xolotl, she must race against time in a harrowing dash for safety--only to find her ultimate fate awaiting her there.

Target Audience:  Anyone who likes a good story, really.  But since you're probably looking for a specific answer, I'm going to have to narrow it down to nerds and sci-fi geeks.

Your bio:  Jason Lee is a 31 year old writer from Charlotte, NC, who enjoys sitting in his basement apartment (definitely NOT his parents' basement, thank you very much) writing stories and movie scripts, generally avoiding the outdoors as much as possible whilst writing run-on sentence bios when asked to do so.  He is a Maker and hopeful inventor, with an eye for tech, though he enjoys building furniture and various woodworking projects.  He hopes to be the next Big Thing in the Literary World, the Silver Screen, and pretty much anything else.

Platform:  On my fanfiction (I know, the horror!) website, TTHFanfic.org, I've been reviewed by 124 users, recommended by 20 users, and tracked by 72 users.  This doesn't seem like much, but I don't post much there, or even frequently.  The same with theprose.com: I have 160 followers, but I've only posted 323 times since the beginning of the site, and that was mostly in the early days.  I've become a lot busier since then, but I still love that people like my work.  It keeps me plugging along...

Education:  An autodidact and impatient by nature, I'm high school educated, self-taught in writing by making all the mistakes and having much better, more experienced authors telling my why my work is garbage, and then how to fix it.  After a decade and a half of writing, I believe my work to be legible, to say the least.

Experience:  I've been writing fanfiction alongside some of the best writers I've ever read for years now, beta-reading their work and having them beta-read/tear apart my own stuff.  It's made me a better writer, and people seem to like what they've read.  I hear everyday, "Why haven't you published a novel yet?"  Well...

Personality:  I'm a bit crazy, but then I've always thought that in order to be a halfway decent writer, one must be at least a little bit insane.  We're gods creating and destroying worlds, dictating the lives and fates of those we pen onto blank canvas...  I'm also a little bit fun, if I can toot my own horn.  I've been known to have a good time, make a person laugh a little.  That's all one can ask for, right?

Writing style:  Ho-lee shmokes, is this a hard question...  My stuff just kind of happens organically, growing from a crazy idea I had until it becomes a full-blown world.  I'm serious when the story calls for it, and I'm light and happy-go-lucky when my characters are falling through clouds towards their inevitable doom, contemplating what it means to be a whale, and enjoying the fact they exis--and then they're a smear on the pavement.  My scenes happen by accident, and I either love them or I scrap them altogether, though since it's me writing it, I normally frickin' love them.  I sometimes write the ending first, though I haven't done that with this piece.

Likes/Hobbies:  I love reading, and of course writing.  I love to play video games, though I haven't had time for that in over a year.  I love building things.  I love women...  Yeah...  TMI?  Screw it, I'm leaving it.

Hometown:  Gastonia, NC (I normally just say Charlotte, because everybody knows that one)

Age:  31, going on 13

On this cold, autumn day in early October, there was a lot of cleaning to be done. The drafty castle’s bewildering warren of quiet, open passages and overgrown, ivy-choked plazas were bustling with courtiers and servants, whispering with excitement and nervousness. Kitchen wenches exchanged significant glances over washing basins under the still-brightening sky as muted exchanges seemed to take place in every passage and terrace of the great, towering metal citadel. Besides the weather as evidence to the contrary, one might have thought it was the first day of Thaw, judging from the air of breathless anticipation. However, the great twisting calendar set into the stonework of Temper Plaza declared a different reason for the bustle altogether: this day was the New Fire Ceremony Festival.

What made New Fire different from all the rest was the actual date—a date not many people actually understood the significance of. All they knew was what was about to happen: Quetzalcoatl was coming to the Coszcatl today. It had been sixteen long years since their godking had set foot in Coszcatl’s drafty halls, and now he was due at high noon. The cleaning girls hadn’t been allowed inside the Sacred before today—a warm, magically lit space on the top floor of the Coszcatl, free from the whistling wind that invaded every nook and cranny of the aging keep. However, with the dawning of light upon the Coszcatl’s glistening spire, the chambermaids descended upon the dust and unpolished surfaces like a whirlwind. Today, the godking would hold Court again, and every inhabitant of the palace bustled with purpose and rumor.

In all actuality, there was at least one resident of Coszcatl that didn’t care so much about the goings-on of godkings and hurried subjects. This solitary, simple girl was sitting cross-legged in a small alcove between the dull, warm copper glow of the bestial gargoyle Meridyn and the wall with missing panels that was open to all the glorious, rushing air, the rays of the newly risen sun giving her just enough light to see the words she burned into the wood block with her etcher.

