Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real


Glass everywhere

The tall shadow shifts, and the only forewarning they have is the sudden hint of shifting light. Like a dying timber, Kris lists forward and through the glass coffee table immediately in front of him, landing with a loud crash in a boneless heap, face first onto the floor.  A rag flutters to the earth like some broken butterfly.  There is a chorus of gasps, one high-pitched micro-shriek, and a rumbling good-natured laugh.

“Oh shit.”

“Is he okay?”

“Be fucking careful - careful, there’s glass everywhere.”

“Somebody put that can of Black Jack away for now.”  

A tiny shadow detached itself from the arm of a dilapidated couch and curled up next to the fallen one.  “Kris?  Kris, are you in there?  Are you here?”


[Ehaema] Tangible

For a glorious instant, the crystal path stretches out before him, carrying thoughts made tangible, memories without origin, all the strange denizens of the horizon beyond the horizon, moving towards the hub at the center of all things.

It is so close, but the currents are too fast, he's moving too fast, the tide of events is pushing too hard and there is no control.

The light of the line dancer hesitates, and in hesitating is lost. The wave function collapses. And in less than an eyeblink, the crystal path shatters all around him and the dark heart beats just once. It expands so rapidly that it slams into him, crushing him mercilessly, a mite caught in god's eyelash, blinked and gone.



In the black light, the girl looks fey enough, shaven-headed and sharp featured with teeth glinting bright and blue.  She dances with the line of light, deftly manipulating the electroluminescent coil with the lightest touch, keeping it aloft with subtle gyrations as it leaps over her head and through her legs to coil around her, a gyre under her absolute control.

Many shadows are her audience, one hulking, some tall, others tiny, all quiet and rapt.  A ghetto blaster in the corner shakes the air with electronic promises, and smoke dragons writhe in time with nearly imperceptible currents.  When a voice finally makes itself heard above the muted din, it sounds as though it is coming from a long distance away.

“Breathe.  Take a breath.  Kris.  Breathe.


[Ehaema] Single celled seraph

The lines of light move through the darkness and converge into one unbroken streak. For a moment, the line is as stark and flat as a posthumous EEG reading. Then, it begins to beat. One squiggle in isolation, followed by another, and another still. This is the rhythm that lies under everything. This is the mark of beginning.

Eventually the line can no longer be a line. Filled from end to end with exuberance, it dances through the gloom leaving ghosts and afterimages in its wake. Frenetic and free, it beats the air like the flagella of some single-celled seraph, propelling its way through dark currents towards whatever strange nourishment calls to it.

And then there is laughter, young laughter, a low murmur of wonder-tinged merriment. The sound that the courts of the Unseelie mark so very well, for it is how they know their prey is beguiled enough to be caught unawares when they come for their blood gifts, or to spirit their audience away forever.


[Ehaema] Too Fast

Bursts of light swim across the horizon now. The motes have become incandescent, hammering their cacophonous light through the retinal tissue, lighting up the back of the brain with joyous starsong. See how valiantly they burn, each in solitude, surrounded by the coldest cold and the darkest dark.

Below is a path of purest translucent crystal. It would be invisible in the gloom but for the light of the newborn stars, which reveal the edges of the path in lines of etched blue. There is a faint shimmer along its surface - the crystal surface itself is flawless and invisible, but there are reflections - things moving along its surface, almost faster than can be seen. Songs. Images. People. In the distance, more lines are visible, converging on a hub that climbs starward. The hub is hard to focus on - it seems to creep away towards the corners of the eye, like a mirage. And it is tall, stretching up so high that one must crane the neck to look up, up, up...

The path is approaching. Too fast.

Image Source: Shaun Wilson, Space Horizon 08



I cannot breathe.  

I remember what it was like - no, that’s a lie, or if I remembered, the memory has now gone from me.  I believe in breathing - I have a concept of it, I feel that I knew once what it was.  Rhythmic, regular, a core part of living - but also peripheral.  Something that you don’t notice until you have to focus on it.  

A core part of living.

If I’m not breathing now, then...

Click to breatheCollapse )


[Ehaema] Ehaema FAQ


Who are you?
I am Eidolon. Or fulldamage, on Livejournal. If you want to know more, go ahead and put your google-fu to the test. I'm not hard to stalk, but I'm not really here to write up an autobiography.

What is this place?
This is Ehaema. It is a blog which I have wedged into the intertubes at an odd angle. It crossposts into Livejournal as well.

Click to fall down the rabbit holeCollapse )


[Ehaema] Breathe

Quiet. That particular flavor of quiet which is "hushed." A hush smells of dust and fabric. It sounds like a breath that lingers on the far side of the Now, unsure whether it is to be born as a gasp or a sigh. A hush is not silence, self-sustaining and impenetrable. A hush is a parasite which moves into spaces infested by noise and clamor and drinks them dry. Sometimes hushes are benign, sometimes indifferent, and sometimes violent.

Click to read moreCollapse )

Image source: Neville S


[Ehaema] Continuous

What is this rhythm?

Not in the sky above, if it is really sky.

Below then. Beneath our feet, in the bones of this world, supporting us, holding us up against the unreachable above.

We stand upon the surface of a dark heart. Each beat may take a second, an hour, a minute, a day, a year, a decade, a century, an aeon - we cannot know.

But it beats. and with each beat, time gathers itself. Coiled, sinuous, waiting.

We must move.

For with time, there always follows an ending.

Image source: National Geographic


[Ehaema] Leap Day


We begin.

On a day that sometimes isn't, in a place that we could never reach, at a time that we can not measure. There are no clocks here, nor seconds, hours, minutes, days, years, decades, centuries, aeons - all of these things are so far away in the distance that they seem to be the same size; an army of indistinguishable motes on the horizon.

But there is a horizon. From where we stand, there is a plane that we can see and reach for but not grasp. Not yet.

And there is rhythm. Rhythm implies timing, and this is how we have come to notice that time is coming. Not here yet - still drifting on the horizon, still indistinguishable in its many pieces, but we think that it is coming closer.


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