Legs. Sprouting from above. Some long. Some short. Some thin. Some fat.

But what difference should it make? I'm hungry and I've just landed myself a human buffet. Focus, I tell myself, keep your eyes on the prize.

I decided it's best to stay low. We all know how humans get when they see a fin break the surface.

I look up. My mouth waters- not literally, of course, 'cause I'm underwater.

There are just too many options. I don't even know where to start. It makes sense that I should go for some long legs, right? But the longer the legs, the more of a fight they'd be able to put up. Alright, long legs are off the table.

How about short legs?

Too difficult to get a hold on.

Thin legs?

I'll pass. The meat-to-bone ratio is horrible.

Fat legs?

Nah, way too much meat to chew through...

...you know what, fuck it. I'm going home. I'm not even that hungry anyway.

The house is still and all is well.

They've been gone since the morning,

Making me the guardian.

Nothing comes in or out without me knowing.

I am perched at the top of the grand set of stairs,

Enabling me to see the entire house.

With my hearing however, my spot is almost meaningless.

Nothing comes in or out without me knowing.

I hear rustling in the corner of the TV room.

I hurry over to find a roach, and the problem is taken care of.

It was obviously born in the house, for

Nothing comes in or out without me knowing.

As I make my way back to my post, I hear people.

They are approaching the side door.

I sprint to the door ready to defend.

Nothing comes in or out without me knowing.

I hear the familiar rattling in the doorknob, the rattling a key makes.

I am overcome with joy as the door opens and they are there!

My job is done for the day, and I can rest until tommorow.

Nothing comes in or out without me knowing.

Real men cry in broad daylight.

With nightfall, solitude tags along,

and in the moon's arrival,

some find the time to cry.

But why wait for nightfall?

Why wait for solitude?

Why hold back on your tears

when you know they are ready to flow?

We are told to choke all emotion,

put a stopper on all weakness.

So we do as we're told

and soon enough,

we forget how to feel properly.

But to those whose manhood

isn't bound to them as a facade:

you are the men with the strength to cry

in broad daylight.

Fantasy…

That was the name of the world, where creative souls were being born. One of a kind, it was a pearl in the Universe. World of unimaginable laws of physics, easily coming out of space limits of other worlds, located inside the Sphere, it stood apart since the dawn of creation. Almost no one of its inhabitants, including even the High Mages, knew when exactly is has been formed and what indescribable goal was pursued by its maker – but it was considered a great award to be born there, which only a few have attained. Best representatives of the multitude of Sphere’s worlds with awakened creative Spark inside their unextinguishable souls – first and foremost such ones could set foot on its fertile lands, having clothed in the armor of flesh.

What can be a better forge of creators than a world that is subject to their fantasy and imagination? And here it was capable of bringing out wonders. Future makers must have traveled a long way in other worlds of the Sphere in order to kindle this creative spark – yet even longer journey to acquire a full control of it inside a magnificent Fantasy. And only a few of them did earn the right to be known as Magicians.

* * *

Exhausted Lor-Quinor stopped and fell down on his knees, greedily incorporating evening air. After two hours of continuous run through hot, wild and dangerous jungles of Rotanor last remnants of his forces have been totally drained – yet he did manage to come off from scouts of the Legion.

Lor-Quinor could call himself a scout, a ranger, or dancing-on-the-edge, or looking-from-afar, but he preferred to consider himself simply as a warrior, who wasn’t deprived of creative heavenly Spark during the time of birth. His past was foggy. His father, an ordinary guardsman, was killed in battle with soldiers of the Legion of Nine Gods during the siege of Rakhligar – an outpost of the Legion in the western lands of Fantasy. He was adopted by his uncle, who disappeared a few years later during the Fiery Revolt. And his mother died while she was giving a birth. Since these times Lor-Quinor became a wanderer, scouting through lands of Illumion from northern borders to southern ones, earning his piece of bread by completing private tasks of governors of Illumion’s principalities, which were known as mentors. And this his latest assignment from the mentor of the southern principality of Sulinor promised to become the most serious trial during his all long-term life, – and, probably, in many decades of Illumion’s life as well.