Liza, named Xoco by the elder sisters of the Order of Chimalma, had never been anywhere except the Castle and the surrounding village of Sharlit. Coszcatl—meaning Jewel in the ancient language of the gods—was the central castle of the area, though legend said that there used to be more than the four that framed the horizon. Coszcatl, from what Liza could gather, used to be the heart of Merricka, a place of great evil that the godking Quetzalcoatl conquered after a sixteen year war. She wasn’t sure on the exact details, because all of the history she knew came from Loko Grayse, the hedgewitch who came to town from her hermitage out in Gas Stone every other month for supplies. The old woman would hobble up the road on legs so unsteady Liza figured it had to be magic that kept her up and going. Her gap-toothed smile was as friendly as could be to the gaggle of youngsters who would gather around the hem of her tattered skirt as she entered town, but the scowl she bandied out to all else could make a man lose his bladder. Liza saw it happen once. It was awesome.

The surrounding buildings were of brick and metal make, though none reached even half the height of Coszcatl. Most of the servants lived in the great expanse of the Groj nearby, pallets and meager personal belongings separated by thick sheets of plastic that might have been white so many years ago, but this gift from the gods now was a light brown that tapered darker the closer it got to the cold concrete floor.

Coszcatl was older than anyone could remember, and only Loko Grayse ever talked about the ’Tants, who inhabited the lands of Merricka before Quetzalcoatl and his brethren came and saved everybody. The remnants of that evil civilization lay decrepit all about them, and though they were said to be of the darkest nature, the godking had declared that it was safe to use those tools which were still of use to his subjects.

Liza never had learned what the ’Tants called Coszcatl before they were wiped out, but in her heart of hearts, she knew it would have been something beautiful. Even though she wished with every fiber of her being that she could go out and have an adventure, exploring the Parishes beyond the Glen, she would always think of Coszcatl as her home.

However, even with her love of the place, it seemed as though she were the only one who hadn’t settled into the niche she had supposedly been born into. The hunters would bring in their game with huge smiles on their faces; the cobblers seemed to be content with making and fixing shoes; the cooks rushed around the kitchen patio, clucking like so many fat chickens. Liza, however, had a different lot in life…

Before she’d even learned to talk, she’d been made to understand the significance of her role in the society here in Sharlit. Indeed—even the whole of Quetzalcoatl's domain. Raised by the Chimalmist priestess’s sect, she was given every advantage in life one could ever hope for in the kingdom of Sharlit—except that one thing she most yearned for, and yet was so out of reach: freedom.

She’d dreamt of going out into the foothills and then beyond the ranges of the Smoked Sierras, having adventures and dashing to and fro, saving the hapless villages stashed away there in the foreign lands from the ravages of the ‘Tants. She, with her trusty sidekick, Zella, would charge off in the company of Sir Xiuhcoatl, Quetzalcoatl’s Right Hand, Head Eagle Knight of Carolina, and defeat the hordes of savages that doubtless lay just within a few day’s ride to the west, learning the bow even as Sir Xiuhcoatl cut down the vile ’Tants with his mighty broadsword, backed by Zella’s spear…

Zella, known in the Sisterhood as Yoatlyotl because of her fierce demeanor and even deadlier skills with the tepoztopilli, could cut down eleven blooded warriors without batting an eye. The blade at the end of her six-and-a-half foot spear was almost a foot long, edged with the traditional obsidian that Quetzalcoatl’s warriors of the ancient past once placed upon their own weapons. The tepoztopilli had been a gift from High Priestess Quetzalxochitl herself, who is without a common name.

Zella… Yoatlyotl had been enlisted to fight the ’Tant threat beyond the western border of Carolina, where the Badlands lay. She’d been gone a fortnight already, and Liza missed her milkmate sorely.

Looking down at the dressings that had been prepared for her by the castle servants, Liza frowned. What was meant to be elegant and stylish draped across her bloated figure like a tent. Any moment now, she expected to see a family of four crawl out from under her robes and head off to the fields to start their day’s work. She hated being fat. She hated what she saw in the polished silver of her room’s mirror when she peered into its reflection: her pudgy, plain face staring back at her in slight distortion, her own glare hateful and accusing. If only she could...

She knew she’d never be anything more than the stupid girl that she was, but she always wished that she could do something else—anything else. As it was, she was stuck in the archives of the basement floor, learning from the multitude of scrolls and reciting the litany of facts to her tutors’ satisfaction. Sometimes she thought that if she had to learn a single thing more, her head would burst! But, alas, it did not, and so she was forced to continue.

What she really enjoyed, however, was scribing. She’d been given an etcher at an early age, and ever since she’d learned the letters and the spelling, she’d been scribing her thoughts and dreams when no one was looking. She’d been careful to burn the long blocks of wood with her beautiful words on them, lest anyone find out her deepest desires… For it was not thought to be right or fit for the Revenant of the Godking to be scribbling nonsense like she most undoubtedly was. No, she was supposed to be second-in-line to be the next High Priestess, should Quetzalxochitl fail in her divine tests. But that would only happen if something happened to Zella, which was impossible. Yoatlyotl was mighty and brave. No ’Tant could cut her down. Liza was safe from the inevitability of the final fate of the High Priestess, but it saddened her heart that Zella was destined for it.

