bardiphouka: (raven)
Written for [ profile] brigits_flame
Word Count:105

Omissions Filled )
bardiphouka: (gorey moon)
Written for [ profile] brigits_flame
Prompt=body language
Word Count=126

Approaching Samhain )
bardiphouka: (Default)
Written for [ profile] brigits_flame

An Intimate Meal )
bardiphouka: (gorey 1)
Written for [ profile] brigits_flame
Word Count:124
Warnings:slight eroticism.

Storms and You in the key of E )
bardiphouka: (Default)
Written for [ profile] brigits_flame
Warning..suggested violence and sexuality
Word Count: 403
genre: fiction

flying and your touch )


Jun. 10th, 2012 09:55 am
bardiphouka: (don quixote)
Written for:[ profile] brigits_flame
Prompt: Tread lightly for you tread on my dreams.

And We Shall Leave Them Be )
bardiphouka: (Default)
Prompt:Martial Law
Written for :[ profile] brigits_flame
genre:science fantasy

How Peaceful Becomes the Lake )
bardiphouka: (Default)
written for:[ profile] brigits_flame
word count:424

Raven Down the Wormhole )
bardiphouka: (Default)
Written for [ profile] brigits_flame
Prompt: Blue Barn
Word Count:1533
genre: science fantasy

Not Quite Grey )

12 miles

May. 6th, 2012 03:52 pm
bardiphouka: (coyote music)
Prompt:A bag of root vegetables
Written for: [ profile] brigits_flame
Word Count 567

12 Miles )


Apr. 20th, 2012 10:56 pm
bardiphouka: (Default)
written for [ profile] brigits_flame

Breathing )
bardiphouka: (Default)
Written for [ profile] brigits_flame
prompt: mature
Word Count:114
Genre, faux science

A Minor Explanation )

Ave Mary

Mar. 11th, 2012 11:46 am
bardiphouka: (gorey 1)
Written for:[ profile] brigits_flame
Prompt:cleave (either definition..both used)
Warnings:Violence, sex hinted at.
Word Count:150

Ave Maria )
bardiphouka: (Default)
Brigit's Flame mini contest
Prompt:Bring on the Wonder
Word count 98

Wonder Returns

Once at 5 he
found a riot of
Wildflowers in the woods,

A shaft of light through
The trees and the world
turned all colour and
Beauty overwhelming
Even for a 5 year old

Decades and lovers
Come and go until
He is left with his
Instruments and silence

Until one day they meet
And in time she reached for him
sky clad in a room full
Of sunlight and wonder
And her touch is as
Overwhelming as that
Long ago day of
A different beauty,

But still
Not just her
But the wonder
Of love
bardiphouka: (Default)
Title: A Mostly True Story
Author: [ profile] bardiphouka
Rating: PG
Warnings: implied violence
Word Count: 273
Prompt: “shortcut to happiness”
A/N: Written for week #3 at [ profile] brigits_flame

A Mostly True Story

It was, as we said,
The Summer of Love
Carried on a few years
For those who who
Missed the first.

And the story starts,
As many did then,
With dead things
Not soldiers but roses

Dozens left in the alley
The florist, it seems,
Having anticipated a
Burst of Romance

That had not happened.
And so Terry and I,
With nothing better to do
Nabbed the innocent victims

And held the first and last
Ann Arbor smile contest.
Each lady who smiled
Got a rose and a promise
That they would find

Happiness at some
Point during the day.
That was Terry’s Idea
Terry could make me nervous

Especially when I heard
People had started disappearing
Women disappearing
With smiles in my memory

“Isn’t it best” Terry said
“To let happiness slide
like red rainbows and
stay forever?”

I did not answer the door
That night, I could not
Remember if I had smiled.
There was a note on the door

“Gone fishing for more trout”
The note was fixed to the door
With a knife slightly redflecked
And which I did not touch

So there you have it, sometimes
The way to sudden happiness
Can leave something
To be desired.
bardiphouka: (Default)
Contest :Brigit's Flame
Prompt Deviant Divinity
Word Count 850

You have to know about the town of Laurel. It exists here, and here, and on occasion there. In short it exists wherever it is needed to exist.  The one entrance to the town is over an old and battered covered wooden bridge. The bridge has been patched together more times than one would think possible. Once you get across the bridge things are roughly the same no matter where Laurel has placed itself at the moment. 

