Planet Tempus

Imagine a world with time sectors. I could be walking a group of visiting friends around and saying: “So this whole bit is 8 o’clock, and that over there is 08:10.” You could move freely around the kingdom, as long as it was clockwise. For a newcomer that’d be tricky, as the times shift constantly, but the locals would all but have the rhythm in their bones. There’d also be the dreaded Turners, people who travelled anti-clockwise and thus caused disturbances and time-loops, some of which they used to their advantages in, say, a robbery. Also, moving/travelling would be in turns of turning things, mostly. You can’t really keep track of your direction all the time. See, one would always stir their coffee clockwise, walk around the block clockwise, and even their houses would be designed with spirals so you’d always walk clockwise. There would be silly religions – The Left-To-Righters (Uppers) and the Right-To-Lefters (Downers), always quarreling what was the right way to smear butter on bread or place cobblestones while constructing a road. These religions are most prominent in the city sectors.

How much one complied to these rules didn’t matter much in some places (positioned slums), but in others, (Sacred places), where the particular spot connected to one or both of the two towers, it’d matter a whole lot. It could define whether or not there would be a time loop that week.

Now, the two towers are actually a single, well, spike that runs through the whole planet, two visible towers emerging at each end. It’s constructed of fitted crystal slabs which contain the energy of time, which control the time-shifts of the planet. Inside the actual spike there are long, colourful sheets of silk, forever swirling around and also having the function of containing the energy, as well as creating a very beautiful sight. Spectators come form as far away as neighboring planets to admire it.

The time–shifts occur once every 3 days/months, carrying a feel of time brought from the previous sector. There are 9 sectors all in all, sort of. It goes like this:

·      Sectors 1, 2 and 3 are the most orderly and controlled, known for their wealth and strict time rules.

·      Sector 4 is mostly known for it’s prosperous farms, open fields and good-natured inhabitants.

·      Sector 5 is considered kind of quirky, (hippie, experimental), not a respectable place in the eyes of the people of sectors 1-3.

·      Sector 6 is largely forests and forest people. That includes fairies and faeries, moon deer and Shortlings.

·      Sectors 7&8 are called The Lost Sectors, because they are not defined amongst themselves, and mostly consist of wastelands, deserts and wilderness. It is believed that nothing except the most terrible things can survive there.

·      Sector 9 is where the Palace is, a place for far-off and insignificant royalty. There are also lots of ruins, lots of memories of times that were better and worse, lots of forgotten history records. People who wander off while visiting have a tendency to return dazed, with no memory of their whereabouts at the time, or not to return at all. (Since sector 1 is so close to 9, it carries a slight reputation of unpredictability.)

(In ancient times, there were 12 sectors – a perfect timepiece. Some things happened, and one of the towers was critically damaged, and there was much chaos before our heroes managed to repair the affected areas enough for people to live at least coherently, and only forwards in time. Improvements to those repairs continued to form the system that controls the functions of planet Tempus today. The system is flawed, but it works, and serves its purpose.)

The time shifts also bring with them any weather characteristics that they might have acquired while turning over the rest of the planet. (The time sectors are also the atmosphere of the planet.) Sector 6 tends to have shitty weather, which, in this position, is fortunate, because it passes over the wastelands and calms down before reaching the more populated sectors, also watering the Umnge forests –(dense and impenetrable, naturally riddled with danger.)

We were in the walls, and..

We were in the walls, and Auntie Liza and Uncle Ben were in the overgrown cobblestones in the garden. Mother was in the cieling lamp in the bedroom, and Father was in the workbench in the shed. Gloria was in her collection of earrings, which was not a suprise, but then again Rufus was in the latch on the front door. Silly Rufus. Who's going to get in now?


Thanks to Kat for her lovely idea. 

Unexpected promises

The day was hot, the sun unleashing it's wrath on any being foolish enough to venture outside. Dhinaé was thankful for the thick stone walls of monastery and the shade it provided, though it looked as if she would have to stay there until the sun had relinquished its hold of the day and made way for the moon.