In the past the Legion of Nine was plundering southern lands of Illumion, the major part of which was Sulinor’s land, but after one of the most bloody battles ever recorded in Illumion’s history, in which ten-thousand troops armies of Illumion and Legion of Nine faced each other on the battlefield and, having suffered heavy losses, armies of Illumion under the leadership of the Oracle together with the Archmage of the Academy repelled the attack of cursed adherents of the Legion in the fortress of Rival, having turned into counterattack, capturing about a third of northern territories of the Legion, activity of the Legion decreased considerably, raids on undefended settlements were stopped, as well as the curses and plagues, sent by warlocks of the Legion. Many-headed hydra was beheaded – but another head has almost grown anew.

Breathing heavily, Lor-Quinor stood up on one knee, peering from the Peak of Seven Stars, which served as the highest spot in entire Rotanor’s land, at the opening to his eagle eye horizons in the aspiration to see movement of Legion’s scouts, who have been closely following his steps, but were still unaware of his current location.

This peak had its own history. Legends said that many millennia ago heavenly stars descended here into the land of Fantasy – messengers of other worlds, which have drawn a way from the horizon to the horizon on a boundless lilac firmament. These harbingers symbolized the births of seven Oracles in lands of Fantasy – almost invincible seers-prophets, capable to see the future and operate the time. Six of Oracles have gone to other worlds by now, having ascended to the sky in dazzling white shining, witnesses of which described it in the chronicles, still remained in hands of their descendants, as unimaginable and unknown even to the best magicians of the Academy highest magic of Light. Only one of them was still living in the Fantasy – has become, much like Lor-Quinor, a voluntary wanderer after the costly victory in the battle for Rival. Sometimes, once in several years or even decades he appeared on roads of Illumion in the shape of gray-haired aged man with celestial-blue eyes and glowing in darkness of night long staff – and then suddenly disappeared for years to come, and no one dared to interrupt his journey or to ask of the burdens, lying on him – no one except for Lor-Quinor, who has met him by will of unknown laws of fates in the first year of own wanderings. Lots of sand passed through clocks of Eternity and much water flowed in deep rivers of Fantasy since these times – but where it will be possible to find the Oracle in case of a great danger to the world of Fantasy – this Lor-Quinor remembered well since the moment of their memorable meeting.

Now he was standing, kneeling on the Peak of Seven Stars, and his thoughts wandered far away, outside of what inhabitants of Fantasy that were deprived of the creative Spark, considered as meanings of their simple lives. He thought of eternity, of infinite shapes of the battle between good and evil, of feats and treacheries, of heroes and turncoats, of the meaning of life and death. This internal fire of search, which has existed inside him since childhood and found its coexistence with awakening creative Spark, has always warmed him in minutes of danger, giving new powers to fight with evil – as Lor-Quinor understood it.

After six Oracles left the world, the Legion of Nine Gods was born. That way called themselves the ones, who many centuries before represented the first circle of the Academy of Magicians. Having learned many ways of mastering the reality of Fantasy through creativity, having gained immense political influence in lands of Illumion, they desired more – they desired immortality. Alas, that magic was not in the powers of Fantasy – and, probably, an intimate and great meaning was expressed by that fact. Only the Oracles possessed powers that prevailed over the might of the Circle of Nine, called as the highest magic of Light – only these mysterious messengers of the heaven could, like Angels, resurrect, grant invulnerability in battle and reduce unstoppable speed on eternally running time.

Envy to Oracles and desire to gain immortality pushed these nine High Mages for the greatest of crimes ever seen in the lands of Fantasy. Mages along with their numerous supporters and adherents rose against Oracles, desiring to captivate them and gain their secret knowledge, naively believing in own blindness that it is possible to acquire these possibilities through violence. Filled with a thirst for immortality, they have forgotten of the truth – Oracles saw the future and knew in advance of the treachery, which was about to be born. When envoys of mages came to the valley of Oracles, they found nothing there except for their own grim fates.