The one constant to be mentioned here, and a special one at that, is the pub Highland. Highland has it happens is always in two places. One is in Laurel, wherever that is, near Joshua the giant spreading Sycamore tree. The other is at the edge of the University area of a Midwest City. This, as it happens, could explain the card game transpiring on the rear deck of Highland. 

Regulars at Highland outside Laurel would remember a rather large Sycamore tree growing in the centre of the rear deck. But tonight there was a rather ornate circular table there. And around the table were four card players. Oddly, one had to try hard to focus to see them or else the eyes would just slide off like watching a mirage of water fade away on the interstate on a Summer day. Or, if looked at from a slightly widdershins sideways fashion, on could see an assortment of animals around the table. 

But under the flickering once was Christmas lights and the paper lanterns with their shifting painted scenery,  some of the real regulars, the ones who knew better than to look out certain windows inside Highland, were watching the game regardless of the visual stability of the players.   

At the end of the table was Kitsuni, in a russet vest and a pair of black cargo pants. Her ginger hair was in a long braid that hung across one breast and her bright dark eyes seem to compete, not reflect the light. On her left arm was a tattoo of a fox that almost seemed to move from time to time. 

Facing each other across the table were Coyote and Raven. Both were dressed in black, but Coyote had a low slung Stetson hat with a silver conch band that matched the silver fob and chain on his grey vest. 

Raven was also in black, but it was a shiny black, jeans and a silk shirt covered by a black leather jacket that had a Celtic embossing that seemed to shimmer in the night. He wore a short top hat which at one time carried a feather but no longer did. 

Across from Kitsuni was Badger, who was dressed in a grey three piece Seville suit with black dress boots and a raked black derby. He spoke in a heavy, faked, British stage accent to disguise the fact that he was, in fact British. 

Poker is an odd sport, but never so unique as when it is played by  four tricksters sitting in a pub that straddles the world between the mundane and the magical.   Generally the rules change often during the night, sometimes in the middle of a game. And the stakes can be anything from areas to the use of powers for a specific time, which is one of the reasons the game is played in a fairly neutral area such as Highland.

At the moment they were playing 5 card blind double flip. In this variation 5 cards are dealt face down and if any two end up matching the pot is split among all four. The pot so far in this case includes a brothel in the middle of Nunavut, although everyone in it thinks they are still in the Northwest Territories. Also a forgotten ocean liner in Yorkshire, a bodega in New York which sells honesty in the back room. All this just for starters.

4 Tricksters, a dozen bystanders watching from a cautious distance. And one woman. Who walked through the door with hesitation, as if she were not sure she should be here. In her hand she was twirling a single raven's feather. She was not sure why it had brought her here. It was just one more thing in a series of changes that the feather seemed to have brought in her life since it had appeared in her purse mysteriously three months before. She knew she had never felt more vibrant and full of expectancy in her life. But she also was still confused. It had taken her half an hour just to get through the three rooms of the pub on her way the outside deck she knew somehow was her destination. She had ordered a cup of herb tea (she was still not sure what sort of herb was in the tea), perused all the books, tapped a few of the piano keys, looked at the grouper who seemed to be just as intently looking back at her. And all the while the feather twirled in her fingers, like a small child waiting to see the next trick in the circus.

Raven looked up sharply as she came through the door. There was something unique and something special about her. Then he saw the feather and remembered her. She had been in a coffee shop but slowly disappearing and he had felt a need to help by slipping a raven feather into her purse. He wondered if the feather had caused her to glow or if she had given the feather the power he could feel from the table he sat at.

And Raven did something he had never done. He pushed his pile into the table, powers and memories, even an hour in the Dublin Jungle, and stood up.

“Enjoy the game” he said and moved to the woman standing there in the doorway and in the beginning of the next stage of his life, where his deviance would be in not being that deviant, and brought her to a dark corner of the room where he held her hand and her heart.

And the three tricksters left stared. This was something totally unheard of. Raven not bargaining? Raven not sliding cards from sleeves that had not existed? They actually had a chance to beat him now.

They turned up his cards for him. Five cards, all pictures of Raven. An unsettling thought occurred to them. They each turned over their cards. And in each case the hand was five Ravens.

The pot in the table slowly slid into a grey bag and appeared next to Raven. A card appeared as Raven turned back to wave to them “Goodness,” the card said, “is like the difference between love and lust. It starts in small steps.”

Badger looked at Raven and the woman and could not help but laugh. In a moment all were laughing as the night rearranged into a deck with a large sycamore tree in the centre instead of the table, with branches that rustled like laughter.
bardiphouka: (Default)
Title: Variant Feathers
Author: [ profile] bardiphouka
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1380
Prompt: “good omens”, first line: “There was a spark”, “verisimilitude”
A/N: This was written for week #1 at [ profile] brigits_flame, the advanced level.