Might as well make the best of it. Dhinaé thought. She hadn't been inside the monastery before now. Looking around, she examined the intricate patterns on the floor and the religious ornaments.

An Ode TO Lucy

He stood, frowning at the breeze
A handkerchief tied 'round his knee
In his hand - something once lost -
He held the Book of Misery

Between his lips - a cigarette
A present, somewhat idle threat
A part of him, a price to pay
Absurd factor of regret..

He had no more dreams that day
The wind had blown them all away
His muse had gone on journeys long
(A pleasant, rather cheeky fey)

If his pen lay on the ground,
His notebook nowhere to be found
He might fondly turn to strings
Refuge lay in those low sounds

Sounds that stirred a distant call
Of paint splattered on the walls
Of words upon a screaming stage
Of a bloom, impossibly tall

The Book, now hurtling past the edge
Had felt rather priviledged
At being cast into the void
Instead of crushing all man's pledge

The smoke's trail in the air
Fled from Lucy's breath of swear,
Floated on with news to us
Of our dear old Lucifer.

Definition of comfort

As I read Stephen Fry's "The Hippopotamus", I continuosly ponder about how and why would what be considered an adequate inspiration, what quality of creativity that would unleash and how in the hell it should be evaluated. Again and again I find myself trying to see my nonexistent work through the eyes of people I have never met, people I don't understand, yet respect immensely. All of this having to do with the all-consuming phrase amour propre, the definition of which I Googled about an hour ago. Again and again these brilliant people take pleasure in crushing so many little buds through their characters, and yet they provide much needed nourishment for the actual buds/withered blooms that suck all this brilliance in. Everything I do is being done too late, so procrastination is both justified and the worst thing I could possibly do. The horrifying phenomenon of pleasing others is what drives this world through all of it's pathetic, money-raking circles, and also what comes as a kick-in-the-gut realisation as a worthy goal. Pleasing yourself, on the other hand, is an unforgiving act of egoism, and a vital element in aspiring to do something different, and then later - and element of seemingly endless and yet short-lived repetition.

[Looking at things too widely often does destroy the matter at hand, but trying to understand everything is by no means a sin. It provides a lot of misunderstanding, too.]

I cannot formulate my thoughts if I suspect I'm being watched of evaluated, even if not at the present moment - my torrents of pent-up words only find life by way of writing. I have a purpose, I know there are shiny little bits of good truths I have stumbled upon, but the only way to display them is to go through a big watering-down process, as well as intricate concentrating, and again, discipline, a concept to be feared and revered. A skill of combining "talents" must be put to use as soon as it is found or developed half-way, and well as a stressful rehearsal before unveiling it to the general public.

I love to learn, but I can only build a shell around me that protects me from less than half of the problems that I encounter. It's all to easy to convince myself of the darkest, lurking fears and failures. What follows is either a bumbling, emotional mess, or a numbness, followed by an attempt to deal with life as it is. I need help, but to mold myself into receiving what is offered to me takes just as much effort as defining what I need help with in the first place. Impossible choices and implications of priorities and sure to follow.

It's so easy to complain. To create something beautiful you must often douse it with a good amount of self-loathing, since that is apparently what people get off on these days.
And since everyone complains, you almost never get a chance to say something new, because it's simply an on-going topic that stabs you forever.
And even when you've finally done it, when you've created something you can pride yourself and others with, when you've succeeded in doing something "impressive", does it not cross your mind to question the point of the whole fucking thing? Is it actually beneficial to something worth making a fuss about? Should it be? If it isn't, is it a proud display of independent talent, or is it a show of mule-headedness?
Has your goal really been the creation all along, or has it turned into just fucking doing something, for fucks sake?

Chew on this, my pretties.

Inspiration by caress

[She] squinted, trying to get a closer look. The man appeared to be drawing rapid patterns with his finger on the lady's forehead. Then the man gave an odd twitch and started talking.
"Yeah, come out. I'll explain so you don't get any interesting ideas."
[She] jumped, then guiltily crept out from behind the dusty boxes, her cheeks a tad pink.
He continued:
"She's in a sort of a trance, you can see that. It's a very vulnerable state, as well as an unusually receptive one. I'm stimulating certain parts of her skin to influence her thinking in certain ways. It's not dangerous. It's not brain-washing. It's going to help her sleep."

