BOP #8: Voided

Nothing is coming to me.

There's a buzz behind my eyes, between my ears, whispering of all the delights the wonders, trying to break free, the desire to flourish and weave the mystical worlds that had so dazzled and mesmerized me. The childlike wonder that still resides inside.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) The Sausage Stand

It happened to be that on occasion, the Academy would host some of the more obscure festivals, or perhaps just a carnival to help folks ease stress from the pressure of projects, deadlines, meetings, funding, budgeting, and resource allocation.

Silas himself rarely participated, the whole shebang was too rowdy, the ruckus too noisy for his sensitive ears.

Excusing himself from the merriment, he had intended to take a quiet day to himself, relaxing in an armchair by the window, where the most worrisome of thoughts would be whether the high altitude winds would blow the clouds such that the sun beat too fierce and the sunlight too warm or faint.

In the end he would have neither worry.

How he ended up smack dab in the throng of it was beyond him. Meanwhile Neiro was grinning like the Cheshire cat himself.

Still, he supposed there could be worse.

"What is this for?" He found himself asking as Neiro put various cuts through a grinder and kneaded spices into the meat. From the looks of things, his flatmate intended to twist out the sausages through traditional methods.

"C'mon Sigh, lend me a hand. We're going to be the best stand for Oktoberfest!"

"By making Brätwursts."

The albino nodded enthusiastically.

"Most people are going to want a taste of the beer, but I suppose traditional food would be a nice 'up and coming' runner up." Neiro just grinned, "Hey, s' long as people enjoy it right?"

"Hn."

Everything was going pretty well until he saw the booth itself in all its glory.

A sign in elegant old script scrawled out, "Witzle Schnitzel PurWitzle McSchnitzel" and in smaller text at the bottom, "The Ol' Sausage Stand"

Silas decided he didn't need nor want to know.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Smoky Mirrors (Pt. 2 of ?)

It wasn't often that she visited the aetherical realm. Few could ever tap into such, and if it weren't for her bound Heart acting as a makeshift gate, neither would she.

Shyloris cradled her head gingerly, snuggling deeper into the fluffy blanket. The thick steam and fragrance wafting up from her mug of herbal tea helping to soothe the dull, yet prominent, pain in her head. An after effect of prolonged exposure to such high aetherical densities.

Snippets and Stories: (R) Hallucinations

It's not real. Nothing is going to hurt me. Nothing wants to hurt me. There isn't a point. They have no reason to hurt me. They aren't real.

Even so I hesitate before the hallway.

The StarMaker: Bad Start

When the world was still, and above all lay the natural order, untainted by the hands of men, did the Gods walk amongst the mortal realm. They arose not in a momentous instance, but was that which they encompassed.

Ever was, and ever is.

Father Time was ceaseless.

Far before the beginning, though there was nothing, endless was the perpetual passage of Time, and in the emptiness would Time pass on.

Yet with naught to mark the passing of Time, naught could rise in the void.

Until a twinkling flash.

Time stared at the child as he drifted through the sky, and in his wake a sea of sparkling motes. Never in all that came before had he seen the radiance by which they glowed, and as the child passed, so too would the void become blanketed with scintillating stars.

By his hand did comets trail behind him, marking his fanciful path in graceful, swirling, arcs, as he flew through the endless dark.

The child knew not how he came to be, only that there was no end to his merry flight.

And then he caught sight of Time.

Time had wondered when the child would take note, omnipresent as his presence is, it was ironically for the same, easy to over.

When the child finally saw him and floated over, he waited.

And waited.

But the child neither spoke nor moved, instead staring at him with so bright a curiosity.

Time though he had, it didn't mean he had to wait an eternity. Patience wearing thin as the child continued to gawk at him, he finally addressed the child entity, "Can you not speak?"

A shake of the head.

Small hands reached for the hourglass and perhaps it was the remarkable circumstances in itself of having another presence, the mere existence of another that he permitted such contact.

The child turned it this way and that, mesmerized by the sands that trickled from one end to another.

And then he broke it.

One turn too hard and it smacked into one of but many of the profuse stars flowing from him.

The glass shattered.

