Audio Chapter 2 of The Godward Sea: Warning - Emo, and Controversial in Nature

Chapter 1: Kosmos introduces Astrian the priest and minimally, The Moon King. Mostly, it’s about the City. Important place. I envisioned cities that could’ve stood in the Garden of Eden. There’s a lot of biblical language. Throughout Book One, I deliberately allude to the Books of Genesis, Enoch, and Solomon, as well as to the New Testament, to Greek mythology, Norse, and Celtic—all of which include scenarios similar to the controversial scenario in Chapter 2.

So onto Chapter 2: Promise.

Yes, I believe it requires a disclaimer because disclaimers reduce hard feelings and complaints. They let you know what you’re in for, and whether or not you might like to bail out. This novel is absolutely not Lolita--although I don't believe that novel to be a celebration of sexual indecency either. If my story is interpreted that way then it is misinterpreted.

2 was a difficult chapter to write (and narrate), mainly as I knew what had to happen. I had to play both the wolf and the lamb, and I had to make the analyticals ponder, which is which? Characters can and must be confused, contemptible, haunted or tainted by their past. Especially if they’re insanely beautiful and all-powerful.

It’s not my intention to define or analyze my characters’ motives, because that adds dimensions that I deliberately excluded from the book! One option for the audience is to postpone giving the entire body of work the finality of a generalization. “Oh, it’s about this.” No, no. Read on, and you’ll find it’s about that, too.

When you can only see the corner edge of an elaborate painting, it’s impossible to guess what the rest will look like. That said, if this chapter disturbs you, confuses, challenges, repulses—be patient that I will reveal the entire painting, and that there is a reason for every event and character interaction which contributes to the complete panorama.

It’s also pertinent to elaborate that no matter a character’s damage or wickedness, because I made them, I will adore them all the same. Characters can absolutely become your babies. You honor their traits, develop a sixth sense for what they will do, and are sometimes saddened by the route they do or don’t take.

I’ve tried to make the villains of The Godward Sea impossible to entirely despise, and entirely possible to empathize with; antiheroes, possibly? Characters with indefinite motives and endings with ambiguous resolutions allow an audience to theorize and rumorize and exercise and scrutinize. In this way, the story can resonate, maybe become a topic of discussion; even better, debate. That’s what I’ve tried to incorporate here: a godly character, beautiful and intellectual and tender-hearted, scarred by emotional and psychological wounds, making his wicked decisions thus. Of course, the ‘good’ heroes have their wounds as well, and then there are the damsels stuck between. But again, rather than me analyze them and enforce my opinions, I would have the truth be more personal and flexible. It will, hopefully, change based on individual perspective.

(As an aside, I’m a little more experienced with Windows Live Movie Maker now, which is both good and bad because the movie for Chapter 1 isn’t as graceful as the one for Chapter 2! Once my goal is a little closer in sight, I’ll return to Chapter 1 and apply what I’ve learned.)

  Audio/Visual Novel: The Godward Sea, Book 1, Ch 2 Promise, by TMA from Tanisha Mykia on Vimeo.

Prince of Thorns: Book Review

There are some parts of this author's work that I envy. (Just putting that on the table; I’ll always say so when it’s true.) I've read several of his short stories and poems, which have gone beneath the surface and entertained, inspired, and lingered. However, Prince of Thorns was oddly not among those works! This is no insult; it's highly readable and, like a ten car pileup, hard to look away from, but it did seem a slightly different turn from a few darker more meaningful fantasy works I've read. As the author's major publishing debut it offered me a different door into his creativity and the genre market in general, and as an aspiring writer, of course, I sprinted through it.

The cover had me thinking the book was a bit different than what it turned out to be--a strictly sword and sorcery affair rooted in a dark age, medieval times, perhaps, because there are about thirty medieval-looking swords on the cover. But there's a twist: A post-apocalyptic twist. The story apparently takes place after the world has been hit with weapons of mass destruction.