There was a spark. The Peregrine preened for a moment as she watched it before taking flight. For the first time in weeks it appeared to be a day made for sunshine and she was going to take advantage of it. Her wings spread out,the white parts of her under-wing bright in the morning light. Between that and the barring she looked like a monochromatic rainbow in the morning as she headed toward the higher buildings around her.

It was not that she knew about weeks. Or days, or hours, any other unit of time. The truth is that she may not have not known about rain or sun as specific functions. What she knew was flight and the freedom of flight. She could hang almost motionless in the sky far above downtown and then dive at speeds up to 320 Kilometers per hour. Sometimes there would be prey at the end of the dive but sometimes it was just the pure exhilaration of feeling the air and speed surround her.

Far below her, just out of range of the water spray of the Tyler-Davidson Fountain, a man set his load down to watch. It was something that had become a habit for him over the last few weeks. What really amazed him is that few people seem to even know that such wonder was in the downtown area. Most people just moved from one point to another, regardless of the weather they moved through. Certainly they never paid attention to me as he stood just off Fountain Square, with his old Simon and Patrick 12 string in his hands and a battered hard shell case festooned with stickers of bands or previous destinations or quotes at his feet, a few coins and his last US dollar as a means to prime donations. Hopefully people would not notice that the coins were Loonies and not Golden Dollars. He had already been involved in a conversation this week about the rights and lack of for immigrants.

But generally people passed by, and if they heard him play it was more their hearts or an old memory that heard and led to the dropping of coins or even a folded bill at times. He noticed the bronze light gauge strings were getting brittle again. Others may not notice but he did. As did his fingers, as they danced or fought with the strings up and down the neck of his old guitar. As he looked up at the sky he could not help but chuckle. He had bought his guitar in a vintage guitar shop in Victoria, the previous owner someone from Toronto who had moved west to make his fortune as a busker. And here he was, busking on the South side of the Great Lakes with not much more luck himself.

He bowed his head in mid chord as someone dropped a five in the case. Looking up he saw his falcon as her spread wings carried her from one building to another. He sighed and shook his head as he segued from Tin Angel to High Flying Bird. His falcon. He knew better, but could not help himself. Beauty was beauty and many was the day where watching her had been what kept him going from song to unheard song. Even though she probably did not notice him any more than she knew about time.

There was a spark. He looked over and saw his other distraction for the day. It was a large raven whose wings were an incandescent black in the mid morning sun. Looking into his paper bag he pulled loose a scrap of roast beef from the sandwich that he has busked for yesterday and tossed it to the ground. The raven hopped over in a sort of invisible obstacle race before taking the meat and sliding it down his throat with no grace whatsoever. It was one of the things that made him smile.

He had a sudden thought. He had been here for almost a month and had never seen the raven actually fly. In a moment he would hop back up on his perch, and then the higher one, and then the highest that made him feel safe from the crowds. Perhaps that is why the raven also seemed to spend so much time staring at the Peregrine Falcon as she flew far above the streets. Perhaps they were both destined to remember the feel of Freedom without being able to regain the Truth of it.

On the other hand, the Raven seemed content with his lot in life. He seemed to have an inerrant ability to find a place where the traffic did not flow but the occasional scrap of food did. He also seemed to always find a perch where he could track the flight of the Falcon. Apart from tracking her, or the possibility of food, he could spend hours immobile, some sort of avian Zen master in a sheen of shining black.

For a moment his fingers started moving into a reel before he remembered this was no stage. Those days were behind him. He did not notice that he still curved his fingers just when riffing down the neck to avoid catching the strings on a wedding band he had not worn for years. A wedding band he had actually given thought of replacing with a new one. But like the raven, he was fated to appear a great deal freer than he was. He carried an image in his heart that sang through his songs with just the whisper of might have been.

There was a spark. He saw the glint of afternoon sun off the light rack of a police cruiser which was circling the block too often for his liking. He waved to the soaring Peregrine Falcon and and the Raven pecking at something with an eye toward the skyline. Then he took the scattering of bills and coins (along with the bible tract left by one person who stared accusingly and left without saying anything)out of the case and slid his beloved cedar Simon and Patrick into the case. He would count the money later, for now if he wanted to be free as his falcon he needed to move on.

