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Short Stories & Excerpts, The Ogham

The Little Spark – excerpts from cornerstones

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The pinch of sulfur stings my nose as the spark catches the wick.

I’ve lost my bearings, let my mind wander too far: I need to see, just for a bit, to reorient myself before I find it and then I can retreat from the tunnels.

I’ve hidden it all here, tucked away in the darkness, as if the darkness could smother it. I swore I left that life behind, but can you truly leave such a thing behind? When times are tough, it is an easy habit to fall back on.

It has been three years since the tensions first began to rise within the Offices. Since then, the Arcanologists and Mystics have become a suspicious breed. But, I guess there has always been a bit of that amongst the Offices, course none of that mattered so long as we fulfilled our part – made ourselves useful.

But now, now they are considering the option that we may be far more dangerous than we let on. I can’t keep doing this – just this last time, then I will seal them away for good.

I reach the cache I’ve hidden, fumbling through the olde withered pages. It is too risky to take the whole thing, so I skim until I find the page I need, rip it out and tuck it away safely amongst my pockets. The pages call to me: Ancient wisdoms, olde rituals. I thumb across the broken and cracked leather of olde tomes and journals. I’ve been here too long. I can’t go back that path.

I snuff out the wick as if that will hide the temptation, and turn to make my way back down the tunnels. I trail a finger across the cooled, dampened stone of the cellar walls to keep my balance, hold my mind’s orientation through darkness, but it is only a comfort, I don’t truly need it; I know these halls far too well, I’ve walked them an innumerable amount of times in my life.

I crack the hatch of the olde cellar door, slowly and steadily as not to make a sound. Katovjin would be furious if she knew I had snuck back in the tombs. The tombs, we call them, because that is where the past lies – dead and forgotten. Although neither of those things are true, even though we pretend they are. The darkness lingers over the floor above, only the crackle of the dying fire spill
out a warm glow around the hearth.

I crawl carefully out, silently shuffling across the wood as I latch the door, and cover it with the slate stone that rims the hearth-floor, and cover it still with a reed woven mat and olde skin. If someone didn’t know any better, it was nothing more than a quaint sitting room. Good that the tombs weren’t originally constructed with the house, or else we’d been searched long ago.

I am knelt by the soft glow of the embers, just finishing straightening the hide into the long-time faded silhouette into the floor – a good cover – when I feel the presence beside me. I freeze. My veins stiffen as the shadow looms in the doorway. I twitch an eye sidelong at it, careful not to move. They lie just beyond the light, hidden in the threshold of the doorway to the shoppe-front, now bathed in darkness in the midnight hours; I can see nothing of them save for the glint of eyes flashing against the warm glow. They hang low, barely more than waste high.

“Ada!” She cries in her whimpering tone, startling me right out of my skin.

“Ai, Córra!” I gasp back at her, falling forward from he jolt she shot right threw me, my heart still hammering as I chuckled under my breath at myself. “You can’t do that to your father!” I grasp at my chest, only half play-acting.

She grins weakly at my start as she shuffles forward, all lank socks and mismatched pigtails ruffled from tossled sleep. Her olde, moth-eaten and ragged bear dangles from an elbow as she climbs into my lap – now sitting against the floor.

“Can’t sleep again?” I ask as I cradle her.

She shakes her head angrily, as she curls in a tight little ball in my lap, her heels digging into my thigh. I try to reposition myself so my tingling leg doesn’t go completely numb, but she’s stubbornly made her bed. I give up, letting her have her victory. She presses a knuckle to her lips – she is far too olde to suck her thumb, but the small action is an equal comfort when the night-terrors come again.

I sigh heavily, resting my chin on her hair. I know I did this to her; filled her head with tales of wonders and magic I should have let die – but she is so special. She has the gift, it is in her blood. I can feel it seething from her and it strikes me with such pride and awe and fear that I have let myself slip. And she eats it up.

I love all of my children – they all have their most skilled talents that fill my heart, but she, this little one; Ai, she would have been my apprentice if I had stayed with the Offices. She is my Little Spark. Now she dreams too much, wanders too far, and falls into Shadows I should have shielded her from. Nights are the hardest – and I know what she is seeking.