The lesson then is: don't judge a book by its cover. On the cover the prince's stance is a la David and Goliath, yet darker--a warrior victorious over many kills. And it's a stunning image, invoking thoughts of hard-fought battles, triumph, change. But it made me wonder--if a society, post-apocalyptic as this one, once knew how to make missiles and guns, then why does said society revert to using swords? If swords and cross-bows can be smithed, why can't guns?

What further confused me about this element of the story, was why, after the apocalypse, would the remaining people of a society revert to archaic lifestyles--the speech, the dress? I would think, given the many post-apocalyptic theories/films/books out there, that once humanity had been decimated, time would stop rather than revert. I'm thinking of Bethesda’s Fallout 3 (yeah, I’m a game junkie and that one was particularly fun) where the apocalypse happened somewhere between 1920-1950-something, and trends were dictated by the height of technology at the time of its downfall: People still listened to the same music, scavenged for and clung to their guns, computers, appliances, etc. And once the Rapture was over, there wasn't a religious person left on the planet.

It seems that what the author has done here is revert society back to the dark ages, pre-Renaissance and sans Humanism, instead of showing the way society was at the time of the apocalypse, which is actually a long-running theory about humanity’s “true” progression depending on which anthropological theorist you subscribe to. But it just doesn’t sit well. The overall ambience, after the point in the story when I realized it was post-apocalyptic, changed for me. I felt splashed cold with this element. This doesn't detract from the author's talent, though. As a writer, you learn to hold things up to the light and look at them critically, to look through them to find how they work. As a reader, you just go with the author's flow, and if they're talented, as this author undeniably is, then you enjoy the ride.

The writing is worthwhile: A blend of fantasy trope and voice-driven literary fiction. Every sentence is taut, Jorg's observations fiercely confident. Many passages hearken to the author's earlier poems. If, by chance, you're an aspiring poet, join his Yahoo! poetry group, be kind to some folks who want their poetry read. Just don't download any files. :) If you can find them, read the author's poems. Search them out online. For analytical types they provide an excellent context for his prose.

While the story might appeal more to the male sect, given its packaging, it's a universally blasphemous fun read in the vein of "A Clockwork Orange" that for many moments had me rooting for vengeance. What compelled me to finish Jorg's story was a strong empathy for him; hope, perhaps, that vengeance against everyone who crossed him wasn't all there was to his legacy. Mostly, it wasn't. Impressive moments range between the socially and the emotionally relevant: Love is felt by Jorg in the poetical form of hooks sinking into his heart; it absolutely affects pain in him, and this is conveyed with the kind of coarse beauty one would expect from a tortured soul. Poignant philosophies and brilliant sarcasm are scattered little gems all the way to the end. But strangely, this is all conveyed through a fifteen-year-old boy, which does feel partly cliché (hormonal teenage angst in effect) and highly improbable (c'mon, no matter what he's seen, he's still just. . . a kid).

Never mind the genre. Genres are utterly confining and you will skip over things you should have read because you discriminated against the genre or you paid too much attention to reviews. I say the same for music, shows, or movies. Judge for yourself, possibly be surprised by this ambiguous character as author Mark Lawrence blurs the lines between lovable and detestable, noble and evil, retribution and vengeance.

Liquid Story Binder: Favorite Writers' Software

 I wrote this article about two years ago right after I'd purchased the writers' software, Liquid Story Binder. Back then my netbook ran a dual boot with Linux Mint and Windows XP (I needed both operating systems for various nerdlinging reasons). Now I run a new machine that triple boots two Linux distros and Windows 7, and I’m still faithful at the church of Liquid Story Binder. I'm more familiar with the program now and absolutely still love it, and I'm not a shill like Dr. Phil. If something is good I report that it's good, go get it, tell your writer friends, the adventurous ones who like a little challenge. Some writers like their sticks and stones--a very basic and familiar setup, which is perfectly fine and has its definite uses--and some like a bit of glam. I use Liquid Story Binder enough to offer, hopefully, good advice to others who might appreciate the software as much.

