liminal, pt. 2

When I first started out on the road, I left my name behind. It was practical, at first: my reputation and my past were the first things I wanted to leave behind, and I already stood out enough without everyone being able to put a name to my face. And at first it was nice, being a nameless wanderer, drifting in on the whims of the wind, leaving . . . stories in my wake. I'd wear whatever name suited me at the time: a flower, a season, an aspiration.

I'd still write letters, when I could find the time, when there was someone heading in the right direction--rarer and rarer the further I got from the empire's rotting heart. And the longer I spent nameless, the odder it felt to sign them with my old name. How long had it been since I'd heard my name on someone else's lips, or spoken it aloud? With each false name--snowdrop, willow, hope--I felt that old self slipping away, but there was no new self to take her place. I slipped into some liminal space, my identity ever in flux, solidified only as long as I needed it to.

I'd been adrift for years when I ran into a ghost from my past, at a harvest festival as close as you could get to the edge of the empire, and when she met my eye and whispered my name it nearly broke me. I tried to lose myself in the festivities, in dancing and drink, but the constant shifting of my identity demanded resolution: stand and fight or keep running forever. And I'd promised, when I was too young to understand what it would cost, that I would always stand and fight. 

It was the reminder that, because this ghost from my past promised a return to normalcy, to safety, to complacency, being true to that promise meant betrayal. The trust the powerful offered was a shackle, the same as any other; they did not understand that I had come to break chains, not to forge new ones. I chose a new name, then, the same as I always did, but this one was an anchor, not a shield. A renewal of an old promise, a decision made to stop lingering in the threshold.

liminal, pt. i

I found a spirit in the lowlands outside the capital. She was a tiny wisp, a fragment of a fragment of something great, but she shouldn't have been possible at all. Not there. Of course she couldn't explain how she even existed. (Could you answer that question? I'm not sure I could.) And yet, there she was, in the form of a butterfly, shimmering in the shade.

I was a kid, overwhelmed by being forced into a world I did not understand and a culture I had sworn to destroy. This was . . . probably a few months after I was taken. I was angry and afraid and confused and at that moment, as I dipped my feet in the river and watched the spring leaves dancing in the wind, all of that stopped mattering. Here was something impossible. Here was someone who needed my protection.

"I've never met a human before," she said, while I stared in awe I couldn't have explained if I wanted to. "Are all humans this pretty?"

"Some," I said.

We talked. She was too new, too small, to hold much knowledge or recollection of the world, but there were fragments that suggested memories. She had so many questions about the world, about me, about the empire I'd vowed to topple. I felt, at first, wholly unprepared for something so momentous as educating an impossible spirit in the ways of the world. And then, as I tried to describe the life I'd had among my clan, there was clarity.

I understood, then, why the order that made her impossible needed to fall. It had always been this abstract ill: that I, tattooed like the hunters of old, would hunt that most dangerous of monsters, empire, and that I would stand in its ashes a conquering hero. Now that ambition took on shape and new purpose: it was mine to defend those who could not defend themselves, and so long as the empire stood, I could not stand as a champion of the weak.

I built her a shrine, then, out of fallen branches and flower buds and spring leaves. I promised her I would make the world safe for her; she promised friendship. Our contract sealed, I carved its sigil in the largest branch I'd found, and we both left that place changed.

That marked the beginning, I think, for both of us, as we both found a way to thrive and grow and change in an environment that should have been hostile to us. And one day we would be powerful enough to change the world.

a prelude for october (scenes from an apocalypse, cont'd)

October has arrived at long last. Summer's grip has at long last faded, though at least here in Seattle it still fights to hold on even now; there's a chill in the air and the days are rapidly getting shorter, and the leaves are starting to change. A few early ones have fallen already, and drift through the streets in the breeze. Autumn is here.

It's always tempting to say there's nothing new to report, but it's never really accurate; it's simply that everything awful that's happening becomes a part of the normal backdrop of everyday life. For instance, it wasn't the case a month ago that the president had openly declared that he plans on executing a fascist coup should he lose the election, but is it surprising? It feels almost unremarkable, now: of course he is. That was a threat even back in 2016.

The pandemic continues as it ever has; after a month or two of cases locally declining (albeit slowly), they're on the upswing again, and our officials have long since lost interest in doing anything about that. It's demoralizing, realizing that our leaders have never cared about us, or even just having it confirmed--some part of my little anarchist heart has wanted to believe that in a time of crisis, perhaps our elected officials might get their act together. You have to hope there's hope, right?

This month's theme is "liminal." Spring and autumn are times of transition, and the fall in particular has always been seen as a season of change. There's a certain irony in choosing October for this, of course; here, at least, both September and November are more transitional months here; September is frequently summer's last stand, and November is when winter first has its chance to have its presence felt. October, though, October is when the autumn feels most like itself. When the liminal has a chance to have a character of its own.

I've been working on some short stories recently (if you missed the last one, it's here). Last year for October I wrote something here every day using Inktober prompts; which, while a fun project, would certainly distract from my continued attempts on that front. But I like October, and I liked working on that. So I'm going to try to get some concrete work done on whatever story I'm currently working on every day this month. (But I reserve the right to write some other things if I feel like it, I guess?)

It's not much, but you have to hope there's hope.