“Please, Ada?” She stares up at me, those wide silvery-blue eyes glinting with unshed tears, pouty-mouth. She blinks at me, a silent beg for good measure, knowing she’s already snagged me under her spell.

“We can’t, Little Spark.” I sigh, but it’s a feint – and she knows it. I’m saying what I need to say to put up a good fight, but she can taste her victory.

“They are my favorite! They chase away the Shadows, and no one will know. We’re all alone, and we’re safe in our own home.”

If only we were safe in our own home. But I can’t tell her that. She actually looks scared tonight. I settle her down in my lap, wiggling the toes of my numb leg. She grins emphatically, eyes devious little slits that crinkle under her delighted cheeks, knowing she’s won. I’ll have to watch her, this one. She knows what she’s doing, and she learns people well.

She snuggles down, tucking herself into my arms, her cheek flat against my chest, still hugging her pitiful little bear. I hum, as I warm my hands, rubbing the palms briskly. I close my eyes, I see what I need, I call to it…

          Sleep, Lovely, Sleep.
          Fear no Shadows,
          As they reap
          The Spark touches
          And lights the deep
          A beacon in the Slumber’s Keep

She hums along with me as I pluck an ember from the grate. I fold it between both palms, I feel the spirit stir inside, I only have to waken it and coax it out. She waits eagerly, still humming the song she knows so well.

           Here, Lovely, Here
           See no troubles
            Bring no fear
            The Flame warms us
            And dries the tears
            A warden to a Heart so dear

I cup her hands inside mine, around the glowing ember. She is not frightened – she never is – but takes it gladly as I squeeze them firmly over the coal. It does not burn or blister one made of Fire like her.

I pinch my eyes closed tight as I concentrate the last prayer in my head, under my breath. She continues to hum. And as I open my palms, her eyes sparkle hungrily as she opens hers, mimicking my movements.

Her hands lay cupped in mine, as the coal glows red and hot in her hands – and then gently it stirs. The tiny little creature, like a glowing piece of slag, uncurls from within its tail and climbs from the ember’s heart. It raises a smoldering little head, flat and oval, up to her, taking her in as she beams back down at it. It must feel the Spark inside her, it always loves her so. It flicks a tiny little flaming tongue, as it begins to wind itself between her fingers and around her hand, down her wrist, over her knuckles.

Her heart spills over herself, beaming at her tiny little salamander.

“Calcinaer!” she breaths, so excited, so comforted. “I’ve missed him, Ada. He keeps all the Shadows away…”

“I know, Little Spark. He seems to have missed you too.” Guilt aches inside me as she dotes on the little fire daemon. But it is soon swallowed up by fear – a fear the Spark of Calcinaer can’t chase away, a fear not caused by Shadows and darkness. But she needs him this night. He will protect her. I can’t keep doing this…

He raises his glittering little eyes at me as if in answer to my thoughts. He looks at me sadly, but he seems to understand. Soft snores rise up from my lap. She can sleep now.

I scoop her up and head up the stairs and down the hall to the quaint little room in the corner. The twins sleep face-to-foot, crammed into each other in the upper bunk beneath the alcove ceiling, even though they each have their own. I tuck Córra into Kensey’s empty bunk below. She’ll sleep safer here than alone
in the room she usually shares with Izzy.

I slip what is now her Fire Stone under her pillow, as Calcinaer waddles warmly up her arm, curling up in the crook of her neck.

“I’m sorry, Cal.” I say. It’s all I know to say. He raises his little head, crooked to one side, as if to ask what I could be sorry for – trying to relieve me of my guilt.

“Keep her safe?” I ask of him, “Chase away the Shadows.” He rests his head on his stubby little feet, tail tucked over his nose, he smolders bold and warm and bright. Of course he’ll keep her safe.

