Blog Archives

Hir; A Poem

This is a beautifully done piece of spoken word, I recommend it.

 

Yours in Queerness,
Duo Spiritus

Advertisements

Bellatora of Valens

Bellatora of Valens whirled and slashed at her foes with her sword, Sagax, her face hard but calm even as sweat dripped off the tip of her nose.  Sagax cut through her foes as soon as they dared face her, the heat of battle giving Bellatora the strength to continue the fight for her own life and that of her child.

As she fought, Bellatora thought back to the events of the past ten months. In such a small window of time she had fallen in love, wed, become pregnant and given birth to a beautiful baby boy…  It all started when she returned from the border war, when she spent a good deal of her time off in taverns and pubs blowing off steam.  While she was spending time at one of the local taverns, she met a man with whom she shared an evenings entertainment, despite her plans for him to be gone come morning, when she awoke, he was still there.  A week later she found that she had forgotten the fact she didn’t want a real relationship.  Soon she found she was in a solid relationship–spending all of her time with her new love–they sparred together and dined together, they rode together and whiled away their nights.

Bellatora was in love with this man, and the man loved her in return, they decided to wed.

After weeks of the bliss of a new relationship, Bellatora was needed back at the border–she said her goodbyes and departed as soon as she could.  Within a few days of her return to battle, Bellatora realized she was pregnant.

Bellatora continued to fight until she couldn’t hide the bump of motherhood, and by then she was too far along to take the trip home for birth.  When her time came she gave birth alone, hoping nothing would go wrong. Her only concession was her good friend, a male healer, waited outside of her tent, in the event there was a problem.

A mere week after she gave birth, the Perduellisi attacked and Bellatora armed herself and hid her child in the hope the fight would end before any enemy got near her tent.  Her hopes were soon proven wrong.

Bellatora began to fight for her life, and that of her child, when the first enemy soldier cut his way into her tent.  He was quickly followed five more Perduellisi men and women at arms.  Bellatora braced her feet against the solid ground, smoothed her face into the stone mask she wore in battle and began her fight.

An endless hour later Bellatora had slain four enemy fighters and held the last three at bay with the strength and ferocity of a mother bear protecting her young.  Reinforcements arrived and the three remaining soldiers were slain, Bellatora and her baby boy, Fictilius, were safe.

****************

This is the penultimate installment in my short story series featuring elements.  This one was inspired by the strength and stability of earth.

Yours in Queerness,

Duo Spiritus

Life’s Flow

Several years ago lived a person well into hir golden years; ze had a body that was unable to do much of what it had before, but ze was not concerned because ze knew that what ze passed ze would be reborn as had happened countless times before. Ze had been born into many bodies and many lives; some lives cut short by tragedy and some were as long as this life had been. Most were average lives; ze learned a little, made some mistakes and did a little good, but some were fantastic lives and during those ze truly changed the world.

This person soon fell asleep, and ze slept for quite a while, when ze awoke ze was in a new place. Hir skin felt tight and the light was too bright for hir eyes, as they were used to such darkness, ze tried to use the words that ze had used thousands of times before but all that came out was a screeching wail. Into hir sight walked a giant of a man dressed in pale green whose voice was so loud all ze could do was scream again when he spoke “How lucky you are little one, we thought we’d lost you.” The man picked the baby up, and ze was in fact a baby, and handed hir to another giant clothed in a scratchy blue fabric “Here’s your little girl, isn’t she a perfect angel?” he said as Mother took the baby, handling her with perfect gentleness “She’s perfect.”

And for many years to come she was a perfect little girl, a little strange perhaps but a perfectly normal little girl none the less. She was strange for many reasons; how quickly her mind grew, how slowly her body grew and how much she seemed to “just know.” As she reached age five the adults in her life saw just how strange she was and worried, the children in her life saw how strange she was and shunned her. But the girl didn’t mind because, unlike any of her other lives, she remembered her past lives. She knew that this life must be special, she must be destined to do great things or she would have forgotten her past when she was born as she had done before.

