"What does my name mean?" Eden glanced over her shoulder—the corner of her eye catching a sliver of a glimpse of her young ward—and back to the purrodgi she was whisking. "I'm not entirely sure," she said, turning around, careful not to knock anything over inside the hollowed-out Uekwuud trunk.

          The giant bowl of thick whitish paste thunked onto the makeshift table, itself a flattened root, threatening to slide off. "I'm serious," the young woman insisted. "I haven't a clue, so stop scowling. To have a handsome face and not use it to smile. Such a—"

          "—waste," the boy, a preteen, interjected. "I know. You keep saying that. It's so annoying."

          "Ujo," she said, "I believe your father sends you here so he can take a break from your rebelling."

          "Everyone knows the only reason I'm here is because I can't throw a spear to save my life."

          Eden, conceded defeat at the folded arms, pushed the bowl across after taking a scoop for herself. "You haven't trained long. Even baby Wulvironis aren't born with the ability to stalk, what more a sapien like you?"

          "Father was leader of his pack at eleven, and by his first dozen, he had felled three of the ferocious beasts. I'm almost ten and if I'm to take over as Chief, I need to prove better!"

          "Your father," Eden said, "lost half his face in his first trial, barely surviving that incident with the amount of sanguine he lost. I would think he'd rather have waited until he was better prepared. At least then he could enjoy his station with two eyes instead of one."

          "But that made him the hero he is today!"

          Eden sighed. Time for a sleight of hand. "Your father was also twice your width and height when he defeated those monsters. So, you better eat up less you fall behind. Your hair whitens as we speak."

          The corners of Ujo's mouth lifted. Reluctantly, he slapped a handful of the sticky mixture into his mouth. The battle is won, she mused, but the war loomed ahead. But despite his impetuousness, the boy's father, Tenno, had a temperament worse than a wailing Gushewk. She knew this because five-dozen years ago, Tenno had sat in the same position, asking the same questions about her origins. Her mind drifted back to a time when she was a youngling, when her adoptive parents explained how they found her and what they saw—a sapien couple in tight embrace, calling her name through the torn fabric of reality. What transpired? Where did the portal come from? Why did they both venture over together? Was she abandoned?”

          "How come you don't age as quickly as us?" the young man asked in between mouthfuls, drawing her back into reality.

          She bit her lower lip, then shrugged. "You should ask me questions I have answers to."

          "For an ancient," he said, "you don't seem to know much."

          Eden arched an eyebrow, the opposite eye squinting. "I'd be extra cautious today if I were you."

          "Oh," Ujo piped up. "What are we doing today? Swordplay? Trip sticks? Darts?"

          She shook her head. "None of that. Today, we focus on balance."

          "Balance?"

          "Standing firm on two feet."

          "That's easy—"

          Using only her fingers, the woman flipped the empty ceramic crucible above and onto the boy's head.

          "Good catch," she remarked, taking in the clumsy spectacle. "Now, use only your head."

                                                                   #

          Ujo was far more persistent than his father despite his physical handicap, and it was a disability despite what everyone professed as a collective. Eden was certain the cloak of denial was to shield Tenno from the painful realization of his failure to sire a worthy successor. But while the Chieftain himself was abled, leading the effort to repel wave after wave of their enemies, no one cared that the heir to the throne was impotent.

          There was still time yet.

          “Ancient!” A cry from outside echoed through the cramped enclosure.

          Eden shot a glance at Ujo, her brain trying to identify the voice in parallel. They both ran out, the young woman taking charge, but then she stopped and said to the boy: “Stay here. Not a word!”

          She grabbed her trip sticks and was down and across, floating through the marshes, in three blazing steps.

          “Speak,” she said.

          “It’s Chief Tenno,” the messenger said, his face weeping with moisture, the whites of his eyes gleaming in contrast to the black orbs. “He’s dead.”

          The twin rock-hardened batons clanked onto the ground. She took a deep breath and spun around to catch Ujo’s eyes with hers. Already, the boy’s perceptiveness had triggered an emotional response, sensing that something was amiss. Will he be strong enough to endure the burden of leadership? Would she?

          They now faced a new foe; one that was faceless and without form, permeating the air and precipitating through rivers.

          Time was against them.

          "Ancient." Ujo stood before her, like a sapling seeking solace against its parent bark. "Is my father..."

          "He is one with the wind now," Eden said. "And you are now Leader of the Pack."

