Aug31

The Furies of Ukunkulu

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The Furies of Ukunkulu

The roar was deafening.

Drenched in spray, Umoya studied the waterfalls crashing before her, an amphitheater of violence, the twelve Furies of Ukunkulu.

I’m going to die here, she concluded. But what choice do I have?

The current threatened to sweep her legs. She stood knee-deep in waves, fifty yards from the falls where the turbulent lake narrowed to form a funnel. To lose footing here would mean a miserable death by rocks and water, her corpse dragged down the long ravine to end up dumped on the river bank or caught in a whirlpool.

Taking a step forward, Umoya screamed at the Furies. It was a pale, drowned-out challenge, a tadpole taunting a pike, and yet the defiance stood, however feeble.

I will silence you, if only for a moment.

She touched the boneshell pendant around her neck. How many people had died for her to wear it? Best not to think about that. She had to concentrate now like never before. Her tribe depended on her. Everyone who had survived the Clysm depended on her, but Umoya did not know this. She sought only to save her people and knew not the true extent of the coming threat. It was a fortunate ignorance, for had she known, her courage would have faltered.

Umoya crushed the pendant on her chest. Blood flowed from the cracked shell, slowly trailing down between her breasts. It burned like a strip of flayed skin as her body absorbed the ichor. Inside her, her boneskill swelled. Awakened. Enraged. Umoya feared her body might rip apart and yet the thrill of it was intoxicating.

Quickly, she clapped her hands together and raised them.

The sky darkened, clouds forming rapidly. The very air shifted, stirring. A breeze brushed Umoya from behind, and steadily it grew and grew until her beaded skirt flapped wildly. Before long, the now gale-force squall cleared the mist and spray from the mountain. Still, the wind gained strength, blowing the waves back.

The lake had lost its rage, appearing strangely calm and smooth. But it was not enough.

Sparing a portion of skill, Umoya boneanchored her feet to the bedrock, and then lowered her arms toward the waterfalls. The shrieking storm grew to a terrible zenith, ripping even the clothes from her body. The thunderous growl of the Furies fell silent. The hurricane blew the water of the lake out of its stone basin. Even the muck and the rocks of the lakebed could not withstand the force.

On the lakeside there stood a single tree, an ancient sentinel that had sprouted leaves long before humankind arrived in Elmeria. This too, the violent air uprooted. The proud evergreen, ripped from the earth, hurtled to the cliffside, spinning. Wood collided with stone and the impact shattered the tree. The splinters hurled up toward the sky, disappearing into the waterfalls now falling upward.

Umoya nearly succumbed to exhaustion, but she kept her footing. She would survive this yet, if not for herself, for her people.

“Keep quiet!” she spat at the Furies, then, redoubling her concentration, she delved into her remaining boneskill.

The storm kept the surreal lakebed dry, but now the blizzard carried the sudden bite of an impossible winter. Crackling ice formed on the surrounding grass, earth, and stone, snaking towards the base of the cliff. The remaining moisture in the air surrendered to the brutal cold, frosting up the stony cliff face, and when it reached the top, water instantly turned to blue-white ice.