The magic of Fantasy inexplicably changed adherents of the Circle together with their mentors, having distorted their forms beyond recognition. Much like monsters from the underworld, deprived of reason, these terrible creatures rushed around the valley in search of their victims until rapid degradation of their minds led to the point when they have rushed at each other, tearing apart with newly given canines and claws flesh of former companions. Magicians of the Circle in their turn became the living, deprived of souls undead, whose only sight was capable to strike fear in hearts of even the bravest of warriors. Together with the remnants of own adherents and adepts, they have left Illumion, traveling to the far south, and having regained strength after many decades became the Legion of Nine Gods, the Legion of the Damned, the Legion of Whispering in the Evil – as they were differently named in various regions of Illumion. Next day six of Oracles ascended to the sky, so only one of them remained inside the Fantasy for only known to him final – or infinite – goals. Only one immortal for the entire world.

Lor-Quinor straightened his shoulders and smiled. Message for the Oracle will be transferred – and it will be done by more perfect beings than he, lonely wanderer of plains, deserts, and jungles of Fantasy.

Step, second, third – and here he is turning around in a dance. Some more steps – and his hands themselves make gestures to summon Shims. Another minute – and here he makes jumps as if hovering for several moments with zero gravity in so pliable and elastic for his body air. Some more seconds – and his body rise in the air, levitating over the earth’s surface. Dancing-on-the-edge knows his ways. Dancing-on-the-edge gives in to the will of fire of his burning creative Spark.

This dance was that gift from above, which gradually started manifesting itself after the death of his father in a battle with enemies of Illumion. Little by little, movement after the movement, he was as if remembering something that has been forgotten very long time ago, knowledge and force that was postponed for a minute of extreme need. Year after the year during his lonely wanderings he gave up to this pushing him forward force – and Fantasy made all the rest for him. Fantasy could work wonders.

Invisible to simple eye of ordinary citizens of Fantasy sparkling with lilac color waves spread around soaring in air Lor-Quinor, moving from the peak into Rotanor’s jungles, a small independent kingdom, inhabited by undersized thickset people, who have mastered the art of flying on Shims – giant butterflies, who were exceeding human height and became an integral part of Rotanor’s life. Shims possessed their own consciousness and vision and could respond to calls – in any case, they were subject to the Magic of Dance, given life by possessors of creative Spark – even if such ones weren’t and didn’t wish to become students of the Academy.

Another step, another one. Man dancing in the air with a heart that is fading with delight. And here tens of multi-colored Shims-butterflies fly from the jungles towards him, sparkling and rustling with own wings against the background of setting down sun. Here they soar above the ground on low height together with him. Here he grabs wings of one of them, mentally imagining with all possible force the valley in lands of Dalvinor, where Oracle should be living in secret nowadays. Here dozens of winged butterflies soar up high, precisely like heavenly birds, carrying him on their wings there where he has asked in own mental-message.

Flight. Freedom. Echoing in the ears wind. And the evening sun shines on their backs.

* * *

The last living in the Fantasy seventh Oracle, whose angelic name and current tasks were a mystery for every living in the Sphere of Worlds mere mortals, was holding hands on the head of Shim’s leader, reading the transferred message. Access to his valley was sealed for strangers, even those ones which he has once encountered on his journey through an infinite number of worlds of the Sphere, but access for aboriginals creatures of Fantasy, such as these huge, reasonable and possessing telepathy skills butterflies, has always been granted.

It turns out that dreams didn’t deceive him. The greatest invasion of Legions is upcoming – one that Illumion hasn’t witnessed since the battle at Rival. The vanguard of their army, having several tens of thousands, is currently moving from the south of Fantasy, from Death Bogs through Rotanor to southern boundaries of Illumion, to the principalities of Sulinor and Dalvinor.

Since the times when the magic of Fantasy turned these once reasonable, but evil people into frenzied monsters, their natural population growth doubled. Their rage, imprinted on disfigured yellow-eyed faces, was similar to the rage of wild animals that were inhabiting western words of Taiganya.