If you buy the program in November, during National Novel Writing Month, it's half-off; at least it was the last couple years in a row. It's always free to try, no forfeiting credit card numbers or information. Just download the trial, give it a go if it looks useful. Some of the freeware I mention in the article below may or may not still be free; that is, they might now require you get the ‘pro’ upgrade. The only one of those programs I do recommend getting the pro upgrade for is WordWeb (see link below). Then you’ll have a very nifty dictionary/thesaurus in your Liquid Story Binder at a single click, and you’ll never miss Microsoft Word’s thesaurus. Irfanview (see link below), which is utilized by LSB to manipulate your images, is optional; you may already have Photoshop, which integrates fine. Or, if you’re using Linux—meaning you’re using Wine to run LSB, and I’ve tested that and it worked better than I expected—then you can use GIMP, which is also free and included with most Linux distros.

Okay, the article.
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Some writers rave about it. Others say it's overkill. Black Obelisk says the key to it is choice.
I believe all those things are true. Liquid Story Binder is, quite frankly, the sh*t. There are drawbacks, though. I admit  it was a complex little piece of software -- at first. I didn't understand its file system. I didn't even know where it put my books after it claimed to save them. I knew immediately it wasn't like any other program I'd ever used: a) it's gorgeous, b) it seems frickin vast, and c) it's only an 8 megabyte download.

For two weeks I played with it a little each day. The only thing I can compare LSB to is an operating system, a small one exclusively for managing and creating stories. Before LSB I wrote as slow as evolution. One of my books, an alternative historical, was such a P in the A. Historicals involve tons of research, cross-referencing, very little actual writing. It gets old. Now I keep all related references, chapters, images, etc in each "book", all neat and tidy and accessible in one click. I can focus on the premise of the book instead of burning out on the research. I can also pick up books or stories I haven’t worked on in a long time without feeling lost; all my notes, models, and all related imagery are there.

Please note: I did not say LSB improved my writing although, inevitably, writing more leads to better writing. Please also note: I am not advertising LSB and have no affiliation with LSB. Good writers' software is hard to find, and if it's good then shout it out I always say, thus this little demo/tutorial.

First, there's a difference between writers' software and word processing software.
Microsoft Word is a word processing program handy for correcting grammar and spelling with Auto-correct and Auto-format. Great for essays, research papers, proposals. Perfect for writers concerned with spelling, grammar, etc.

Liquid Story Binder XE, unlike MS Word, handles various file types. It does not correct your grammar. It facilitates your creativity by allowing extreme leeway to do whatever you like.
Some environmental differences between Word and LSB:

While Word runs on a "ribbon" menu that uses tabs--with such features as the "home" and "insert" buttons--LSB uses windows. Thus LSB feels more like an operating system than a program. This platform allows writers to click between various open documents/files, to link notes and ideas to respective documents/files, bring up references, keep organized lists, edit timelines, etc, etc in easily accessible files that can be edited, viewed, saved, whatever in a single click. 

One more thing. There are already some great tutorials online for LSB. The best source of information I've found is in the Help feature, located in the About menu. This is only a basic demonstration to show how I built my fantasy novel using LSB files. And to show those writers daunted by the program's many features that LSB is, with a little practice, a very sweet and writer-friendly program. At the very least, it's worth giving a shot.
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From the Library menu, choose Create New Book. Name it and, if you already have some in mind, type in any chapter names you want to create. Hit return after each title to create separate files. Then click Create New Book.

Don't worry about the parent folder; your book's fine where LSB wants to put it, which is in your Documents folder. If you change the book's location later on, say, to your Desktop, then the next time you open LSB your books will be missing. This is remedied by choosing View Library from Library and Adding Existing Books back into LSB.

Ok. I've created my fantasy novel, The Godward Sea.

If you like, go to Display on the main menu and select Wallpaper. Select Change Wallpaper. (Desktop wallpaper images are peachy because they fit the entire screen). If you like, tinker a bit with the Color Scheme from the Display menu. Choose from gradients, customize your colors, etc. Save the Scheme, name it after your book.