A frozen angel.

Rebecca never did tell any one about the things she saw.
There were a number of reasons behind this - one was the rather obvious issue of belief, another was that she was never quite sure if they were there or not. But mostly it was because she wanted to keep them, and keep them to herself. God knows what would happen if she disrupted the fine border of secrecy.
Although Rebecca only became acutely aware of them when she was nine, she guessed that the rings of light had been there her whole life. When they chose to appear, that is. It only happened when there was snow on the ground, usually in the last week before Christmas, and sometimes around mid-January. They were very beautiful, these rings. Made entirely of tiny spheres of white light, they varied in size, starting with ones that could fit around your waist like a fat, yet delicate hula hoop, and ending with ones that could comfortably rest in the palm of your hand.
They would appear in the most unexpected places, like the undisturbed patch of white next to the clocktower, or the tiny glade in what was left of the nearby forest. Once Rebecca discovered a few hovering around the edges of her ice-cold balcony on the fifth floor.
The rings had always been a mystery, and were just as much of a mystery to the now twelve-year-old girl. Usually that didn't bother her that much. It was easier to simply accept their presence, partly because they always seemed to offer a kind of reassurance, a metaphorical warmth. In return, Rebecca treated them with a great deal of respect. She would always watch from a distance, sometimes standing in one spot for hours, reveling in the only proof this desperate little heart of a child clung to, of all the imaginary wonders she had ever known. It seems that way, doesn't it? It could all be real, the evidence peeking at us from behind a corner, but, until it appears, we must carry on with our serious lives. The world around her would grow dark with the end of another short winter day. The closest she had ever gotten to these luminous wonders was the time when, tired of building snow forts, she had laid down in the snow to watch the sky. She had not fallen asleep, that she was sure of, but the feeling was very much like starting awake when the rings began to appear above her, one by one, moving ever so slightly in their own little dance. She had been tempted to reach out and touch one, but, as easy as it would have been, she didn't dare. Instead she lay there, thinking, watching, until the rings had disappeared, and long after, until she finally realised it was late and she was freezing, and it was time to hurry home.

***

"My Lord."

"Yes, Kendar?"

"It appears that the lune spirits have been amusing themselves in the Otherlands for longer than we first thought."

"How long, Kendar?"

"Several decades. Although it is hard to tell precisely, Una is certain that the number of years surpasses seventy."

"Has anyone noticed?"

"Not that we know of, my Lord."

"I suppose that's good. Do keep an eye out for me, will you, Kendar?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Thank you. You may go."

"Yes, my Lord."

Honeymooners*

*take this one extremely literally 

It's the risk you have to take, my dear

It's the life you have to live, my dear

And the consequence you have to fear

For it is ever present

***

"Why do you hold on to the past?"

"Because I cannot hold on to the future, and the present is ultimately either of the two.

But that doesn't mean I'm not enjoying myself."

Ponders-turned-character ideas:

As I sit here, wondering where the hell my life is going, I'm finally thinking back to what led me to the good parts of this point. The parts I wanted to achieve. And if I've achieved them.

It's really invaluable just to DO. All those things you realise really are true, just a tad too late to be convenient.

Maybe I should do story ideas on YouTube, too. Combining my own efforts would relieve some stress.  Also, it's great to be inspired by people and all that, but no reinventing their ideas. And returning to former good values is crucial. Yesyes.

I'm okay. I'm protected. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.

Emotion. Emmotion. The good and deep kind. I'd almost forgotten. In fact, I HAD forgotten that was what I was aiming for all along. Oh my. Laughter. Thanks.

Death

"Well.. how to put this.. I think death is beautiful. I'm not talking about myself, no," he continued, smiling at Clara's giggles, "I mean the process itself. And even the result."

*

"Hey, you know that Beatles' song, right? Eleanor Rigby?"

