Category Archives: The Ogham

Tales from the Bard:
Written works including poetry, short stories, lyrical pieces and excerpts of current projects.

The Humonculous, The Ogham

Trapt

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Can you hear me?

There isn’t much time now, not these days.

They’re watching. I must be quick.

It’ll never be enough time…

They have me now. Choked. Just tight enough not to run. Just loose enough to breathe. But not true, good, deep breaths. No, not free breaths. Just enough to survive. Because survive is all you can do, here.

And they know…

They know what they are doing. They know what is too valuable to lose, what is too valuable to waste. They can’t take you down completely, because then you’ll be useless. Then you can’t help them. But so long as they leave a little bit of you left alive, they torment you worse, breaking you, because they know – they know you remember. They know you still hope. They know you can still see the other side – and if you see it, you think there’s still a chance.

But there is no chance so long as you’re inside. They’ll never let you be free.

They come now, go – hush!

Don’t let them find you, don’t let them know.

 

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I got lost…

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… but I am trying to find my way back.

I found somewhere. A place that was free. That was wondrous. That was peaceful and invigorating. A place where things come alive.

Such a place, it was.

What a place it was.

I am trying to find my way back. The Spirit has been damaged too deep, but you must move on. Must keep going, keep searching. I will find my way back, at the end of the road. I will come back home.

I am tired, and torn. I just need to rest. And then tomorrow I will pick up my shield once more.

Like a drug, keep moving. Like a drug, keep chasing.

Nothing else can compare. Nothing else will do. So sweetly it taints the rest.

I am lost.

But I am trying to find my way back.

-MM-

Short Stories & Excerpts, The Ogham

Trigger

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The sharp air fills my lungs, and my heart jumps to attention. The thrill pumps through my veins, electrifying my skin, the tips of every corner and curve and end of my body tingle in terrified exhilaration.

‘No!’ I scream inside my head because the words won’t leave my tongue – but too late; it’s already done.

I feel my body giving in to them, I cannot stop it, and soon my mind will be swept away as well. The tears come, hot and heavy. They sting my gaping, parched eyes.

The memories stir. The world fades away from my blurred sight and the monsters creep from the shadows. I try to remember what to do, but they swallow me whole. The world is gone. I am gone. There is nothing but the memory, the pain, the fear and torment. I scream, but it does not chase them away. Still, they come.

My body shudders under the strain of their burden. I don’t want to see them anymore, I don’t want to remember. I huddle in the darkness they brew and try to hide, small and insignificant – like nothing they would waste such time with, but still, they come. My sobs come in silent, shallow gulps and the heaves turn and knot my stomach. Already, the bitter sting of bile rises in my throat.

The realization washes over me: There is no running. There is no hiding. And something lulls me in knowing this. A slow calm sets into my bones. This is it. It is over – but I know it will not end unless I turn around.

Weak and shaky, I stand to face them. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. I train my lips into the tight little O, and the breaths come, fast at first. I take in another, fighting off the mucus my tears have churned up in my sinuses, but I manage through the fight. Out again. Oooooo. Slow, steady, long.
I close my eyes, focus on my breathing. In. Steady, hold. Out, easy, free…
My feet shuffle in controlled movements, turning me to face them, one breath at a time. The pain subsides. My skin begins to soothe, muscles relax, and my stomach unties itself. The burning, prickling sensation evaporates.
In.
Steady.
Out.
Calm.
My mind escapes the fog. I start to remember – more than just the monsters. I remember after. I remember now. I am ready.
I open my eyes to face them.

Shadows dance across my bedroom floor. The moon hangs high, and sky is crystal clear. The air is cold and still. A cold sweat hangs dewy over my body. My shirt clings to my skin, the hair matted to the nape of my neck and face. I stare about, confused, but familiar. I unclench from the knotted covers, stretching my hand and wriggling my fingers. I blink away the last hazy images, trying to reorient myself.
It is over.
Relief.
I made it out. I ended it.
Little Victories, Dr. Meade would say. And I smile, little and weak. But better than yesterday.

Reviews & Articles, The Humonculous

Modern Paganism: Consciously Forgetting the Past?