Here's my galactic Display.


Now I want to import an existing story from MS Word. Importing is different from Copy & Paste in that it will try to preserve the original formatting. From Shortcuts on the main menu I choose New then locate said file and save it as a Shortcut. The Shortcut will open in 'Read-only' mode. However, I can edit it externally (and save the edits at the same in LSB), but right now I am more concerned with transferring the content of this Word file into LSB. Shortcuts are also good for URLs to online books and articles.

Now I need to create a Planner. 'Planner' is LSB's odd name for a table of contents or an index. It's the key to my organization with a 120,000 word fantasy novel, two more behind it, 45 single-spaced pages of notes, 11 hand-drawn maps, 300 images, and even a playlist. If you love your stories that much, then LSB was made for us.

Choose New Planner from Planners to get it started. The first item has already been created and it's automatically named after my book, but I'd like to use my Planner as a table of contents so I'll change that to the name of my first chapter. I'll also put a little description of that chapter in the second textbox. Create more 'items' by hitting the new item button on the left. Save it for good measure.

 Create Chapters from your Planner by double-clicking on any of the new items you've added to it. If you've begun your novel in LSB, it might be a good idea to create a Checklist. It could be used to plot out the events in your chapter or for your entire story.

If it suits you (and it did me), create a Gallery. First, import your images into LSB. Go to Library and select Import Documents, then Import Images. My Gallery for The Godward Sea has several hundred images and photos that inspire characters, events, places, etc. Name your Gallery after your book. If you want to maximize one image at a time, double-click it. Or put all of your images in an animated slideshow if you like.

There are so many options that LSB can seem wildly complex at times, but keep Black Obelisk's motto in mind. LSB is about malleability and personal choice. You don't have to use every feature; they're simply . . . available. It's unnecessary to use all of them. Start off by getting used to the files that work best for you.

For instance, why use Timelines to chart events when you can use a Journal, which allows room for notes, ideas, or scenes? Or use a Journal to write as your character would if he or she kept a journal. Or record your own thought processes and keep little personal notes about your story like Poe did.

Vice versa -- instead of using Journals to chart events, try Timelines. These can be used to plot sagas or events that are extraneous to a main storyline, such as flashbacks that fall in sequential order as your main character remembers his forgotten past.

Next are Associations. Associations aren't as good as Listings (to me), but I will explain them because they do have their use. From your Planner choose File. Pick Associations. A dialogue will pop up showing the various file types LSB has to offer. If you choose Sequence for example, it'll ask do you want to make a new Sequence titled after your book? Yes. Voilá -- an Associated Sequence.

Associations are based on the names of your files. If my book is The Godward Sea and my Gallery is The Godward Sea, LSB will automatically recognize their Association. Open the Association menu at any time after creating a file like a Planner and you'll see that all the file types have already been named after your book. The text is gray to indicate that they haven't been created yet. Click one, and there it is.

 
No two people will use LSB the same way. There's no need to. It's like customizing a character class in an RPG; I don't want to go through the game using the exact same character someone else is using. I wanna play my way. That said, take everything in this "tutorial" with a grain of salt.

So, I have all the basics going for me now.

 
Click New Item (the little white piece of paper icon on the left) to start adding images to a Gallery. The images imported earlier are available for use.

Next are Listings. This is how you keep everything ultra organized. Once you create one and add all your relevant file types—your planners, builders, galleries, etc.—you'll open your book and all its goodies from it each time you start up. Put the files in whatever order you like, arrange it like a tree and have every file associated with your novel including images, songs, chapters, journals, etc., accessible from one neat and tidy menu.