Her thoughts had already started drifting to her stashed block and etcher, and the mean things she had to say about hateful ol’ Quetzalxochitl that no one else would ever read. She hoped. Probably. . . No, no one would ever see her private thoughts and dreams, her aspirations to get out of Coszcatl and travel past the Glen and see what the other Parishes looked like.

“Xoco! What the Haitia are you doing out here?”

Big Jon! She froze, her cold fingers numbly dropped the etcher onto the plated surface of the alcove, the metal-on-metal clatter jarring in the momentary lull of the howling wind. Slowly, she eased herself toward the lip of the alcove, doing her best to keep her block as inconspicuous as possible while trying not to get blown off the edge before she could make it through the hole in the plating.

“Nothing,” she wanted to say, but before she could get even a single syllable out, a strong, calloused hand reached out of the dark depths of the hole in the wall and pulled her in, accidentally scraping her calf against the rough metal surface.

She tried not to wince as she rubbed her scuffed leg with her right hand, careful to keep her eyes lowered and deferential. Big Jon was the Master Huntsman of the godking, who could be nasty when he was upset, and she’d sometimes be cuffed for even looking at him wrong. Every time she’d cried in the past, he would sit her down on his knee and tell her that she was too stupid a girl to know it, but the defiance in her eyes would get her killed someday, even if she was second in line to the High Priestess. She couldn’t really disagree with him about that. She knew she was stupid. Everybody said it.

And she’d learned a couple of years ago she couldn’t get him to show her any sympathy anymore. She’d grown too old to be able to wiggle into his heart with a well-placed sob, and now he would just hit her again, telling her to quit whining like a little shrishraka. She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she knew it wasn’t nice. A man like Big Jon—a bastard son who’d risen through the ranks of the Huntsman by being the most savage and bloodthirsty hunter of infidels—wasn’t likely to care about being put to death for the slaying of a Revenant. He was already condemned to the higher levels of Haitia for rejecting his Nahuatl title.

“Nothing—“ she tried again, but a blow from out of nowhere connected with her temple and she was suddenly on the floor, interesting colors flashing before her swimming eyes. She didn’t have to ask herself what had happened. She already knew: she’d been stupid again.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been doing nothing, you stupid shrishraka! I know that’s what you’ve been doing! What else would you be doing the exact moment work needed to be done?!” He reached down and pulled Liza to her feet, idly brushing off the dust and debris that was stuck to her pudgy face. She looked up at Big Jon’s looming figure, deciding against reaching out a hand to steady herself against his huge bulk.

Kill me, that I may be free

Of this burden, this pain!

Free my soul to wonder the

Nevermore, deep by the

Ocean shore, waves lapping

At my ankles and at my hand,

Walk out into the watery depths,

Away from this desolate land.

I see beyond the horizon of my days,

Gaze, gaze upon the mysteries

That only God and the dead

Bear witness to, knowledge of

Forbidden histories and

Forevermore beyond the reach

Of the Living!

Set me out, my dearest love,

So that I may see those

Distant shores.

Set me out, my only love,

That I may wander those

Distant seas forevermore...

Set upon my brow

The crown of all they woes;

Darth of consequence,

Heavy with the stone

About this trodden neck

Kill thine own pain with

The sword of the self-righteous,

Self-aggrandizing love;

For mine own soul is cast out,

To be supplanted with the

Withered black Beast slouching

Toward the messianic birth

That shall never be--

Never with the congregation

Who stands to worship it.

Stay thine opal claws

Stained with red, Savior,

Lest I be gleaned amongst

The chaff...

Nay, ask not if I am sick of love,

But ask ye me if I be sick from love.

For my night has turned about the horrid day,

And hath hidden its godforsaken shadow from my arid eyes,

And hath shown me a beauty as can only be seen by the quicksilver moon,

As can be seen as that mercury light washes over those bloody-white cheeks,

Glistening over unloved, untouched, and undefiled skin...

Let me love this touch from those rapturing lips,

For they convey to me the touch of Eros,

And gives life to my barren heart.

The shadow of this bright star

Withholds from me the sight

Of the ethereal grace and

Beauty of this,

The world's most baited blight:

Love.

Wherein may I hold you

In my arms and weep

Not for the passing of years,

But for the countless

Rutting sheep?

Bray.

For what masterful grasp

Of the arts of tongue

And the transformation of

The edifices of these dark towers

Without rungs?

Rage.

To what deity must I

Prostrate before in supplication

For an audience with that

Most divine congress?

Masturbation,

Alone.

I seek that which is freely given

But is taken most forcefully,

Death in the kiss of a lesser love,

Eternal salvation from a lusty messiah,

False belief.

Faithless.

Distillations of fractalized thought,

Colorations of my mind blackened by Reason's clot,

Totalitarian rule shadowing distant lands,

Turned to waste by loving hands.

These Glasses no longer rose,

Pained silence still under repose.