          "I..." he paused, stifling himself. "I know."

          "Remember your training," she said, "and it shan't abandon you."

          "Will you counsel me like you did my father?"

          "I shall."

          Ujo, who mere seconds ago was a newly hatched crimson Uspriy, perched now with unbridled wings—stretched out on either side—ready to soar.

          "I know what it means," Ujo said a moment later, with unadulterated clarity.

          Eden allowed herself a few moments, but she hadn't an inkling to what her new Chief was referring to. "What—"

          "Your name," he said, his gaze penetrated her facade, "it means wisdom."

“Why is Jimmy running around naked outside?” Anne asked her husband as she smiled innocently.

She knew darn well! Her husband had come home early that day without warning her. She had bolted upright from her tangled bed, had thrown Jimmy off her body, and told him he had to leave. Jimmy ran to the second story bedroom window, leaping to the ground, twisting his ankle. Butt naked, he limped down the street, pausing only to catch his breath.

Anne’s husband, John, laughed as he saw him trying to escape down the street. “He must have been in bed with some housewife! This ought to teach him.”

How did John come to that conclusion? Well, he had come home even earlier than Anne realized, having a delicious romp with her best friend who lived down the street. Anne’s best friend, Jenny, was the wife of Jimmy. Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!

I really wish I hadn't bought that Hippopotamus,

He just sits all day eating confetti.

I really wish he'd just leave by bus,

And take with him that pesky Yeti.

Oh he has the worst parties, simply abominable,

With the loud Koala that is frolicsome.

If only he'd clean up afterwards, that'd be pardonable,

But no, the mess is the same. It smells of Possum...

He has a friend who isn't all bad, she's a giraffe,

But he just locked her up in a tiny capsule.

Well I can't write because I'm about to laugh.

Now that's a commotion, truthful, honest and actual!

          The lone warrior atop the overhanging outcrop had been lying in wait since dawn. She had traversed the savanna in the early hours of the morning, when most predators were still asleep. But now, her skin glistened, and her breathing slowed. She reached for her waterskin, but withdrew when she heard an unusual bird call.

          Down below, a single file of barbarians navigated the treacherous ravine. One tribesman, whose shoulders were adorned with a lion’s hide, caught her attention.

          The second call was faint, but distinct.

She exhaled, pinched the arrow’s fletching, and crouched on one knee. In one fluid motion, she stood up, hooked her fingers onto the thickened string, and pulled it taut.

          Khali was exposed, but she had to take the risk. This was her only chance. Success or failure, she would never see her family again. A light breeze picked up, cooling her damp skin. Her thoughts drifted as she savored the moment.

          Suddenly, a warning cry assaulted her senses. The hair on her arms stood on end. Heat rushed up her ears. Shit! She scanned the over-scaled gully. Several members of the enemy tribe were already slumped on the ground, with feathered shafts protruding from their bodies.

          Terep. He had somehow noticed her folly and began raining down defensive fire. Those dead bodies were likely spear-throwers that had intended to kill her.

          There, further up the path, two tribesmen trailed a third. It was him! Their coward of a leader. Khali released two arrows in quick succession, and then plunged forward in pursuit.

          The Chieftain, who's bodyguards had been neutralized, was cowering between two boulders when Khali jumped into the tight space. She readied another arrow.

          “Please,” the man begged, sinking to his knees. “Spare me! I’ll give you anything!”

          “I only want one thing,” Khali said, her features steeled.

          “Name it!” he said. “Precious stones, livestock, slaves—”

          “Your life,” she said and stepped forward, expecting the pathetic man to get down on all fours. But instead, he just grinned slyly.

          Khali frowned. “Why do you smile?”

          He licked his lips. “You would've made an excellent whore.”

          “What are you talking about?!” she screamed, and aimed the arrow at his eye. “Tell me now!” Her arm quivered with strain and rage.

          “You have been betrayed,” he sneered, enunciating each word.

          Her heart sank. Oba Dar! That senile old man sold us out—

          “It wasn't your King,” he said.

          “Who—” a sharp pain sliced into her back, her knees gave way and her body collapsed. As she lay there in a crimson pool, a figure walked up and squatted next to her.

          “Terep, brother,” she gasped. “Why?”

          “I’m sorry, Khali,” he said. “They have my family.”

          Khali coughed, blood spluttered out. “Then avenge... me,” she demanded before everything went black.