Latest Updates

Jan 20, 2016

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Development fell into the rabbit hole of the holiday season, but I am back and actively working to grow the site, new sections, as well as content.
There have been technical issues in the back end of the site, which has eaten up a lot of my focus recently which has slowed the progression of the rest of the site development, but are working to get all the kinks ironed out so I can get back to the more important, and more interesting, stuff.

Short Stories & Excerpts, The Humonculous, The Ogham

A long journey

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Dearest Brother,

I write in your name, in hope that my words may find you. Though you cannot come to me, I know you send your blessings. I can hear them whisper to me, and I know you are close, in mind and soul, if not in body.
I have been seeking, and I have found much clarity, though it pains me to be far from the family that knows me so dearly. Our sister tries, falsely, to reconcile, but I fear it is naught more than appearance and, forced, propriety. She does not know us as we do. She does not know the truths that we know, nor the pains we have felt and faught.
I miss you.
I am alone, you have our brothers, your families together. Though none walk beside me, I do, at least, have support here. Kind ears that will hear me, unblinded eyes that will see me for what I am, and not for what they’ve been told to look. But still, I miss you.
Castor is naught without Pollux.
Do I walk in light and you in dark, or am I the one lost in darkness? I forget the path you have given me. Shadows can make the light feel so dark.
But I know you do what you must, and we will find our stars.

Find my words across the gap.
Know I listen.
Send my love to our blood. Send my sails down the rivers,

Forget me, not

le grá mór ó
do dheirfiúr óg

MM

The Humonculous

I am not a feminist.

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I am not a feminist because I do not take sides. I am not going to endorse one whole group vs. any other group.
I am not going to pitch myself against any whole.
I believe in equality not special treatment, meaning I do not need to join a movement for the goodness of only one group, as I am not for any one group – I am for all groups.

I come from a culture where women have ALWAYS been strong, and badass, and capable, and equal to all others.
Where you earn your place and respect. Where if you want something, you dedicate yourself, and you learn, and you struggle, and you WORK to make it happen – not whine and gripe and pitch a hissy-fit behind a picket line. What good does that do? What are you proving to anyone? That you can scream the loudest? That you are more nagging and obnoxious than the next picket line?
Congratulations.
That’s an honour I can suffer without.

I come from a culture where if you act like a piece of shit, you are treated like a piece of shit – if you act like a badass, you are treated like a badass. And that goes for EVERYONE and ANYONE, man, woman, child, olde, new, or prime. ANYONE. Where you are the product of the consequences of your actions, good or bad, where slaves can rise to become kings, and kings can fall to be slaves because EVERYONE has the exact same chance as the next, but once you earn your place – that’s it, you’ve earned it. So if you are disatisfied with it, YOU change it. Not yell at others to change the way the rest of them work for your own lazy betterment – but YOU put up the effort to change YOU to make your own situation better.

I walked into a job and got paid MORE than the MAN I was hired to replace.
Why?
Because I am the shit. That’s why. Because I am dedicated, because I am loyal, because I am too damn stubborn to ever give up, because I know how to take criticism, because I know how to learn from my mistakes, because I have a work ethic that is, frankly, unseen in these days. Becasue I make it to where others can’t do anything but respect me, because my actions command respect.
Command.
NOT demand. There is a gravely significant difference between those two words, that is often confused, or people are just ignorant to these days.

I have a friend who just recently nailed her job offer – making the same amount as a male counterpart who was technically hired before her, at a higher level of education and certification, and should, by all reasonable means, make more than she does because of seniority both in length of time there, and level of education. But she landed an offer making *the exact same amount he does*. There is also much mroe to that offer that I can’t discuss here because it is priviledge information, and SHE got it. Not him.
Why?
Because she is the shit.
Because she took the opportunity seriously, and busted ass, and put in the effort, and showed dedication and loyalty and responsibility. Because she went above and beyond the call of duty and showed that she was an invaluable member of the team, and would only be an asset to the growth of the company and that she was an absolute badass.
Because her actions commanded it to be so.

And guess what? We are LOVED by our colleagues. We are not called bossy, or bitchy, or anything negative that feminist propoganda would have you believed, because, again, we commanded it, not demanded it. Those who have to get “bitchy” to get respect have not earned it – and they don’t have respect, they have intimidation. They have fear. They have control over others. Which is still effective, but very, very different.