And there you have it, the basics of novel creation in Liquid Story Binder. A few more points:
Formatting is of great concern to writers. Every publisher wants a specific format, each magazine has its own guidelines, your professor at school will only accept essays in Arial font, size 11. Worry not; LSB can do everything MS Office can do in terms of formatting, except more stylishly. However, depending on what kind of writer you are, that may or may not suit your needs.
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There are lots of features I've yet to explore that may be of use to others:

• The Character Generator. Haven't used it. My characters are 100% organic, born from daydreaming, drawing; sometimes they're parodies of people I know (and they are unaware of this). After I investigate the CG feature I might update this post.
• Auto-text and Auto Word Complete are simply luxuries. Much like in MS Office, you can set LSB to turn 'teh' into 'the', and 'htat' into 'that'.
• You can edit your story externally in another program like MS Word. Choose to do so from the main File menu. LSB automatically saves the document you were working on and opens it in Microsoft Word (or whichever secondary word processor you have).
• Download the freeware Irfanview to edit or resize your images for LSB.
• Download WordWeb (also free) and integrate its dictionary so you can right-click any word to access its definition with a full thesaurus and dictionary. WordWeb is also quite useful on its own, as you can, for instance, right-click any word on an Internet page and see definitions, synonyms, and so forth.
• There's a tool to record the revisions you and your critique partner have made on each other's documents -- Revision Marking.
• The Typewriter tool is for Notepad lovers. It mimics Notepad's full screen display to block out distractions. Eventually though you'll give in and customize. Don't knock distractions. They can lead to ideas.
• The Word Count monitor automatically sits at the bottom of every document file. The Timer begins as soon as the window opens. Right-click the Timer to pause it. Double-click it to change your goals or to check your statistics and see how much you've accomplished. I love this simple feature.
• When you're ready to print, page numbers are added. You'll have to adjust and edit your headers/footers in Print Preview. This is a little easier in MS Office, as you can format page numbers and headers/footers from the beginning.
• There’s more, but it all just sounds confusing without navigating the program first! A feature I use frequently is “Transfer Files”, which can be found on the main menu under File. This allows me to transfer files such as galleries, outlines, chapters, whatever into another binder. So essentially, if I’m working on a trilogy and I’m keeping all three books in three different binders but I’ve got all my character galleries in book 1, then it’s easy to transfer those galleries from book one to book two or three as well.

Number 9

Here's a link to a nice review of the Australian journal that my poem, "The Flute's Song", was published in earlier this year. (The link to the issue is on this blog's menu of affiliated links. . . over there--------->).

It was my first published poem, the experience one of those special little (momentous, ginormous) events in a newbie writer's life. Etchings has an awesome staff, an impressive journal, and an elegant collection of writing, photography, and interviews (including one with Adam Elliot, an Oscar winner!) in Issue #9.

If by chance you're a writer, check out their website, read some of the free content to get an idea of what they like (perhaps buy a copy -- it's a lovely book!), and drop them a submission. The deadline for Issue #11 is drawing near. . . .

"Eye of Narkissos" - Chapter 1 from my novel

Chapter One

Your mother loves you, and never meant you any harm.

Such was the last line in every letter that I've ever received from the village of Hera-Sfakiá. The simplicity of the words never ceased to gall me, for there was something I needed more than love that my mother owed me. What had she meant me; if not harm, then what? She had mangled me, damned me to obscurity, cast me out my homeland. Cruelest of all, she had gone on living. Why didn't she write me? For all of my piteous queries, none were ever answered. My cousins wrote instead of impending war on our isle of Kréte, of strident patriotism as their final stand against God-fueled tyranny, whilst they ever evaded the one thing I needed to hear in order to forgive my mother and begin living. I stashed the letter away with thirty-some others--two a year since I arrived to the countryside of Firenze.

It wasn't that I didn't care what happened to our land, our faith. Mayhap it is that I only see the situation from one side, for you see, I have but one eye.

The early letters told me I was born with two, one blue and the other brown. They told me that nine moons after my birth, my mother gouged out the blue one in accordance with her inner demon and was forced by the Public Elder, my own Christian father, to sell me to a foreign slaver. I was the man's seventeenth bastard son, my mother's one and only. They wrote she was his chambermaid, a sorceress as beautiful as she was loveless. Loveless indeed, for my mother, mistress of magickry and men, sold her one-eyed babe into a pious country befallen to the witch-craze. Thus, she damned me to persecution, solitude, and subsequent bouts with madness, which have driven away or alienated everyone I have ever loved.

