“You can learn to talk with anything.”


“Not with words, of course! No! Words are strictly human. Well, you need to ask yourself what is fueling those words. Then, find what is beyond human and speak with the world anew.”

She remembered these words as if they were knocking on the back door of her mind. This was so unbelievable, and so she didn’t believe it.

“Ha!” She laughed into the face of her illusion. Her shimmering incarnate of insanity.

“Almost,” it said. “Ha—eel. Ha’el. Now you.”

“What the hell,” she said to herself.

“Not hell. Ha’el.”

It was a demon. She knew. A manifestation of some deep dark part of her madness. Oh how sick she now knew a madman really was. How unreal his reality.

“You’re a panther.”

“A jaguar, yes.”

“How am I speaking to you?”

The cat laughed with a thought, but yawned with its jaws. “This is getting old. I thought you had brains, hue-man.”

“I wish I didn’t,” she murmured. There was nothing more that she wanted than to wake up.

“Use it then.”

What Was Once a Great People

            Mankind was renamed.

Windless, the mountains called them. Coatless, the mammals said. Gods, the small ones realized. Anything else, though, called them nothing at all, for calling something anything was one of the inventions of man. They broke themselves down so often, like the shattering of a great mosaic, that even the child looked through eyes that called themselves by a different name than the grown man observing from the wooden pedestals.

I know not what they called themselves. These names that they gave themselves. I know only that they were intelligent. Words are magic, so my father thought. They can be given to (let’s say) a tree, yes. But the magic is that words can then bend that tree. I have experienced that magic first hand.

The Poet, my father, gave me a name. Isis O’cyrus. I am the only one with a name. He was honored and called the Poet only after his death and his books’ success. Nobody knows how to read. Nobody speaks. Words are gone in this world. I write this in vague hope that somebody will learn the magic of language and can change his world. To others, this is secret and it is mathematical and it is sorcery, so therefore it is forbidden.

            I don’t name anything before I write it. I give these a title only a year later. That’s the freedom of a blank page. It can became whatever it wants to.


Her Name

My name is…

Well, my name is a string of letters and a plucked chord of pronunciation. As important as names are, I will let you find mine, for I had to search long and hard for it. Hidden were all the names, lost was mine in all that were hidden. My name is my story and you know that not yet.

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It’s about a Mister E

As a child, Isis o’Cyrus was never alone. With her father not yet smoked out of his study, the house was hers. With the neighborhood loud in a chattering, whistling, quiet sort of way, the forest was hers. She hadn’t met another being that stood on two legs since the almost absent memory of her first years alive. Yet, she was never alone.

Mister E was not always human. He was born wrapped in mud and moss, sang to of the sweetest lullabies by a Poet’s daughter. Raised through the hardships of a misunderstood loneliness, he never really grew into a skin crutched with bones. He remained where the lightest of thoughts remain, on the wind. He smiled and the sun shone through the forest’s window, or the house’s canopy. He laughed and the wind tickled the sides of her bedroom wall. He cried and the world was watered. He hiccupped in sobbing sadness and the sky cracked and rumbled.

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