***

          The breeze rustled her sheer dress as she stared down at the river that gave her country life. Today was her day of days. Today, the Gods would rightfully take what was theirs. She was the offering, they the rulers. Her death would unite the past and present.

          Peta turned and gazed into the temple’s darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she took in the enormous shapes inside; two statues, both with human form.

          She knelt before the larger statue. The one which had a hawk's head with a blazing disk of sun above. Ra, ruler of sky, earth, and underworld. Her thin muslin dress hiked up her thighs exposing dark, smooth skin. She stroked the stone feet, as thousands had done before, then bent forward and kissed them. A smile flitted across her lips, for she knew a secret.

          Peta stood and regarded the other statue. It was smaller, with features hastily hacked into place as a substitute for a lesser predecessor. Its face was mostly human. Amun, god of the winds and king of all gods, was an old god, but he was new as Ra’s so-called equal. She moved to walk past him when she heard the voice.

          “Never ignore the new,” advised a young man.

          Peta turned. It was her shadow, Al-Mikhi.

          “The new, the old. They’re much the same,” she responded. “But Ra is eternal.”

          “Thoughts that should never be spoken aloud. Amun is the way now.”

          “The new ways never last.”

          The man shot her a look of scorn. “They say your mother had the same contempt.”

          “And yet I never knew her.”

          Peta smoothed her robes and studied the man. If a snake could ever take human form, this would be it. He was sinuously slim with eyes that glittered like torch lights. The twin daggers at his waist, one long, one short, were like deadly fangs.

          He had been with Peta from birth, sharing her cot as a baby and her sleeping rug as a child. But now, he maintained vigil outside her bedroom door, keeping the secular world at bay. She had been trained as a sorceress, and he as a killer; or her executioner, as she now knew.

          “It is time,” he said.

          “With you, it is always time.”

          The man ignored her. “We must prepare. The ritual demands it.”

          Peta knew this, and she was prepared.

          “Come,” he ordered. “You must bathe first.”

          Peta followed. She had lived her whole life in this temple, high above the Nile. She had seen the river flood and kill, then fertilize and nourish. If Ra had an equal, then it would be Hapi, not the pretender.

          She paced behind the man. Her hips swayed, and the fabric clung to her breasts and thighs. Peta knew how men looked at her; eyes full of lust and fear, even her protector. But it was a lust unrequited. Only one could have her, and he was coming today.

          They entered a light-filled room with a bath carved out of rock in the center. Peta removed her dress and felt Al-Mikhi’s eyes on her. But he hurriedly turned, picked up a jug, and poured fragrant liquid into the stone bath. Peta stepped behind him. With her dress twisted into a rope, she looped the garment over the man’s head and jerked it down around his neck. He slipped and stumbled, his head ricocheting off the bath’s edge. She pulled tighter. The man kicked and gurgled, dazed from the blow, his twin knives useless.

          The young woman leaned in closer and murmured, “I am no sacrifice, Al-Mikhi. It is you who dies again.”

***

          The only erect structure on the rubbled landscape was the last place anyone would expect to find a sniper, and that was exactly where Major Mila Nomokonov had set up her staging area. The 26th Panzer division was exploiting this overlooked route, running supplies through to the front lines under the cover of darkness.

          The chirping of crickets saturated the ambiance. Everything was awash in a serene, whitish glow. If not for the weapon in her hands, Mila could have easily forgotten hers was a country at war. She peeked out the third floor window, then shifted focus to the background clicking. Except, it wasn't natural, and it came from inside.

          It was code: Ikami. Downstairs.

Mila froze. The name tugged at her mind, conjuring visions of blade and blood. It was happening again. She slung her rifle over her shoulder and descended slowly. As she reached the first floor she heard a noise.

          Mila cocked her TT-30 as she entered the room. “Colonel Petra Steinz.”

          “It is you!” the woman said, rising from a chair. “I wasn't sure you’d recognized the name.”

          “That name,” Mila said. “How do you know it?!”

          “I've had dreams,” Petra said. “Recurring ones. Sometimes in the African desert, other times in Egypt. I think it was your name in Osaka.”

          “And?”

          “In these dreams, we... kill each other.”

          “In my dreams,” Mila said after a brief silence, her gun still pointed at Petra. “We also kill to live.”

          “And this is our sole existence,” Petra said. “Our reason for being. There must be more.”

          “Maybe.”