After their defeat at Rival, during which three of former High Mages of the Circle have been forever destroyed, Legions receded for a long time, not daring to arrange sorties against small settlements, and only in recent years, their increased activity at southern borders of Illumion raised more and more questions of their true plans. Now the Oracle had an answer to this question.

With fire, sword and forbidden in Illumion Death Magic will Legions march through its southern lands, if the Academy of Mages and the Chorus won’t be warned in advance. There were those mages in the Illumion’s Academy, who have mastered the Magic of Contemplation, but adherents of the Legions have learned to create veils from such prying ones a long time ago, and only live scouts were able to notice advancement of their armies.

The Oracle raised his hands, highlighting on a smooth water surface of valley’s lake imprinted in Lor-Quinor’s memory and transmitted through Shims’ images, concerning the movement of Legions armies.

Battle was upcoming – and he as one of voluntarily remained Messengers had to stand up once again hand in hand with those, whom he together with this world even before own arrival to it has sworn to protect before his own Maker from the evil even at the price of own life in this form.

Few mortals, born in this world, happened to behold original true form and shape of Oracles, for something other-worldly was living in them – even for the magic of Fantasy. And only in such original white-winged form Oracles were able to give birth to miracles among all miracles of Fantasy.

“He was kneeling, shivered voice.

He was kneeling, pray was choice.

He was kneeling faraway,

Bringing own land to day”.

So the Chronicles will write down of this seventh Oracle afterward. And for now, he was kneeling, appealing to own Maker and maker of the Fantasy with a plead for aid in a victory over the evil.

Was this a special type of magic, existing in the Fantasy and still not studied inside Academy’s walls – or, perhaps, it was the call of his heart – the heart of the one who didn’t part with this world even after the treachery, which has been born there?

White wings are put behind his back, eyes looking at the heavens. Time passes, time fades. Tranquility against hatred. Courage against cowardice. Feat against treachery. It was always so, it will always be. It’s timeless.

A wave of white wings – and the time comes almost to a halt. Now armies of Illumion have their time. Time has its own course for everyone.

“Fly,” he mentally whispered to the leader of Shims. “Bring my message to men!”

* * *

Legion’s horde slowly approached southern boundaries of Illumion, intending to storm Sulinor’s capital Askenzia. But they were already expected. Joint forces of Illumion, including not only so common archers, knights and spearmen, but almost all members of the Academy of Mages, journeyman included, as well as the glorified in battles Chorus.

The Academy of Mages, born as the alternative to the Circle of Nine that has betrayed and turned magic of Fantasy into the evil, was the first to receive a message from the Oracle. Spells, used by him to achieve a local time stop, couldn’t be comprehended even by the highest mages of the Academy, including the Archmage. Yet these all were trifles in the event of upcoming war. Having received this message, the Academy announced a general counsel, having notified of the prepared invasion both the Royal Court and the Chorus, which has been serving him faithfully.

The Chorus was a parable in itself. The Magic of Song, no less powerful than the Magic of Rhyme, studied by mages of the Academy, accompanied by streaming from battle organs music, gave birth to true miracles on numerous battlefields, inspiring courage, and bravery into hearts of own allies and turning hordes of foes into a panic. Among all soldiers, which have heard battle songs of the Chorus at least once, rumors were still going on how some of these songs even forced enemies to shed tears or made the most courageous warriors of allies almost invincible in battle. No one, including the Archmage and, possibly, the singers of Chorus themselves, knew where the exact limits of the power of this form of magic were lying.