Clara nodded.

Death hummed a couple of lines anyway: 

"All the lonely people.. Where do they all come from?

All the lonely people.. Where do they all belong?

That concept of belonging, it fits, you see."

"But isn't belonging just an idea?"

"No, not really, that's either some enlightened detachedness or angsty teenage talk. No offense." he grinned. "Humans are social animals, the concept is natural. What I meant was, I have this idea of everybody belonging together in life. And death. It doesn't occur to everybody to think at such a scale, and to actually pull it off in any respectable way is more of a challenge than what you'd expect. And yet, it's very simplistic."

Clara tilted her head. "I guess.. Yeah, I can see that. What I can't see is people warming to that idea."

"Not unlikely as you might think. Dear old planet Earth is a horrible place, sure, but it's a great one, too."

"You keep talking in ultimatums."

"Mm, a habit of mine. I'm sure you understand why."

*

Clara stared at the boy, his utterly familiar face. "I.. know you."

"Hello, Clara. Yes, you certainly do."

*

"It's mostly pointless to look sullen and hope that someone's going to take pity and engage you in a conversation."

*

"A sophisticated mind is less likely to be found among the innocent." 

Energy-verse

Persephone picked up one of the blades of grass and watched the energy trickle out. She cupped her hand under it, so it pooled in her palm. Cautiously, she started playing around with it. The more she did so, the more a bond seemed to form between her and the green light, to [Clara] it looked almost like a bond of trust. As the corners of Persephone's mouth started gradually turning upwards into their usual position, [Clara] too found herself cheered by this little spectacle, even letting out a giggle. The little sphere of life-force was shining very brightly by now, in symbiosis with the hands turning and weaving it.
After a while, Persephone nuzzled the sphere lightly, and passed it back into the shimmering field.

*

"In this parallel, well, alternate place, my name happens to be Persephone." Harmony was explaining as best she could.

*

"At times, you can carry the energy out of here. But you have to be careful, oh-so-careful, and, more importantly - care. If you're an unworthy bearer, it will be obvious. You won't be able to handle the energy and it might just escape and wreak havoc on a cat or something. Which would be bad.
Anyhow, you can keep it in anything that fits its element. There are thirteen of them, I'll get to that in a bit. If you pool one kind of energy into a different element, it gets weakened, or, if the element is sinister enough, cancelled out altogether."

The Ms.

Clara felt a tap on her shoulder, looked up, and was faced with the most stunningly beautiful woman she had ever seen. She had hair the colour of dark chocolate, a nose that seemed to be sniffing dangerously close to perfection, and green eyes, seemingly flecked with gold.
"Hello, Clara," she said, "my name is Blossom Lenvere. Harmony said I'd find you here."

*

"And Harmony, dear, don't forget to mind the garden, make sure it doesn't get into too much trouble."

"Yes'm." Harmony gazed up at Ms. Lenvere adoringly. 

Clara continued to look at the floor. Ugly, concrete. 

Shaking her distracting hair, Ms. continued: "I'm sure the vines will want a bit of attention.."

And even from here, Clara could clearly see the spiderwebs that covered the chandelier. "..and so will the butterflies.." not that it actually revolted her, they gave it a very dream-like quality, but the light which flooded the room seemed distinctly nauseating. ".. and my dear old Baobab seems to have gotten in quite a temper recently (don't give me that look, switching emotions is an extremely lengthy process for trees, dear), but, if you are lucky, she will be asleep for most of the time." Oh, no. Exactly. Nausea. Clara held her breath. "That's really all I can think of, I'm sure you two will be just fine. If there is anything, however, you can reach me by phone - I left the number inside the topmost left drawer in the black cupboard." That didn't help. She closed her eyes instead. Better. "Well, then. Be good, Harmonica. Clara, it was a pleasure meeting you. Oh, here, sweetie, take this." Clara felt Ms. Lenvere's fingers press something into her hand. Keeping her eyes closed, she muttered a thank you(, and did a clumsy half-curtsy?). 