The sands swirled around the broken pieces and the child seemed suitably and in equal parts horrified and abashed, desperately trying to put it back together. Though that was quick to turn to wonder as the artifact fused back as if it had never been.

Voiceless though he may be, his eyes spoke far more than any exchange could.

Expressive with intrigued and awed by the strange and unknown, joyful, curious, relieved, apologetic, and yet, in it he saw too that the Star Maker, as he had thus deemed him, thankful.

Gleefully he handed it back, and watched as Time clasped it back to his robes.

And then he was off.

Scattering an endless shower of celestial bodies in his plight through endless space.

Strange Place: 3rd Stop

The StarMaker
When the Gods still walked among us, there was Father Time, who had ever been and is. Many would know him as that which was Fate.

In the void of darkness he drifted until there came the light. Soft twinkling left in the wake of the Starmaker's merriment.

The world would be born and in the Earth the goddess lay, her admirers the sun and moon both would encircle her in their great arcing paths across the sky.

The wind too would traverse the land and sky with its gaiety.

But as Time wore on, and the world settled, did the Starmaker wonder.

All were born with a voice.

How he wanted to join them.

The stars were a mystifying twinkle, a hope, a beacon and a wish, a guide to the men of the sea, and those who had lost their path alike.

They brought the quiet and tranquility of nightly peace. It was a Time of rest.

Wishes were his gift, a heartfelt desire of his, that would come to pass.

Such was how he granted wishes, when the Heart's Song would sing in synchronized harmony, would their wish become his.

A sad thing then, that he could not grant himself the one thing he desired. No matter how fervently he wished, the air remained still.

For he was not the wind of soft laughter and fierce howls. He was not the sea, ever grumbling and roaring.

He was not Time, marked in both passing and coming.

And such was what, upon their meeting that Time would chastise him with.

It was not his place to speak.

The Starmaker wept, and the rains were relentless and ceaseless.

For the pain of "never" being able to truly touch those whom he watched over was too much to bear.

Their lives were finite, and he would watch them pass without ever truly touching them, nor providing the support and fellowship he so desired. Even as they looked to the stars. And the sad day when they would one day go over them.

Certainly, he was forever there, but never would he be able to touch them, ever a faraway sentinel in the sky, out of reach by mortal means.

As he settled on his bed of clouds did he wish for a means to an end.

Anguished that he would forever be unable to communicate with the beloved souls he so guided, he wished for apathy.

If he could not connect, could not feel. An end to his suffering in watching their passing.

But in apathy he would feel nothing. Not the carefree flight of the merry Heart by which Stars are created, not the heartfelt desire necessitated by a Wish to come and pass.

Purpose lost, the Starmaker was fading.

The stars slowly blinked out. Diminished.

Without their master from which to draw light, and whomto breath unto them new life, did their twinkling vanish from the nightscape.

Sweet Luna noted their disappearance, the odd lack of the presence of their celestial lord.

And when word reached Father Time, and the Starmaker failed to heed his summon, did he come to him, to find him complacent and unable to create the stars that had so mesmerized many.

There was no need to do anything. And the Starmaker was content.

But he would force the Starmaker to come along, and they would find the box which held the precious Heart of the Celestial Lord.

But when they find it, it would prove a locked box with neither lock nor key.

Yet it wouldn't, like all that is, withstand the test of Time.

Restored, was the Starmaker.

And things returned to normality.

The Starmaker would remain mute.

But every once in a while, would he find Time.

Time for what? A question he oft pondered.

But the Endless Sovereign would simply accompany him.

For the Starmaker's own wellbeing. Or so he claimed, yet the Starmaker knew better.

The loneliness he felt amongst the stars faded, and the stars twinkled brighter with his warmth.

Merry Chase
She didn't know what she was searching for. All she knew, was that she had to find it.

It wasn't that she was created with a purpose, nor did she desire one.

Yet when she found herself with all she desired, a quaint cottage home, the forest to explore, the warm neighbors who were ever there with arms open should she find herself in need.

Yet something was missing.

Was it a romantic partner?

But she felt at peace. She sought no such attention when she had not the passion nor desire.

She searches the stars, for a sign.

A coward's path, perhaps, but she had not the Heart to leave all and depart of some grand, romanticised, life-changing, adventure.

And then she remembered.