There was a spark. The raven seemed to notice the light as it glimmered off the latches of the guitar case and then went back to watching the Peregrine falcon who climbed through the ripples of wind toward her nest. An observer would have noticed that the nest was gradually growing slightly less cohesive. It was a situation which had existed since her mate had died last season. Since then the nest had lost its importance and all that existed for the falcon was the flight and the dive.

Far below her nesting space on the tower, the busker rambled off, wondering if he had collected enough money for a glass of cider. Or at least a cup of tea. Herb tea sounded good. And whistling a song of freedom he moved on, toward the flat where he had waited for the sense of loss to fade. With luck this would be one of the nights where dreams of her would fill the emptiness with memories of shared freedom. In some dreams he would trace along her wings instead of through the hair she had grown to waist length. And then his fingers would sprout feathers and,like the Falcon of his day hours, they would soar far above the city.

The Raven spread his wings and within the iridescent black rainbow his wings created, flew to the highest point in the city where he could watch over the falcon, listen to the busker's dreams and stutterstrut among the baubles he had collected of what was the truth of Freedom.


Apr. 30th, 2011 04:07 pm
bardiphouka: (Default)
Contest:Brigit's Flame
Prompt: Ya'aburnee
Word Count 787

The name of the house is Ya'aburnee. It is comfortable and lived in, an old Victorian home with nooks and crannies where they would kiss and where their yet unborn children will play hide and seek. There is always a soft breeze the flows through the honeysuckle and in through the windows with their shear lace drapes. He would bustle around the kitchen preparing the tea. Some mornings he would remember when making tea had been a formal ceremony for him. But now her being in his life has made everything so special that the ceremony is watching her take that first sip from one of the thick mugs they had bought in a thrift shop in Edmonton one year.

She would sit watching him as the bagels would brown in their toaster oven. As she spread the cream cheese. Had there really been a time, she wondered idly, when morning had been a time when she cherished her aloneness? A time when the smell of strong coffee would destroy the last remnants of any last nightmares and let them flee like dust motes through the tall windows.

In the house of their happiness, many mornings are complete when they never finish breakfast. Cold bagels get slid from plate to dustbin. Rings from mugs carried and then forgotten intertwine like knotwork on the cherry surface of their nightstands.

There is only one flaw. Not a truly serious one yet, more like a small field mouse that has not been discovered. Each loves the other, trusts the other. In fact the flaw might be from that love. She would look at the way that his hand would reach up toward the upper shelf of the bookcase for a book. For a heartbeat she would imagine the book never touched and there would be a small mousesize gnawing at her heart. But then the sound of the book sliding out would bring her to reality and life would be complete again.

He would think that he heard a noise and turn toward a doorway and see nothing. For that mousewhiskered millisecond he could feel the emptiness of life without her. But before it reached full thought he would hear her chuckle at something that she was reading and shiver at the awe of such a vast life together.

And so they lived and their house grew as their love grew. If there were rare moments when they feared outliving their partner, well every good family house runs the risk of mice that want their happiness too.

They did not hide from the mouse either, because their love was full and trusting and honest.

“I do not want to think of outliving you,” means more. It means they cannot imagine the dry emptiness of the hole their loss would leave, where a mouse can grow lion size and gnaw and bite and shred their life.

“Never leave me,” means more. For they know they would not be left voluntarily. And Death is that Lover that all people eventually cheat on Life with.

The nights passed in comfort and desire, in heart's evolution and companionship. Until one rainy night with no stars to reflect themselves off the road, the tires of their car lost all sense of identity. And the car approaching them took this moment when decisions were needed in a fraction of time to have a cardiac arrest.

This is the room your dying has brought me to build. The walls are made of grief, the ceiling of emptiness and the floor of your betrayal. The only noise I hear is the dull grinding as the cars me, the freed metal heading toward our windshield. And the colour of the room is the white of bleached bone.

This is the room your dying has brought me to be a prisoner of. The walls are made of anger, the ceiling of anger, and the floor of the emptiness brought from your abandoning the parts of my life that you filled. The only noise I hear is the intake of your breath as the windshield implodes.

These are the rooms that can be built in a heartbeat, or a lost heartbeat. They sit in the flanking of towers in the house become home called Ya'aburnee.

As they lay in Hospital the nurses wonder how they manage to survive. The equipment that monitors the difference between surviving and maintaining continue their unobtrusive whispering. And the paindrips are activated again and for those who are extremely acute the room has a slight ever so light scent of tea and bagels. And two people so in love and loving that they do their best not to be buried first.


bardiphouka: (Default)

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