"Farewell, miss! We'll be waiting!" Harmony burst out, as if she'd been impatient for Ms. to finish talking, which, come to think of it, she probably had.
"Yes. Yes, goodbye. I must go." Ms. Lenvere gave both girls a brief glance and hurried out the door, into the pale day. The heavy door closed, leaving them standing in the quiet, vast hall. 

"Flowerpot?" Harmony gave Clara a nudge.

"Don't call me that," she muttered.

"Open your eyes."

Clara did, and immediately felt like her stomach was trying to waltz, so she closed them again.

"No, no, keep them open."

"I'd rather not." Clara shook her head lightly.

"Clara, I mean it. Look." Harmony pried open her hand, and Clara noticed only now that it had been clenched. She looked down. Resting in her palm was a vividly blue stone, set in a round, intricate silver locket on a silver chain. The nausea dissipated instantly. 

"I knew it." Harmony gave one of her trademark grins.

"She.. Ms. Lenvere.. She couldn't possibly have-"

"Yep, she did. This is yours. Here." Harmony took the necklace and fastened it around Clara's neck. "They're very good to have in a place like this."

*

Ms. Lenvere looked on as the youth swiftly opened the new packet of tobacco, found papers and filters, and expertly rolled two cigarettes. He presented one with a smile and a bow, lit the other and proceeded on his way, leaving Ms. Lenvere in the alley, holding "one of those sticks they burn in their mouths". She looked at it for a moment, contemplating, hesitant - then fished a dainty little silver lighter from her pocket and lit it. Inhaling, she closed her eyes, and blew the smoke out slowly. Then she let out a little cough and said "I don't know how you humans can do this stuff." She took another drag, made a face, then put the cigarette out whilst exhaling and walked off, abandoning it on the side of a trashcan for some hobo to find.

coming together

Suddenly, instead of music, there was a crackling in her earphones. Clara stopped to fumble around and see what had gone wrong. Before she could do much, the crackling was replaced by a voice. "Hello, Clara," it said. Terribly unoriginal.

*switching story lines?*

"I have a message for you." Clara waited, anticipating a threat or something else of the sinister kind, wondering how the hell this got on to her player. But, there was nothing. Just about two minutes of silence, and then her player [Fred?] switched to the next song. Clara gave it a sarcastic look, realized she was acting like Harmony would, then wore a grin which gradually shifted into a mystified expression.

*

Clara sat idly, staring into her teacup, then suddenly got up, hesitated, and then moved Harmony out of the way and sat down by her computer, got to her music, and started looking for something.
"What are you doing?" Harmony asked, and received no reply.
"Hey. Hey. Flowerpot."
Clara continued to ignore her, but stopped scrolling. [Fred] contained three songs with the title "unknown". Slowly, Clara moved her mouse over the first.
Cli-click.
"There's a little church-yard, just along the way. Used to be Lambeth's finest array, of tom-"
Cli-click.
"Clara, really." Harmony was getting impatient."
Soft piano music floated through the speakers, and Clara remained silent. She held her breath, and clicked on the third song.
A moment of silence. Then - "Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage-"
Clara breathed out, and turned it off. She turned to look at Harmony, who had been waiting for a while with her face portraying dozens of questions. Clara laughed lightly, then said "Fine. I'll tell you. Something kind of weird happened last week.."

*

Clara wondered what to do. She stared at the walls for a bit, then the ceiling, then she remembered that she had [Fred] with her, which cheered her up at once. she dug around in her bag until she found him. Clara wondered what she'd like to listen to, couldn't think of anything, so she switched to the list of Artists and scrolled down quickly, hoping something would jump out at her. Something did, but subtly - just enough to make her subconscious make a connection. It then tried nagging her about it, albeit unsuccessfully. She might have stopped for half a second, she might not have. In the end she settled for 'Manic Street Preachers'. 

*

Clara eyed [Fred], the odd name of the song, and cautiously clicked play. 