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Recently, I was involved in a discussion in a pagan group about the ambiguous nature of how modern pagans identify themselves, and their, seemingly, complete disinterest in their historic roots or traditions. Specifically, modern “Druids” and those who claim Celtic Paganism, but practice a naturalistic or animistic path and make no mind or matter of the Celtic Pantheon. And though, unfortunately, the person who started this discussion, that brewed into an all out protest, turned out to be entirely misguided, arrogant and disrespectful, I couldn’t help but identify with the sentiments of his original posting.

It is no secret that I often feel alienated from the greater pagan community. Just today I read a poll about online pagan connections vs. real life interactions, and it is a sad realization that I have neither of these. I communicate plenty, but no more than an exchange of a certain topic, and then we both (or however many are involved) move on with our lives. I don’t actually have any Pagan friends or associates.

Too many times, I do not fit inside the neat little package of whatever is expected, and so I smile, and move on leaving those connections undone, and it is, for the most part, because of the Modern Pagan ideology. It can be seen all over the online pagan community, from places like The Wild Hunt, Witches & Pagans, and even sadly the Order of Bards Ovates and Druids – druidry, in its essence, has been boiled down to nothing more than a nature based spiritualism, and speaks nothing of the true nature of the practice.

Druidry, itself, began as an Irish practice, the word Druid itself  derivative from the irish word druí. The art and practice of the druid, of course, spread and could be found all over the celtic worlds – but where are these roots in the modern practice? There is no mention, whatsoever, of its Irish heritage, or any celtic influence whatsoever. They completely ignore the religious side of the practice, removing celtic spirituality, and relate it to nothing more than arts, creativity and a oneness with nature. All of which are well and good in their own rites, but where are the deities? Where is the pantheon? Where is the Leabhar Gabhala, the Mabinogi?

Even if one does not associate themselves as a Druid specifically, the same notion can be seen all over modern “celtic” paganism – which has become practically indiscriminate from Wicca. I see so many practicing “Celts” name praise to a Roman or even Hindu Goddess, raise up Egyptian iconology, invoke the strength of Viking, Shamanistic or even Native American spirits and deities, and yet keep a strangely absent figure of the pinnacle deities of the Tuatha De Danann – or even Danu herself, and the convenient lack of ANY God or male figure whatsoever, save in a few remarks in a highly sexualized consort, making any figure out to be a supplicant and lesser to the Goddess figure, not the equal that balanced the coupling that was so important – not only in a matter of divinity, but as an entire concept – to the celts as a cultural whole.

More than once I have come across those who do not know the tales of the Tuatha de Danann, let alone know the significance they hold to the nature of magic and spiritualism, as well as the arts and sciences in the mythos and canon. Too often I have come across those who have never read the Mabinogion, do not know the difference between Irish or Welsh. Where is the education? Where is the pride in your culture? Where is the faith? How can you call yourself a Celt, but know nothing of their culture and abandon their practices?

Have we reached a turning page in Neo-Paganism where we simply reinvent and redefine instead of making the effort to connect, and learn from our ancestors and our past? Do we really take such freedoms for granted, and take such free-reign liberties and entitlements with our faith that we feel we can just make up whatever we want?

It is a sad, and hurtful thought for someone like me who lives and breathes her Irish blood. Who is so closely connected to those deities of the past, and whose culture defines and shapes her everyday life. Where are we to fall, in this new-wave paganism? Where we do not fit in the past era of reconstructionism, but do neither do we frolic freely with culture appropriations of new-age spirituality. And what future do our ancestral roots hope to gain when they are so easily abandoned and ignored?

 

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.

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

Reviews & Articles, The Ogham

A Review: Court of Fives by Kate Elliott

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Court of Fives (Court of Fives, #1)Court of Fives by Kate Elliott
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by this book. Not because I should have been surprised, but because of the rollercoaster this book threw me into.