And that is only two examples, from just one tiny little anectdote. Think of how many other cases out there are like ours? You simply hear less about us, as women – PEOPLE – in out position don’t generally need to flaunt it, because, generally, people in our position on strong, confident secure individuals who do not need the notoriety to qualify themselves. The ones in offense, the weak, the insecure, the ones without conviction tend to be the ones who scream the loudest, because maybe if they are loud enough, they can convince themselves it is true along with everyone else.

The Humonculous

I didn’t realize how much it would bother me…

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My son came home talking about god, and the pit of my stomach turned with bitter indignation.

Wow.
I didn’t realize I was so angry.

But I was so angry.
It came as a slap in the face – how horrible, how prejudice, how hypocritical I was being. I tried to remember how I felt when others around me tried to push their own ideas onto me. I didn’t want to be that person, I don’t want to be that person, and up to this point I have worked hard to not be that person. But my subconscious kept crawling up the back of my spine, screaming profanities at me, and insisting this wasn’t the same. But how is it not?

It’s not. I was angry, and after a very gut-wrenching night of virtually no sleep, I can clearly explain why it is not the same now.

Those who know me personally know that I am very proudly, strongly, and happen to be extremely religiously pagan – a traditional brand of Irish Druidry to be specific. My husband was, for a time, very much so rastafarian, but it died in the fact that he is very against religion – not necessarily faith, but religion as this organized monster. He’s also a bit of a conspiracy addict with a vein of paranoid anti-social hermitism. So, needless to say, we are not the overtly religious household, no matter which path it manifests itself, because, again, those who know me also know I am very subtly pagan outwardly in the regular, everyday, face-face world; Not because I am ashamed or because I shy away from the combative nature of others when they find out (my Irish blooded Gemini self relishes in quite the opposite, but I’m working on that…) but because that is how I feel all religious beliefs should be: personal. Because my son is not necessarily in a position to make a personal decision or connection with any one religion, it is just not a subject of discussion or direct influence or teaching in our household. My beliefs are my beliefs, I do not need to push them on anyone else. My son can make up his mind when he is olde enough to decide whatever he wants to believe in.

That is why it was different. That is why it bothered me so much and made be so bitter and angry with things I cannot control. Christianity in and of itself does not bother me; I have tons of Christian friends of just about every sect and variety, even my own husband – afterall, Rastafarianism is a form of Christianity itself, and I married him! It was not a matter of me trying to push my own beliefs onto my son, but the fact that others were doing that very thing.

I have tried so hard to raise him in a nuetral environment, and yet it is still happening. I am angry that the world I have worked hard to create for him is being violated. I feel like my lifestyle and my parenting is being violated. I am angry that my son thinks he believes in something, simply because he doesn’t know any better or any different.

They are children. They are naive, they are innocent, they are reliant on an entire universe of adults to teach them what is right and true in the world. When you tell them something, they take it as fact, because their entire lives have been trained that what adults tell you is true, and they know everything. They don’t know any better. They do not understand the concept of higher powers, divine interventions or spirituality – they are still trying to figure out their own selves, they are still trying to figure out how this world works, let alone a metaphysical one. You tell them 2+2=4, they learn it to be fact, you tell them the Sun rises in the east and sets in the west, it is fact. You teach them about everything in life, and it is fact, it is only assumed that if you then teach them about god, it is also fact. There is no differentiating. He does not know that is not fact. He does not know he has a choice. And that is what makes me angry.

It makes me angry that I cannot protect my son from those who would keep him from thinking for himself – and in order to correct that, in order to show him he does have a choice in whatever he wants to believe in, I will have to go against everything I’ve tried to uphold until this point. I will have to break our neautral household, and start teaching him other faiths.
Which is not a horrible thing, of course, but that too makes me angry. Once again, my life has been dictated by others.
Everything which I didn’t want him to have to experience.