No matter the pain or humiliation of a memory, I never forget. Of my toddlerhood, the memories have since sharpened, and to remember is to slash at the persona I have labored to perfect. Well and good; I narrate for those who have ever passionately loved a place, a faith, a man or woman, painting or song--and whilst, never loved himself. But I jump ahead when I intend to pour my heart out for you in a slow drip, lest you believe I am easily defined and my story a mere cautionary tale for the narcissistic fool.

Contrary to what most believe, babes are actively aware of their surroundings, and, if properly meditated upon, the adult can later recall vivid memories of smells, sights, sounds, and their affects upon the psyche. And so it is: From the age of four I remember choppy, seasick days and nights, voyaging by Venixiàn merchant galley from Kréte to Italia. I knew much in those days; I heard it forever afterwards that children who fed on the breast milk of their kin, rather than drink the milk of cattle or herd, were smarter and resistant to all types of flux. Or, as my tribe believed, it was because I was touched by the goddess who favored blessed souls. And so I was a bright child despite my deformity, and over-active, highly interested in the conversations of adults and the details of my surroundings. I remember the near forty other orphans onboard, all of us trembling and pale with hunger. I remember the sway and bob motion that I grew quickly accustomed to, while it made others retch in the creaking shadows.

Though the ship made several layovers, we were allowed on deck but the first day of the voyage and the last; only two days, out of two years, to squint at the blinding skies over the endless sea, to wallow in untainted air. Children, of course, we knew no better, and were told nothing of our destination. Every child passed a dreary birthday aboard ship; some passed two. And every one found friendship with one or another; all save me, for I was too little, and though I knew not at the time, I was unforgivably peculiar.

We docked in Venixia at what the sailors onboard called The Arsenal. Untold that the footing was treacherous--for the pier was rickety, mildewed by constant moisture--I went hands and knees onto slimy, ragged wood. Before I could scrunch my face, my wetnurse, Tethys, lifted me, rubbed my knees, and wiped my hands on her skirt. A solemn child of four years in her arms, I cooed in awe of the majesty of the Great Canal. The dead-fish stench of the inland waters was nigh unbearable, but nothing compared to the un-scrubbed chamber pot we had shared aboard ship.

The Doge's palace frightened me: like a golem squatting on the water of the Canal. I demanded down from Tethys's embrace, and stood paralyzed, staring. Our handlers urged me to walk, and as we neared it, I saw intricate characters carved along the arches, zodiacal images such as the galloping Taurus bull, the left-clawed Hermit Crab, and the Sagittarian archer. I imagined that the palace brimmed with gold and jewels, and housed the world's greediest man. I decided then that I hated anyone who seated the lap of luxury, uncaring whilst babes were stolen from their parents. Little did I know then; such little.

We made through a labyrinthine series of high stucco walls and narrow stairways, and crossed an arching bridge high over the Canal water. I envied the older children who were big enough to peer over the edge, and imagined what the landscape of Venixia sprawled to the north and south looked like--countless chimneys and spires and bell towers and crosses scraping the sky. Bored, I observed passerby locals and scholars, many Greeks and Romanos touring the city, walking with children or hounds, partaking of street vendors who called out their wares with savvy phrases and promises. Such a city swelled the senses of a toddling Hellene, especially one native to Hera-Sfakia, where the cave rituals, forests, and gods were older, quieter. I concentrated on the heels before me to keep pace with the group, and tried to time my gait with theirs.

Aroma of spiced sausages, baked fruits, and pastries--my stomach cramped with hunger. Our grave-faced handlers, most of whom spoke Romano that I did not understand, made an example of a would-be thief, a boy not much older than me, and to the rest of us gestured to the effect that we would get the worst of it. We were but live cargo, like chattel; although, even then, I knew that horses or sheep would've been led to graze and drink. A naturally complacent child, unlike the others, I made no complaint.