As the girl reached her teen years the isolation her strangeness caused had turned from pure isolation on the part of most adults and all the children to isolation from adults and cruelty from her “peers.” The jackal-children taunted her, spread rumors and made her life, at school and at home, a place of anger and sadness. The adults told themselves, and each other, that what they saw was not happening when inside they truly sympathized with the Jackal-children and understood the need to torment the “strange one.” The few times the girls went to one of those adults for help she was told to “try and make friends,” “try to tough it out, they’ll respect you for it” or “it’s just a phase, they’ll get over it.” But the girl knew that these were lies, the witch hunt of the Jackal-children would never stop, just change and morph as they matured.
Despite the wisdom from all her other lives despite the “reassurances” of her teachers and parents she knew she could not live like this forever, she hungered for that deep sleep that would bring her new, better, life. The next day dawned bright and warm, a perfect summer’s day; the girl ate her breakfast and conversed with her family until one by one her family left for the activities of the day. The girl undressed and went outside to their pool; she dived in and fell asleep.

When she awoke she was in a new place. Her skin felt tight and the light was too bright for her eyes, as they were used to such darkness, she tried to use the words that she had used thousands of times before but all that came out was a screeching wail. Into her sight walked a giant of a woman dressed in pale green whose voice was so loud all shee could do was scream again when he spoke “What a handsome baby boy you have here.” The man picked the baby up, and she was in fact a baby, and handed her to another giant clothed in a scratchy blue fabric “Here’s your little boy, isn’t he a perfect angel?” he said as Mother took the baby, handling her with perfect gentleness “He’s perfect.”

As the boy grew he remembered all of his past lives, as he had in his previous life, and he knew that this life was a better life.  He grew into his wisdom well, his body fit well around his mind and his mind worked well with his body.  He began writing at an early age and shared his stories with adults and children alike. At first his stories were sweet and happy, but they grew darker, stories of hatred and it’s results were most prevalent until one day he wrote a story of a girl who drowned.  It was hauntingly beautiful and so mirrored the story of a suicide earlier that year that it stuck a chord with all who read it.

That story made a real difference in the world for it opened people’s eyes to the torment of “strange ones” all around them.  Teachers and parents began to step up and support those children who were slowly being torn apart by Jackal-children, and parents began to heal the anger within the Jackal-children.

Many generations fell asleep, and new ones were born, and soon there was a world where Jackal-children did not exist and “strange ones” were accepted and loved by adults and children alike.  Children were children, and that is the end of that.

****************

This is the second installment of an element themed collection of short stories, I intend to cover the elements of fire, water, air, earth and spirit.

This story was in fact inspired by water, the idea of a seamless flow from place to place, from form to form and how much water can change the world around it.

Yours in Queerness,

Duo Spiritus

Child of the Inferno

The story I’m about to share with you is not one of the past, nor of the present, but a story of all time. This is a story that occurred today and yesterday, a story of tomorrow and next year… A story of forever.

There once was a young boy who lived in a house of wood. His behaviors had always set him apart from the other youth in the area; he had always possessed a penchant for causing drama and dissent wherever he went.

As he grew the boy developed a skill for starting fires that quickly turned to obsession, the boy’s mother began to worry for her son as he would go out alone for hours at a time and return with burns on his hands and arms, but no matter what she tried he would not stop.

One afternoon as the boy was napping the house began to get warmer and warmer; the boy awoke to a tickling sensation enveloping his body. When he opened his eyes the boy saw that he, and his bed, was engulfed in flames. The flames spread away from his bed slowly devouring his home, climbing the walls and crossing the floor, the boy rose and walked through his home spreading the fire as he went until at last the heat consumed him.

He was a part of the flames now, both at one with the inferno and against it. As his body was no more his spirit began to fly through the blazing walls of his former home and into a new place, a dark place.

Once his entirety had arrived he heard a voice, both within and without his being, and it spoke in a deep, rumbling voice “Welcome home Ignis, my son.

****************

This is the first installment of an element themed collection of short stories, I intend to cover the elements of fire, water, air, earth and spirit.

Yours in Queerness,

Duo Spiritus