Latest Updates

Nov 18, 2015

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Work continues behind the scenes to bring more content to the site, as well as expanding various project pages to keep the most up-to-date current happenings at your fingertips, but I am a perfectionist and can be quite neurotic, so it’s baby-steps at the moment.

Several of the current projects were put on hold for a few weeks due to family happenings and previous engagements, and just a general lack of availability – so now things have quieted down, I am getting back into gear on all the works-in-progress I left on hold for a while.

Lets get to work!

The Harpy

A Project worth Backing

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Check out Hogswallow’s Kickstarter Campaign – a game for anyone and everyone who has a creative, imaginative side or enjoys having fun.
Whether you love storytelling, card games, RPGs or some table-top action – this game has a little bit of it all.
A little bit CAH, and little bit MTG, a little bit Flux…and a little bit tarot?
Whatever it is, it sounds like a project worth backing!
This game follows standard issue storytelling / rpg card rules, but add in a twist for room of individual interpretattion opens up potential for just about anything, making this and imaginative.

Check out and consider donating to make this game a reality, because it’s worthy of your backing….but also because I want my copy of the game ;p
Watch the video above and check out the page for all the details:

Hogswallow : A card game of mythic storytelling

Latest Updates

Oct 30, 2015

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New features have been added to the site.
It will soon be easier to navigate, follow and share direclty from the site,
content will now be streamlined between the site and social media accounts
making it easy to follow from your favorite platform and never miss a thing!

Still working on adding, and organizing content. It is a slow process,
but it is coming along well.

Gearing up for NanaWrimo!

Book one of The Stray Chronicles moves on to editing stage two.
Interested in beta reading? Connect with me on social media and tell me

The Humonculous

I’m sick of sex in Paganism

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Let me shed some light into my spiritual life: I have never once danced naked under the full moon. I have never culminated a ritual with a sexual act. I haven’t endulged in nudist drum circles, or prayer rites. Sex is not the foundation of our religion. Why the fuck do modern pagans turn EVERYTHING into sex?

It has become blatantly obvious that I am, apparently, not the “typical” pagan. So, perhaps my opinion on the matter is not in good company, but I am sick of all the flaunting and glorifying of sex in Paganism, whoring around everywhere. And yes, I call it whoring, because that is exactly how it comes across. Extortion? Desperation? Using it for leverage? Everything you associate as being a negative aspect of sexuality – that is exactly what you are doing, and rationalizing it away as liberation, or becoming one with nature, or a oneness with self, or whatever else psycho BS you can pull out of your ass to try to make it seem like anything less than an orgy or the sake of religion.

Why does sex have to be such a big issue to “our kind”? It seems like so many aspects of Paganism these days is for shock value, or simply for the sake of being the anti-christian movement. Anti being opposite of, not opposed to in this context. Christians say sex is a sin, we’re here to tell you it’s a beauitful act of power and liberation! To Prove thats what it is, and we’re not ashamed, we’re all going to orgy it up right here in front of you!

I read a lot. I follow a lot of blogs. Though, ironically, I can’t seem to name you one single “pagan” author, save for the horrendous, like Silver Ravenwolf (one of my many damning qualities, according to my oh-so-welcoming community, I’m a “bad pagan” because I can’t appropriately name-drop MVPs….) But amongst all the snippets I collect and read through week to week, one thing blares blindingly clear. Without fail, every time some spiritual ritual is mentioned, sex and sexuality is a headlining topic.

The beautiful thing about nature-based religions, and all the many fascets of Pagan paths is the understanding of sexuality. Sex is natural, it is a regular part of life, and therefore should not be demonized in the slightest bit. But being a part of life doesn’t me ruling life. It does not need to be included in everything.

Do you have sex while doing the laundry? Are you masturbating while preparing breakfast? Do you jackoff your man / fist your lady while watching family feued? Does your gamertag include your O face? If yes, any sane individual anywhere would tell you you have a problem.
The reality is, NO. We don’t function like that. Sex is not a part of everything we do in life, so why on earth does it make sense to be a part of every aspect of our spiritual selves? Everything does not have to be a discussion on sex. Stop it.