But how wrong would be the one, who had blindly dismissed the Magic of Rhyme, which was practiced and improved in the walls of the Academy! The word, being dressed into a rhyme, was capable to alter the structure of reality, and by types of these changes, one could determine which school of specialization was followed by each rhyming magician. There were mages, who have devoted themselves to work with elements – fire, water, air, and earth – their battle rhyme magic burned, spilled, punched gaps in enemy ranks, destroying their resistance with strong powers of nature. There were specialists in the creation of magical defenses that were reflecting enemy shells – and, in some cases, even firing them back in the opposite direction. There were healers, whose filled with compassion and love for the neighbor words allowed to put on legs even hopelessly, by standards of ordinary people, and fatally wounded in battle soldiers. There was an abundance of specializations among mages of the Academy – and for this reason many of neophytes, who have discovered and lit inside themselves their own creative Sparks, easily found in its walls a path according to their personal taste. The only thing that was strictly forbidden to practice for its adherents was all types of evil magic, and, first and foremost, so beloved by the Legion Magic of Death that included whammies, curses, plagues, and damnations.

Now, when forefront groups of Legion of the Damned appeared on the horizon, mages-observers from the Academy and ordinary imperial scouts reported on their structure and movements on an hourly basis. The werewolves, which have been created by adherents of the Legion in Horriya’s woods; warlocks, practicing the Magic of Death; semi-people semi-lizards, covered with black scales and bearing in own genes a patrimonial curse from the moment of a revolt of the Circle of Nine; two-headed giant mutants – what kind of monsters did ill-fated Bogs of Death throw out to Illumion’s borders. Scouts counted about thirty thousands of these beings – which meant that almost twice greater in size army will oppose the defenders. And all hope of joined forces of Illumion was directed to creative magic of their magical world, to the Oracle, whose name no one ever dared to ask, and to own strength of spirit and will to fight.

The Chorus rolled out to squares of Askenzia their battle Organs. Mages of the Academy were finishing constructing a protective dome over the city. Archers walked to and fro on walls, checking loopholes. Knights patrolled city perimeter. By the end of this day, the horde will finally reach them.

* * *

“Archer, say to bow ‘goodbye’, arrow, arrow, down fly!” as if by command cried out a dozen mages, located in a city tower, one of their earlier prepared spells for reflection of enemy’s arrows. And – precisely by command – a hail of fired arrows fell down just before walls of the fortress. Only a few of death-bringing spikes achieved their goals, striking standing by loopholes archers. The arrow flies only for several seconds – so you either manage to rhyme a spell or risk being pierced to the death with iron.

“Elemental mages, don’t you stay idle, counterstrike with lightning bolts!”

“Wind, oh wind, so mighty one, through the clouds let thunder come! Hail of lightning strike all foes as the rain swiftly goes!”

The sky, which darkened during several dozens of seconds, and hundreds of lightning, sparkling and striking the werewolves that were climbing by walls of the fortress, became a live answer to their magical appeal.

“Storm is striking from above – heaven’s fury we bestow!”

Massive, one of man’s size, hailstones began turning frontier groups of giants into flat cakes.

“Sun says ‘hi’ to ones in dark! Fireballs! Fiery spark!”

Hail of fiery spheres, flying away from a magic tower, laid a smoking path in enemy’s ranks, leaving only piles of ashes behind them.

“Horde of insects is approaching, beware!”

“That’s a plague!”

“Wind, please sweep those insect’s stench, may they never come in range!”

“Healers, we need healers here, now!”

“Defend the healers!”

“Where is Chorus, may the organ deafen them?! Why do they keep silence?”

“Giants are throwing stones, strengthen reflection shield!”

“Shield saves us from all rocks, they are flying back in flocks!”

The sparkling dome of the shield devoured tens of huge boulders, thrown by giants, and reflected them backward.

“Archers, fire on command! Mages – light their arrows!

“Arrows flying now with a fire – it was a magical desire!”

Arrows of defenders, being lit up in flight with inextinguishable fire, stuck into bodies of warlocks, burning them and forcing to stop casting their spells.

“Burn enemy arrows in flight!”

“All dark arrows being lit, they are destined not to hit!”

“Boulders come again, beware!”

“Werewolves are advancing on the southern wall, knights to the south wall!”

“Where is the Chorus?!”

“Healers to the northern gates! We are suffering heavy losses of archers!”

“The Chorus abandoned us!”

“Enemy is breaking on the south wall! Mages, fire at will!”

“The Chorus is coming! Look! Do you hear?!”