Down a dark passage of stairs, the archway opened onto the Square of San Marco, and thus to the outer courtyard of the Doge's palace. There, the street pavement was patterned, marble white on gray, almost like the Hellene key-pattern. Locals tossed onto it fodder for doves; and since most of us were very young and thus restless, our Venixiàn handlers allowed us to frolic amongst them. I ran about sprightly and snuck up on a horde of the cooing birds whilst they pecked about--only for the thrill of being brushed by their wings as they took flight. White feathers floated down, and all around me wings shuffled like playing cards back into the sky. I spun beneath them, laughing, until one of them squirted his offal on me--like a dollop of white paint--on the indigo sleeve of my coat.

Time and again my wetnurse scolded me for not wearing that coat, telling me she exchanged a favor for it with a peddler back in the port-city of Xania. I gave it no thought at the time; of course, when I remember now of how comely Tethys was, I realize with regret the nature of that favor.

I stopped dead-still, dizzy, and stared at my sleeve, horrified.

One of the other orphans, another to be sold into indenture like me, laughed and pointed. To this day I cannot forget her bouncing ringlets of hair, the same copper as Tethys's, but closer to gold. I thought her divine and couldn't understand, then, how her kinsfolk could have given her up--but she wore a small bronze crucifix on her collar, dull and tarnished.

"Come along, kid," she said in Greek, "before they scold you."

I stumbled alongside her, my gaze on our handlers--big bearded men whom I remember as tolerant but stern. All of us walked in lackadaisical single file, the orphan girl on my good side--the one with the eye. I recognized her from the galley, but had been too young to know her. She was nigh two heads taller than me, her dress drab, but her lace-up boots near new. Countless string-thin metal bracelets jingled on her wrist as she covered her mouth and giggled. Her lips were the pink of camellia buds.

She said, "I will become a nun here in Venixia someday, and from there, mayhap, a Saint. I am Rhebekka."

The pride in her voice took me off-guard. "I am Gianni . . . ."

"Such a simple name; did the handlers give it?"

"My nurse." Tethys was not far. I pointed.

"Ah, you are the one still on the breast. Your kinsfolk are traditional Sfakíanous, then." The word sounded evil on her tongue. She lifted her chin then peered over her nose at me. "They are the only ones who still believe that a child must be nursed till age five. How embarrassing, you poor thing! There is only one other Kretan like you among us, but he is seven. I," she said lifting her nose, "am eight. I have five Christian sisters back home, and they are older, so Father sent me abroad to learn about the Messiah."

Later on, I pitied her. At the time I said nothing, but stared at the menace on my arm.

She smothered a giggle. "They say 'tis good luck when a dove does his bad deed on you."

As tears dampened my lashes, I held out my arm. "Can I wipe it off?" She wriggled with laughter, piercing, musical, almost infectious--until an unfriendly breeze moved my hair. She saw my eye. And uncontrollably, a tear made its line down my cheek.

I remember too vividly how the emotion and blood ran from her face, how she instantly changed from winsome to grotesque, her teeth gnarled, then her hand coming up to stifle the scream as it skidded up her throat; the other clenched around the hilt of her crucifix, knuckles white as chalk. "A demon--everyone look--demon!" Her tone chilled me to the marrow and siphoned the attention of passersby.

I froze, bewildered and innocent; crouched to my heels, grimaced at her screams. Others in our procession bumped into me from behind. When I saw someone out the corner of my eye falling to the pavement, I sprang headlong into a run, stumbling in my oversized shoes. I must have looked crazed, this one-eyed toddler screaming through the greatest square of Venixia like I'd seen a ghost. With sincere gratitude for the incident, I smile on it now, but back then it seemed rather like the first thunder one hears before a great storm.

The dark inner archways of the Doge's Palace, the white columns sunken into the pavement, looked like monster teeth, yet they beckoned me. The nape of my collar was quick met by the grip of one of our handlers.