I just read Sex and the Parliament of World Religions and it is a prime example. It both confuses and infuriates me.

“One commonality that stood out to me was our relationship to sex. While there were other faiths that honor sexuality as sacred, nowhere was it as explicit as in the Pagan community.”

Nowhere was it as explicit as in the Pagan community….
How does that line make you feel? Why is this something to be proud of? It makes me sad, and ashamed. We are the trashed party-girl of the Religious community. And we have somehow convinced ourselves, like every other party girl in history, that that is a good thing. It’s not. People only like us because we’re easy. We need to wake up and realize that.

And as I continued through this shameful article, and coming to the grand conclusion, I didn’t understand…What does sex have to do with ANY of this? It was completely unnecessary to her experience with the conference or community. Why must being happy in your own body have to be about sex? Why does a closeness with someone else have to equal to sex or sexuality? Why do you admit that most contact was not sexual in nature, but then forcibly bring the conversation straight back to sex? Why does ANY of this have to be about sex, why must we be EXPLICIT in our community instead of giving our bodies, the act itself, the way we view and represent ourselve, and even our ceremonies the respect and honour they deserve?

People get the wrong idea that in order to be ok with yourself or your sexuality that you must overtly flaunt it, that if you cover it up, then you must either be ashamed or oppressed -that that is just the radical extreme of the opposite end of the spectrum. Being respectful to your body, and your faith, does not mean defaming it, and not thinking about what you do or how you use it and just throw it blindly at anyone, or use it for any little opportunity is not respectful.

My next question is: Are you all that vapid and shallow?
Do you think you are being deep and moving by takling about sex all the time? What are you trying to accomplish? Do you think being a “feminist” means shoving your tits and pussy at everyone and making them deal with it? That’s not how it works. You are trying too hard. You are desperate.
A psychologist would tell you that folk who are this engulfed and vocal about sex have some severe insecurities, or trauma they are trying to work through – those who scream the loudest have the most to hide. Which is fine, if that is the case, but we are not your therapy.  There are real and true traditions, we are real people, will real faith, and real customs and spirituality and things that were once sacred that are being desecrated in falsehoods and misrepresentations. Being proud doesn’t have to mean making a mockery of us. And if you think sex is all there is to paganism, or even one of the biggest points of paganism, you’ve entirely missed the point.

 

The Humonculous

Welcoming the Equinox…

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Traditionally, the Druidic paths did not celebrate the 8 points of what is now recognized as the Wheel of the Year. They only celebrated the four main harvests that quartered the year – Though that does not mean that the Equinox was not a respected time for them.

Most modern paths have all accepted the 8-festival format, acknowledging the importance of these other cross-quarter markers, and to impose a since of balance and uniformity across practices, as well as our other pagan bretheren and cousins.

Though something about the 8-festival tradition just doesn’t speak to me (I stick to the quarter-harvests)….I cannot deny the charge I feel in the air on these days.

This is my *favorite* time of year, and this is *the day* it all culminates into alignement to shephard in the fall harvests and the closings of the year. Something about this time of year is just absolutely magical, and it fills me.

The Druidic path calls it Meán Fórmhair. Fómhar – meaning harvest. Giving, and fruitfullness, fullness, abundance, life, hope, plenty. This is what the crisp autumn air says to me. It sings to me to eat, drink and be merry. Celebrate the fullness of the earth, the fullness of life. I always found Thanksgiving very appropriate, though it claims no ties to pagans – the harvest is transcendent, in that sense: everyone can relate to the thankfulness and humility for the abundance of food from the land.

The pilgrims established Thanksgiving in order to give thanks to God, as they felt he had hear their prayers and blessed their crops. Likewise, we give thanks to the Mother and Father for the fertility and bounty of the land. Should it be so surprising we share so many similarities? None of us are so different – around the world (or at least the Northern Hemisphere) all people are celebrating and anticipating their crop and harvest and the gift of the land in some form or another, even if they do not realize it.

You do not have to have a national holiday, or adhere to a set of sabbats and rituals, to understand the power and beauty of this time of year.