The many-voiced melodious singing of hundreds of men, accompanied by loud sounds of musical organs, spread over all of Askenzia and its vicinities. This song was about repentance, of how even in the most spiteful and almost ruined by hatred heart there lives a sparkle of kindness. About how the greatest of the great mages, who has created Fantasy at the beginning of times, is kind and merciful, and how an appeal to him from those souls, which have wallowed in darkness, can change them, bringing back former human shape. This song possessed something from the better world – and, as if having felt it, some groups of enemies stood down in confusion and lowered their weapons. Purulent tears started pouring down from mutated eyes of some of these beasts. Parts of them laid down arms and started running away.

“Mages, this is our chance! Archers – light up arrows! Shooting in volleys on command!”

The song went on and on.

Forgiveness. What does that mean – forgiveness? Whether it’s possible to forgive those who have voluntarily turned into monsters, who have cursed themselves?

“Archers, hold on! Cease firing in fleeing enemies!”

They punished themselves. Whether they knew what they have done?

“Enemy at the southern wall is receding! Don’t pursue!”

Is that possible to be better than your own enemies? Own torturers? Own murderers?

“They are depressed! They are crying! Unbelievable! Can’t trust my eyes! Do you see it?!”

Is that possible to spare their lives?

“Enemy is receding! Southern walls are free! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

The choice is ours.

“Enemy is fleeing on all fronts! Victory! Victory!”

The enemy can come to our home once again. But as long as it doesn’t live inside us – we are invincible.

“Victory!”

* * *

Lor-Quinor along with a dozen other warriors was sitting in Askenzia’s tavern, celebrating his new birthday. Not in the sense that he was born on this day more than a forty years ago – but in the sense that today he was born anew. Not every day you get a chance to fight with a horde of self-cursed legions of ghouls, and to come out of it victorious – even less so. Especially when you get a chance to listen to such remarkable live music at the same time.

He will follow the fleeing horde the next day. Someone has to make sure that has truly retreated.

“Bro, pass me on a mug of ale!” he shouted to yesterday’s fellow soldier.

“What are we drinking for today? For Mages or for Chorus? Or maybe for the fact that bony death hasn’t yet grabbed all of us in one go, huh?” his workmate burst out laughing.

“Maybe, let’s drink for our own world, for Fantasy? What a fine one!”

“Huh! It can be even more than that! Everything is possible if you are living in the Fantasy!”

17.09.2017

School is terrible

It's boring and I hate it

The only good part of my day

Is over by 9:15am

Wish I only had 2 classes

So I could just run

And write lists

That that won't happen

Cause school is a bitch

Sometimes I'll see a student staring out the window at the end of the hall. But what does she see out there that holds her attention? I know from experience there's only a gray lot of teacher's cars, the track field, a tennis court hidden by a blue wall—all of it yellow and hazy from the sun slapping against the dust on the glass. But I don't think she's looking at anything in particular. Maybe it's a mood she senses on the other side of the pane. Behind her, white walls slide into a maze of lockers and locked doors guarded by a panopticon of ceiling cameras and teacher lounges. But out there are streets and side-streets and green, green grass and the bayous that interlace Houston like little green veins, and beyond the red roofs of the suburbs are patches of green trees binding shadow-flooded marshes and the homes of alligators.

Sometimes I think I know what she sees.

My classroom is a block like one of those you stack to do math when you're in kindergarten. Desks turn forward like lines of British soldiers, and students shout and throw rulers and text each other in a war for attention. My desk is the general's tent—present, to the side of the commons and barracks, capable at a moment's notice to survey the ranks (all I have to do is lift my eyesight an inch from my monitor to review a regiment using cell phones to redo eyelashes or sneaking markers to color in a map of Asia or clunkily dropping fidget spinners). From this distance it's difficult to tell if a student in the back is passing notes digitally on the phone in her lap or using a calculator to complete physics problems. So, with a war-weary sigh, although sans mustache, cigar, and epaulets, I get up from my chair and remind the Front that their assignment is due in two minutes.