Fungal Halo

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.

Love is pain.

Love is a knife in the gut.

Love is a slimy cord wrapped around your insides, swelling and tightening until you can barely breathe and you’re doubled over, white-knuckling the toilet.

Love is holding your hair back while you vomit your life away.

Divination is not prophecy. You must understand the difference if we’re to get along.

No, no, no, this is not a matter of an oracle’s condescension for your practice. I’m sure your cards and carved stones and whatnot have their uses and guide you well.

They just don’t hurt.

The darkness insisted on its own finality. It didn’t so much close around me as it devoured even the memory of light. It was as though darkness was all I had ever known.

It insisted I give up, lie down, and accept this ending.

Truthfully, I never did know how to do that.

You were told the cult would help you “open your third eye” and “reveal the ultimate truth of the universe” to you, but—you poor dear—that’s not at all what they did to you, whatever visions you now find yourself burdened with.

The greasy, spindly woman who wormed her way into the king’s court should not, by any reasonable estimation, have been able to get as close to him as she did. She was foul, unsavory, and with a sharp tongue that did her few favors in the great courtly games of diplomacy.

Aria was not expecting a cadre of imperial soldiers barging into her coffee shop. It had been a long week, and—frankly—being abducted without explanation to be sent into space was the last thing the barista needed.

You wanted this. Keep reminding yourself of that.

You’ve been thinking about it for years. You did your research. You found a witch that carries a powerful reputation, highly regarded by its peers, and, and…

Now that you’re here, all the nervousness is catching up to you.

The Priestess prays with fervent obsession. Her belief is sincere. Her devotion is absolute.

Her goddess is dead.

“Do you think we got her in time?”

“Yeah! I mean, pretty sure.”

“She was so determined to join those freaks, though… What if we were too late?”

“We’re not! She’s fine. She’s still, y’know, untouched. Still good.”

“How can you tell?”

“Just look! She’s still—”

She’s so fucking infuriatingly vain, isn’t she? Whatever the topic, whatever the context, she thinks everything is about her. And if you try to make it about anyone else? She’ll find a way to twist it right back around to herself.

You can’t stand her.

The Spider checking its web finds several moths that wandered in and—oh!—a fairy too. Must save that one for a special occasion, yes.

What else, what else… Hey, is that…?

Ah, yes, it is! A familiar sight, a pretty creature in loose-fitting black robes, a priestess.

The doll frets and paces and clenches its fists again and again, stalking through the halls of the witch’s house, holding in a restless impulse that’s filled it to bursting with an overwhelming need to release every bit of coiled ferocity in an explosion of violence.

So far away…you’re so tragically far from me. But it’s alright. My friends are everywhere.

They’ll pick you up, swift and gentle—maybe on your way back home from the grocery store—too quick for thoughts of struggle, too practiced to give you a chance to yell in surprise.

Your coworker at the Bureau is a faerie. That’s fine, right? Everyone else obviously thinks so—or at least politely ignores this obvious fact—even if letting her roam freely seems to be antithetical to the whole purpose of the organization you work for.