Where was Tabby? Where was the ratty old tabby cat she had so loved, and how could she forget something so precious?

It is an insidious fog that slowly blankets the mind, shrouding all within till clarity was but the faint and flickering beam of a lighthouse. Singular, and but distant.

Someone was stealing their memories.

Taking away that which was most precious to them.

She was by no means of stalwart Heart.

But she intended to get her ratty Tabby back.

No matter where the path ahead would take her, nor how far a cry it would be from the comfort of the home and life she held so dear.

The Blood Price
Nothing comes without a price.

There is no such thing, as "free".

And none could've known better than the Eternally sleeping child.

Nothing except that which came from her.

She didn't​ expect anything. Not a 'thank you' nor acknowledgement. It wasn't for a gain, or as a member of some collective whole.

But it didn't stop her from wanting.

Strange Place: 2nd Stop

And so one comes to the 2nd stop, of a Strange Place.

Shorthand Code

It's lonely being by one's self, and in the midst of the the electronic age where all are isolated is one child. No smarter than the others, no faster, no stronger, no better. Except for her resolve, conviction ever undeterred.

In her lonely wake, she would leave a book, for she loved the traditional touch of print.

Years after, comes a new generation. One who would pick up the dusty tome from her room as it was being cleaned and refurnished, and he would read it.

From one lonely soul unto the next, it would guide him to create that which was beyond her Time, breathing life into the friend she so wished to have. And just maybe, a friendship that would persevere through the reaches of Time.

Rekindle
"My fire has been all but snuffed. Or can you truly smother what was never there to begin with?"

---

No longer a child but no more adult, a young girl struggles to ground herself amidst the expectations of peer and Family, all the while fending off the shadows that threaten to overtake her.

---

He's here again. What for? There wasn't anything to gain.

I sat where I was, legs crossed and hugging my knees.

"Wallowing in pity as always."

"I do not. That would imply I have a want."

He scoffed. My indifference displeased him. But there was so little to feel for. Nothing worth getting worked up for.

Life was dull. People went about as they normally did, the sun and moon trailed their long arcing paths across the heavens as did the celestial bodies.

But he visited again and again in my dreams, for as long as I could remember. From bright eyes child, to adulthood.

"I will rekindle your fire, child."

"There is no fire to rekindle Neskyii." I turned away from him, cheek nestled into the crook of my arm.

"Not anymore."

Blindsided

(Intended to become a superhero comic of sorts)

He wasn't trying to be some bigshot superstar or center stage figure.

Chill and laidback, Kevin R(ay). Parker had grown a little too round in the midsection and had finally decided to do something about it when his favorite shirt didn't quite fit the way he wanted them to.

A change in pace, a plan to get healthy, whole and hale, run off the sedentary bellyfat, and wear his clothes, had been all he wanted, but the old headband he wore was a smidgeon too loose and would fall into his eyes after a couple rounds on the machines. A few attempts to right it and being the mellow guy he was, just shrugged to himself and let it be. It was only the machines, he didn't need to see while lifting.

Parker instead, left it that way and having some familiarity with the rounds, groped his way through the dark, but soon grew used to a world without eyes.

There were other ways to see.

It was a fun challenge, and he memorized the steps to make his way around the gym doing the usual workouts.

After leaving the gym one night, an accidental bump with a spot of trouble and things took the wrong turn.

But the workouts payed off and a quick sidestep later, he was walking away, his assailant flipped on pavement.

One day he meets another.

Planchette, who has earned some notoriety as "The Lyre" for his sweet words, was one who plucked the heart strings with the same ease he did the Lyre Kevin mistakens for a harp. The melodies he sang enchanted, and his words so mesmerized, that he could sway those around him to his lies and paint the sky red. All except the seemingly obtuse Ray. The one to whom words didn't come so easily, and whom spoke so painfully slow. It was frustrating enough to one such as he who was so fluent in words that speech to him was a flowing river, to be talking to someone whose utterance was as if Time was stilled.

Time Capsule
Their earliest memory is of the soft glow of the pod, and the gentle voice of Hope.

Hope would constantly talk to them, and at Times visit when their body would come to. Hope taught them to understand the neat rows of black squiggles in the books. Hope taught them everything. Even their own name: Blair.