Fungal Halo

The cameras watch her undress. They watch her brush her hair. They watch the rest of her awkward pantomime of her nightly routine.

It’s a dance that she knows all the steps to, but there is, in her body language, some visible uncertainty about performing for an audience.

Limiting the use of her senses to sight alone makes this hunt somewhat more difficult than most, but never let it be said that the Goddess of the Hunt balks from a challenge.

Her prey this time is silent. Practically motionless. Blends in with the surrounding scents.

There is always a Dark Monarch. There is always a Princess in Gold. There is always a Hero and always a conflict between light and shadow.

In defeat, in victory, in death—whatever the outcome—the cycle begins again with the coming of a new age.

But this cycle is different.

It was one of the most awful kinds of disasters, the doll thinks to itself. The kind of shipwreck that leaves no survivors and very little intact property like itself.

Tragic! How long before the families of the dead realize that their loved ones won’t be coming home?

One last step, and the broken creature who was once a demon arrives at their destination.

It must be so much easier, they think, for an angel to simply fall. A demon’s slow trudge upward from the Infernal Demesnes is a rather more manual process.

The forest is dark. The clearing is remote. The location is perfect for a secretive meeting of witches.

One by one they approach the fire, toss back the hood of their cloak, and greet the others with a suitably grim nod of spooky camaraderie.

Even from a distance, you know that she must be a goddess. Where she walks, shadows contrive to fall anywhere else than upon her figure. The flowers woven in a crown upon her head, tattooed on her skin, and stitched into her dress remain as lively as though freshly picked.

I get confused sometimes. I misremember instructions Miss gives me or get lost in the house or see things that aren’t really there.

That’s why right now I’m trying to sit still and enjoy my tea and studiously avoid looking outside the window at the shouting thing below.

I fucking hate breakups.

You put your heart and soul into a relationship with someone, and in the end they betray your trust and leave you with a gaping wound in your chest. Every fucking time.

I’d just be better off giving up on love.

Her grave was not particularly deep, the coffin not particularly sturdy, the stone marker already overgrown. It was a burial in which every expense had been spared.

A mushroom sprouts through a wedding ring pushed to the surface by subterranean life.

With a thumb, you push the hissing tooth into soft, tilled earth. Sadly, you hold little hope in your heart for it to sprout.

In a bygone age, the soil had wealth great enough to support the growth of anything at all, and gods grew like weeds here.

Now? It’s thin. Weak.

“I’ll kiss her,” I think, and then she’s already gone, scant decades later.

I’ve lost count of all the people I loved who swept into my life and warmed my heart for a short while before death’s pallid grasp drained everything from them and left me all alone again.

It’s been a bad day. I thought I saw…Her. At the grocery store, picking out lemons, like a regular person. She would never, I know, but…

My therapist tells me it’s normal, that I should remind myself I left that part of my life far behind me, and She can’t take me back.

I plan for only a brief visit at your house. I have places to go, but somehow you’ve talked me into staying for dinner. For drinks. For drugs. And now it’s so late, and I’m in an unfamiliar place…

The night is quiet. Even the wind holds its breath.

It’s never felt more like it’s just the two of you, alone, your head tilted up to gaze lovingly at her.

She’s bright and full, hanging in the sky and shining down on you, and you know it’s love you feel in your heart.

Pray to the stars, for they are eternal.

Pray for your soul, that the stars may keep it safe when you pass on from this life.

Pray to them in life, if you value the sanctity of your selfhood, that the stars may swiftly find your pure spirit in death.

Your eyes resolve so few shapes under night’s shroud, but you are content. There, bathing in golden light, is the most radiant creature you’ve ever laid eyes on.

When she dances, no gaze can resist her summons, least of all yours.

“If you’re heading out, I’m going with. Rules haven’t changed.”

“I’m a grown woman, Sev,” I counter. “I should be more than capable of grabbing cigarettes myself.”

“Still coming,” he says, grabbing his coat.

I don’t budge. “It’s because I’m not real. Isn’t it?”

“Why don’t you try taking care of a houseplant?” they said. “It might help ground you in your day-to-day life.”

I’d been planning to ignore that advice. What nonsense, right? It’ll take a hell of a lot more than some petunias to fix what’s wrong with me.

The day God died, rain poured down in heavy, wind-driven sheets, and nobody paid any mind to the child running through the streets of the city.

Her skin was scoured clean by the weather, but the bloody stains on her nightgown remained, more stubborn than the storm.