"Clara, really," said Harmony's voice, and she spun, but no one was there. No Harmony. 

then she nearly smacked herself in the face as she realized that the song had come from [Fred]. That was the conversation she'd had with Harmony the day before. It had somehow been recorded.. It was almost as if whoever had done this was mockingly screwing with her attempts of finding out what it all was. Actually, no, this person was definitely mocking her. 

"And it can't be Thomas or something?"

"Nah, he's smart, and he can be sneaky, but not nearly sneaky enough fo-" Click. 

And again, there were a couple minutes of silence, then [Fred] switched to a random song.

~Thrown Out

... Cer had no idea where he was. The little daemon had suffered a very nasty shock, but that wasn't the most disorienting issue. Everything was.. well, fresh? Cold. There were no fumes. And everything was alive, alive in the way that makes blood course through your veins, that makes you breathe.. air..

Cer understood. He was no longer in the underworld. He was no longer in Hworlodoth. He was among humans.
They had thrown him out.

***

He is a demon-like thing, with a perpetual bewildered expression and unfathomable motives for doing.. whatever he does. I don't know. Another thing that stays with him is a peculiar shadow, more of a watery reflection of his soul. So. Tell me what you think.

And, yes, that puddle-shadow-thingy is the reflection of his soul. Don't be judgemental, now, it's the only one he's got.

The triangle his MOUTH, not his NOSE!! His nose is hidden.

***

"I've developed a kind of story for him, he was a happy little demon living in hell, but he screwed up in one way or another, and was banished. The experience was quite horrible, and changed him in the depths of his soul, which altered appearance as well. Now he roams the earth, doing good or bad, I'm not sure. The poor, twisted thing. 
He has powers, he doesn't want to tell me what they are, yet.. 
I know his eyes change when he uses them. 

Belated, but found

It was the 11th when the air turned.
Clara breathed it in. Fresh, not sharp, but with a certain clearness to it. The light had the quality of a perfectionist. Autumn was approaching.

*

I could put in a couple of fancy terms in latin. Yeah, that could work.

*

Harmony and Clara looked at each other, grinned, and simultaneously said "You're amazing." 

"Jinx!!" Harmony cried gleefully. 

*

From that despiseable radio there came a song, one of Harmony's favourites, in fact. [Madness - Our House] In Slovenian. AND incorporated into a commercial. Our girl sat there, chewing rapidly and giving the radio a disbelieving and rather bewildered stare. She stopped doing both of these things for a moment, her mind going through all the possible ways to most effectively destroy that measly little piece of machinery, then she swallowed and resolutely gave the radio the most disheartening glare she could muster. The radio, unperturbed, carried on with the horrid commercial quite cheerfully.

*

Harmony leaned in, and whispered, trying to sound sinister: "Let me tell you.. about the Paper Man."

*

"..and so this is why we we have to run out into the field, and tell the cows exactly, I cannot stress this enough, exactly, what that guy said about mixing cocktails, and give them each an apple and pat them on the head, but we must be sure to remove any bugs (from the cows, not the apples), because bugs would eavesdrop and jeopardise the whole thing. In conclusion, the cows will be so overcome by our kindness that they will tell us everything we need to know about grass. There." 

Harmony finished triumphantly, then, after a moment's thought, added - "And we absolutely must be sure that there are no ugly houses in sight, they keep me from concentrating." 

Dante was doing his best to make sense out of this, and that was his mistake. 

"Ok.. But really, how does that fit in with-"

Harmony, who had realised this, interrupted: "Oh, don't worry about the logic, that's completely unnecessary."

"But-"

"In fact, it can be rather annoying at times, getting in the way of my ingenious plans. Probably because it's so misunderstood.. "

Dante sighed, and stopped trying to make sense. 

Much better, Harmony thought.

"Alright, so what do we have to do now?"

"We don't have to do anything. Except prepare. Blankets, apples, some other snacks, your book, flashlights." 

"Flashlights?"

"We're going at night, obviously."

"What? Why?"

"Because I said so. Oh, and orange juice. Can't forget the orange juice."

*

Breathless as he was, Dante ran up to Clara, breathless, looked at her with absolute panic in his eyes and said, breathlessly: "What are you doing this Saturday?"