"Best get used to it, lad," he said in my tongue. He swung me in the ring of his arms then released me toward the comforting folds of my wetnurse's skirts, where I clung for dear life. I didn't cry, I never do because my single eye can hardly make tears; but buried my face and trembled with my arms around her legs, until she lifted me in her arms. I snuggled my nose behind her ear, relieved that her hair was loose, for it hid me well.

Best get used to it. Stunning words to a child.

"Calm down, my love. Tethys is here now." She shushed me, her breath on my cheek warm and sour from lack of food or drink. "Oh, you tremble so! What happened to you, Gianni?"

The world knows how hard it is to soothe a toddler's woes. Tethys began singing, humming, really, a song that would remain with me for the rest of my days. Tethys--not only a wetnurse, but a priestess of the Heraion Sisterhood back in Kréte--spoke not a word to the others, only glared at them and tucked her pendants and talismans inside her collar. Whenever she sang sweetly to lull my eyelids, she sang of a heartland being drained of its glory by the One God legions; of a forgotten messiah returning to liberate enslaved minds, minds that had forgotten The First Ones. And thus, I learned that "traditional" Sfakianous were cut off from this world not only by a ring of protective mountains, but by their worship of the Old Gods.

She had once put it to me like this--and though I was but four, how can I ever forget?--"The way in which we worship the gods changes over time. Primitive peoples worshipped them primitively, offering brutal sacrifices that their crops did well, that their ills were banished, their sons returned from voyage or hunt. Modern people worship modernly, offering up fanciful song and poem and painting and love that enlightenment is gained." Such was the way Sfakianous worshipped the Old Gods, with subtle rites that were lost on dull-witted peoples. Whether or no it was coincidence that many dullards were Christian, I know this: they cowered from any god older than theirs like it was demonic, with no care for our intense devotion, no matter how poetic or beautiful. For a time, when I was ignorant, I thought them enlightened. But, at my coldest life lesson--the one to render this one a mere training wheel--I remembered Tethys's song, her passion when singing of Kréte to me, of exalting the old gods with the greatest form of love, which was creativity. And I've since grown wiser.

From her blouse she loosed an engorged breast. My childhood teeth pinched the tip, and she yelped, a sound that quickly dropped to soft, melodic lyrics. I loved her for singing to me, loved that my bright-eyed recognition pleased her. Betimes I still dream of her singing sweet as syrup, high, trembling, and vulnerable. Mayhap she is the reason I am bewitched by tortured songsters and poets now.

After the harsh lesson I learned from that bratty insignificant child, Rhebekka, I grew my hair long to hide my flaw. Socially, I became an actor, cheery and tolerant as could be, so as to conceal the resentment when someone did a double-take on my eye. And I do not believe that I remembered, at the time, to wipe the bird's offal from my sleeve; not that it mattered, for my ill luck but flourished from there. I only wonder now if some of it rubbed onto Tethys's sleeve as well.

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So there was chapter one of a novel - one of a couple - that I'm currently working on. My idea was to write a totally alternate historical, to take a situation from the Renaissance that actually happened, only put a bit of spin on it and add some spiritual magic and bratty attitude. EYE OF NARKISSOS, or EoN, is my tribute to a time period that fascinates and inspires me.

My First Childrens' Fable.... "The Fear Eater"

In the midst of a thunderstorm, a young girl woke from a nightmare. She had dreamed of an untimely death. An imp of a creature loomed over her bed, perched upon the bookshelf, snickering. "Are ye 'fraid yet, wee one? I feed on delicious fear; I need it!" The girl thought on her dream, of the frightening aspect of death, and how her death might be perceived by those who missed her -- her mother, her father, her baby sister, not to mention school friends and teachers. She decided she did not like the thought of them all being sad. The creature said, "Well? Where's your fear, tadpole? I'm in need of more. Feed me!" And the little girl replied, "I'm not afraid of this dream. Death doesn't have to be the end. It might mean change. That is what I choose it to mean. Good night, Fear Eater." She drifted back to sleep, and the Fear Eater vanished into the dark space between two flashes of lightning.