Initially I was intrigued, as it continued on I was really, really unhappy. I even considered not finishing it – like so many other reviewers had done, at the exact same point as well. I’m glad I didn’t. We were all played – we all fell into the pit that I believe Ms. Elliott 100% intended to throw us into.
I didn’t like the father, I was unsure about Jessamy. I felt like there was not enough build up or explanation for the horror that this obnoxious Lord threw them into – he irritated me profusely, but I couldn’t really tell you why because there was not enough of anything to form a proper explanation – there was too much build up on the mother and the sisters for them to just be forgotten so suddenly and quickly, this new little Prince dude was way too predictable. But there is a beauty and an ease that Kate Elliott has in her writing, the sincerity and believability in the characters and how they interact with each other that is so simple and charming, and feels so real, that I just couldn’t give up on it. And as I continued, not that much further into my frustration did I realize that I was feeling exactly how I should be feeling. Everything was intentionally constructed in such a way that as soon as you crest that barrier of unknown and too little and too much all wrapped up into one – that you are hooked. Pieces start filing together, a little snippet of information here that makes your brain catch a spark of what is really happening – and you can see more coming, little reprieves of insight into Jessamy and her family that makes you understand the characters more. Suddenly, I sympathized with her. Suddenly, I didn’t hate the father anymore. Suddenly, I understood the mother and sisters are in no way forgotten – that is why there was so much build up. Exactly when you think the story is unraveling and not making enough sense, is exactly when all those snags are being pulled, tightening their grip. By the time I tipped the half-way mark, I could not stop reading. And by the end, I wished there was more.
I enjoy the perspective of characters, their differences, simplicity where it needs to be simple, building complexity where there needs more answers, and above all else – how beautifully she constructs relationships. Not in the romantic sense, but in how each character interacts with one another. It makes me wonder who inspired these characters, what event in her life spawned that banter of dialogue, who did she watch play out which scenes that inspired, as I can recognize the very true-to-life aspects in each one of them which makes it easy to relate, and care about these characters.
I also apprecaite Kate Elliott’s knack for very honest internal voice that is the most natural and brilliant comic relief I’ve read – A talent that made me literally laugh out loud in Crown of Stars so many times, I’m sure my husband thought I was mad – and was found again here in Court of Fives.

At times, it does feel a bit predictable, and seems to play very heavily on YA tropes – but it is woven into her own world so beautifully, that none of them seem to bother me. She makes them work – and the mythos that she has built for the realm is simply enchanting, and the way she slowly builds upon it – only giving you little bits at a time – only makes me eager for more.

The mythos and intrigue catches me far more than any romance arc, but it so aptly balances between politics / intrigue and cultural/spiritual circumstance between the romance, that there is plenty to hold the interest of a many number of different readers – and she accomplishes in what is relatively small book. Very well done. I was pleasantly surprised, and would recommend this book to those who enjoy Fantasy & YA alike.

View all my reviews

Reviews & Articles, The Ogham

Here’s my problem with ‘strong female leads’…

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A phenomona that should be dubbed “the Tauriel Effect”

Even though she wasn’t precisely a lead – I’m still Angry, PJ, dammit.

It’s a forced topic. Everyone now has become so preoccupied with the issue, they forget one of the most important parts of stroy telling: character developement. Or, good character developement, I should say. 

My biggest issue: They are fake. They feel so unnaturally forced and overdone that it makes me instinctively hate them – which is kind of counter-productive to the entire point of the “movement”. And I mean that in the very loaded sense of “trend”. It is now the -thing- to push all types of media/entertainment to be concerned, and include, with diversity, gender rols issues and including the “strong female lead” trope that many authors, I feel, fluffing their work with. Extraneous characters that they don’t truely believe in, that they are building on a basis of necessity to include, rather than organically developing the appropriate characters the story needs.

I am currently reading Mage’s Blood by David Hair, and though I have just started, I am already annoyed. I can’t tell if I like it. I’m not sold, but I also cannot simply abandon it, and it is frustrating because I can’t help but wonder if I would be so torn if it weren’t for this Elena character.

If there is a perfect example of a character being forced into the “strong femal lead” role, this is it … well, I’m sure many others, but this is the one slapping me in the face right now, and I’d love to send it flying across the room – but it is that gnat that nags and hovers in your face, but dodges your hit every time you try to smack it away.

Let me tell you, I am so ticked at this gnat right now, I’m about to whip out the fogger.