          “Don't you see? We're linked.”

          “Dreams could mean anything, or nothing at all.”

          “No.” Petra wagged a finger. “This is more than a coincidence.” She paused. “You know, we don’t have to do this.”

          Mila shrugged. “Killing people?”

          “No. You know what I mean.”

          Vague memories trickled into Mila’s consciousness. Not just the African plains or the land of Pharaohs, but Greece and even China. So many places, so much death. And this person before her was always there.

          “The I kill you, you kill me routine?” Mila asked.

          Petra nodded. “It’s getting old.”

          Mila smiled. “Not for me, it isn't.”

          There were a series of far-off explosions, interspersed with gunfire, but neither flinched. Both silently analyzing the other. A distant mechanical rumbling filled the background.

          Mila’s finger tensed. “I have to stop them.”

          “I can't let you,” Petra said, and pointed her Luger at Mila.

          “I'm going to walk out. You're going to let me.”

          “You walk out, I shoot.”

          Mila laughed and stared into Fate’s eyes. “Time to spin the wheel.”

My dignity!

Oh my dignity

What did I do to you darling

What did I do to you...

You held me up high to the sky

And I wallowed you in mud

You were shield on my chest

And I stabbed you in the back

You were glowing fire in my eyes

Lighting my path

And now...

The mirrors ashamed of me

My dignity...

Oh darling

Your blood on my hands

Tastes bitter in my lungs

I knock on my chest in tears and griefs

Guilty, guilty, guilty I am

My dignity-

Darling-

don't leave me alone...

Without you I'm worthless

Without you

I'm nothing! but weekness

Don't leave me alone

Don't leave me alone, darling

Rise again and shine

Rise again and shine

Rise-- and shine

My darling 

One of the new prosers here loves to get likes and comments etc. I loveee that too! But I don't force it on people, and most importantly, I'm here to write, not become a celebrity! I would not like to post my reaction whenever someone does something I don't like, because simply whether I like their work or not I just keep it to myself, but this is not about work that I like or dislike. But this guy honestly getting on my nerve, he just tagged me like 2 or 3 times in the same post! He tagged me once and I ignored because he keep doing this ever since he joined prose, he would tag people and then remove the tag after they notice his post and like and repost it. So, he tagged me first time I didn't give him the like, so he tagged me again and again. And I'm sure he does the same with everybody because I been watching him and I noticed that he tagged tons of prosers and after he got the likes and comments and all the good stuff he removed the tag, to make it look natural. I mean, wtf! This is a place to express your sorrow or happiness or whatever you FEEL! not a fucking filthy, political place where you do whatever it takes to get numbers. And I don't want everybody to take it personal, I'm not against tagging, tag was made to tag, in fact, I appreciate so much when someone tags me, but not like that! Once equals tons. Not over and over till you get the fucking like! You made me do what I never though I ever would, which is this post, but you need to wake up and understand that we are honest people here, we might compliment each other, support each other, but we do not fool each other, we do not like filthy games. We're here to express not to impress. I'm really curious how do you get the muse to write if you have this kind of mentality. But let me share with you all this poem by bukowski, one of the most honest and respected poets. And maybe if my shitty words doesn't make sense his poem will do.

so you want to be a writer?

Charles Bukowski, 1920 - 1994

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don’t do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don’t do it.

if you’re doing it for money or

fame,

don’t do it.

if you’re doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don’t do it.

if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,

don’t do it.

if you’re trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,

don’t be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don’t be dull and boring and

pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don’t add to that.

don’t do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don’t do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don’t do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

The oldest breathed water and wouldn't stay in the sea. Sprinting across the crags, he lived puddle to puddle. Why not just stay in the ocean? But I think he was broken.

The second found cadavers that walked and talked and kissed but were dead. Second would give them pieces of his soul so they could glow, but soul isn't sunlight.

Third lived in a cloud fishing for people. When he caught them he would reel them up and eat them. Little stink pieces of heart and blood dripped from the vapor. I would have liked Third, maybe. At least he knew there were worse things than being lonely.

Fourth lived by an ugly statue, a humpty dumpty god. At night he burned his hands in fireplaces, and in the morning he pieced the monument together with Third-World tools. Noon, he would write poetry on its corpse.

When the Fourth died, there were no children to complete his work. But dying isn’t disappearing.

These were my brothers. They speak to me and they make me want to do terrible things.