From the second we learn about this character, it is forced down your throat how much of a bad-ass she is. Beginning from how Gyle insistantly introduces her to Saint Lucia:

                   “ “Will this woman kill the children, Magister Gyler?”

                   “She’s a heartless bitch, if you will excuse the term, Holiness.” There, Elena, I’ve made your name known to the Empress-Mother, in the best way possible. Fame at last!” “

To how it is pushed, every, other, grueling line, how she struggles to push away her maternal instincts, and thwart-off the interests/praises of the men, to how she pushes herself in training when we, at last, get to actually meet her. It’s redundantly shoved in your face: Look at me, I’m a badass, I am tough, look how tought I am, I don’t need men, look, I am a badass! Am I a badass yet?

What a cunt! I am so thrilled! 

And even though I recognize that those previous quoted lines are written with a hint of cynicism, it is accepted as noteworthy and even impressive!

                   “ Lucia smiled gleefully. “Excellent! I like her alredy -” “

So, apparently, in order to be strong, and a badass, you must be a cunt. Awesome. Can’t imagine why type of shit is so exhausting to read…

But they don’t need to be so forced. Saint Lucia herself is an unbelievable badass, already, in just a few pages – and it happens all so easily and naturally, without thought or question. But, what a shocker, she is also a cunt!

But the evil-strong have always been easy. And yes, we do love them – as is epitomized by Cersei Lannister and how we drool over her, we love to hate her and for some sadistic reason (that says more about us than Martin’s writing talents) we STILL route for her. And the fact that this, already sinister, Saint Lucia is on the team we’re supposed to be routing for. So yes, we do love them…

But is that it? Do we get no sane, not-evil, stron ladies that don’t seem ungodly forced and pre-built awfulness? Because that’s all we’re going to get so long as people feel the need to include such characters for the sake of pop-culture demand and worry of back-lash.

And that shouldn’t be.

Stories and story-tellers should not be dictated what to write and when and about who and how – that isn’t what makes memorable, or meaningful tales or characters. That kills it – that kills all the magic and stifles muses. 

I have no idea if that is how Hair felt as he was writing this book – but that is certaintly of it feels, and is is incredibly off-putting.

I write to tell a story. I don’t take the time to go through the checklist of diversity to make sure I’ve inlcuded the “appropriate” amount of women-to-men ratio, or gays-to-straights, or minorities-to-nonminorities. I just tell the story. That’s it. I put in exactly the amount of WHATEVER characters the story needs. And that’s it. I let the story tell me what it needs and where – Not societal demands and politics. 

Short Stories & Excerpts, The Ogham

Progressions – snippets from ‘The Stray Chronicles’

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snippets from Strays

an excerpt from latest revisions – Chapter 17

 

The tension in the room was suffocating. Ambrogue and Kai stood defensively in the corner, on guard. Balahir shrunk away in the doorframe, but couldn’t stop watching. Archabiya had dried her tears in the corner. Everyone was at attention, but couldn’t move.

Gryph made for the door, but Merryck and Balahir stood in the way.

“Wait!” Merryck pleaded. Gryph didn’t want to look at him.

“Please,” Dahgmar bent to pick up the medallion, “This is a horrid misunderst –”

“Stop!” Gryph cut, his grip on everything beginning to slip, “I won’t be a part of this!” He turned back to Avior, “This is what the Order has become? You disgrace it; you disgrace everything we fought for. I won’t help you – and I won’t let you take her.” Angry tears welled in his eyes, and he stormed away.

Archabiya stood, horrified, but Avior stopped her in her tracks.

“Don’t. Let him go – give him time. We’ll straighten this all out in time, just, let him have some time…”

 

 

Poetry, The Ogham

The Winterman

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I am but a gleaming end

An epilogue in ice and frost

to lay in slumber upon branch and bend

I am but a passer by

my time checked by waning day

Limited though I rule this sky

I am but the last farewell

the closing line to the wheele

the clocks turning, I hear my bell

I am but a moment’s thrill

Though my touch can bring such glee

The spring, it comes, to thaw my chill

And though the warmth draws a tear

I pay it no mind

My time will come, again, next year.