Finally, Umoya collapsed. Her world turned black as the blizzard abated.

~~~

When she awoke she was covered in ice, numb and near death. Using a trickle of skill, she warmed herself. Everything hurt, but she was alive. She looked up at the silent Furies of Ukunkulu, a jagged crown of ice, and cried.

I did it. I actually did it!

Umoya surveyed the cliff face and smiled with relief. There. The cave was exactly where the book said it would be. She raised herself to her feet and approached the mountain, walking by crushed boulders of ice, jewels of the crown that had broken off and fallen. The waterfalls creaked and twanged above. Looking up, Umoya saw a chunk of ice crack free and drop. It shattered a ways off, but a brick of ice shot straight at her. The cold missile was only marginally off target.

Better hurry.

At the base of the cliff, Umoya paused briefly, breathing in a deep breath and expelling a crystalline cloud. She reached up, gripped a protruding rock, and started to climb.

The ascent was short but treacherous. She placed her hands and feet carefully, holding tight, all the time anchoring her bones to the rock as best she could. Halfway to the cave, she slipped and fell. Her skill saved her, but only just. Her reserves were strained to the limit. She slammed into the mountain and nearly blacked out from the pain.

Umoya allowed herself ten breaths to recover, then continued the climb. She navigated the rest of the way slowly and without incident. A minute later she dragged herself into the cave, and there she laid, on her front, exhausted, waiting for her racing heart to slow.

The sudden rumble spurred her to action and she scampered away from the cave mouth. The monstrous noise of the ice crown breaking was swiftly followed by the screaming water of the falls. The entrance was locked by the Furies once again. It would not be opened again for a hundred generations.

Emoya’s dismay — that the crown had failed so quickly and utterly, and that she was trapped inside a mountain — was short-lived and replaced by curiosity. The cave, she realised, was lit. Eish! she thought as she took stock of her surroundings. So beautiful.

The cave shone brightly, a sea of shifting colours that she could not begin to describe. Embedded in the walls, countless gemstones pulsated and swirled with light. Some were small, but most of the stones were fists of crystal. Her hand could barely cover the gem she reached out to touch. It was a wealth worthy of kings. No, gods. The gemstones were a fortune that would impress even the most indifferent god.

Umoya would have indulged in her reverie, but she had not come here for magical stones.

Well, maybe just one.

She latched her hand to a blue-green gem and pulled it from the rock. How easy the earth surrendered its riches? The crystal was warm to the touch, and Umoya could swear that she felt the light move inside. For a moment, she considered returning the treasure, but she quickly suppressed the thought. The gem would be a useful torch, sparing the need for skillfire.

Umoya stepped deeper into the mountain. The light stones adorned the wall of the tunnel for a hundred paces and then abruptly they ceased. She would have been left in total darkness if not for the gem she held.

The tunnel extended on and on, neither sloping up nor down. Whether the path curved, she could not tell, but it felt like it cut straight. Unnaturally straight. For an hour, she walked, accompanied only by the sound of her presence and the blue-green light, which the walls seemed to absorb completely. She could see no more than ten feet ahead of her.

Umoya nearly fell into the chamber. One more step and she would have broken her body on the stone floor a hundred feet below. She saw nothing beyond the clean-cut path — not the chamber below nor its inhabitant — but she appreciated the peril. She could feel the space. An immense void stretched out before her.

I’m here.

Umoya steadied herself. Her body shook. Exhaustion. Relief. Fear. But her back was straight, and her voice rang clear, “Hear me! I am Umoya of the Ashulu, Caller of Matrons. Hear me, Great One. The world is breaking.”

The dragon opened her eyes.

###

Sep5

The Cogency of Religious Experiences

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The Cogency of Religious Experiences

“Religious experiences can be characterised generally as experiences that seem—to the person having them—to be of some objective reality, and to have some religious import. That reality can be an individual, a state of affairs, a fact, or even an absence, depending on the religious tradition the experience is a part of[1].”

For many theists, religious experiences are crucial elements in the alloy of their conviction. Ask a believer to defend their belief and they may offer apologetics or appeal to faith, but press them on how they personally came to believe or why they remain a believer, and there is a sporting chance that religious experiences play a decisive role[2].

Are religious experiences evidence of the divine? I used to believe so, but I do not anymore.

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Sep1

Deep Dive into the Meaning of Atheism

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Deep Dive into the Meaning of Atheism

Edit: Answers In Reason and Steve McRae have done deep dive reviews for this essay, which I appreciate. Please find their thoughtful reviews here:

When I have the time and motivation, I will write a response and update my essay, or more likely write a new essay, about atheism and agnosticism. I would encourage readers to read / listen to their reviews. I’ve learned a lot from it.

—

People disagree about what atheism means. This essay aims to communicate my understanding of the term, and a few related topics. My intent is not to prescribe, but to better describe my specific position on the matter and to encourage contemplation.

This article offers no arguments for or against God. The purpose is to explore and define the different positions that people have on whether God exists or not.

TL;DR

  • Atheism is the lack of belief in the existence of a God or gods
  • Agnosticism is the belief that it is not possible to know whether God exists or not
  • It is possible to be both an atheist and an agnostic because the terms address two different considerations—that of belief and knowledge—which are not mutually exclusive

If the limited summary above are the reader’s only takeaway, I would feel reasonably satisfied. However, these points do not paint the whole picture and I would encourage readers to consider the full essay for nuance and completeness.

Terminology

In this essay:

  • “God” is broadly defined as a supernatural being with a will that intentionally intervenes in the natural universe
  • For simplicity and style, “God” is substituted for “a God or gods”. All references of God should be read to include both monotheism and polytheism
  • “Lacks belief”, “rejects belief”, “does not believe”, and “disbelieves” are used interchangeably to mean “lacks belief”. It should be taken that “disbelieves x” does not mean “believes not x”

Part 1—What Atheism Is

Belief

To define what atheism is, we would do well to first clarify what atheism is about. So I’ll start there.

Atheism is about belief. Specifically, atheism describes a position with respect to belief on whether God exists. In other words, atheism, like theism, concerns belief.

What is belief? Eric Schwitzgebel writes:

“Contemporary philosophers of mind generally use the term ‘belief’ to refer to the attitude we have, roughly, whenever we take something to be the case or regard it as true. To believe something, in this sense, needn’t involve actively reflecting on it[1].”

Knowledge

There is a difference between what we believe and what we know.

It is accepted that belief is a condition for knowledge[2a], meaning that knowledge is a subset of belief. In other words, to know something is to believe it, but crucially, if we do not know something, we necessarily still either believe it or not.

There is not an agreed-upon definition for knowledge in epistemology (the philosophical study of the nature, origin, and limits of human knowledge[3]). Many philosophers still depend on Plato’s definition: knowledge is justified true belief[4].

That is, a person (S) knows something (p) if:

  1. p is true
  2. S believes that p
  3. S is justified in believing that p[2b]

The justification condition means that it is not knowledge if a person believes a true thing by luck. In 1963, Edmund Gettier showed there are possible cases where justified true belief is not knowledge because the justified belief is only true as a result of luck[5]. Ever since, philosophers have tried to solve this problem by strengthening the justification condition, or by adding “degettiering” conditions (JTB+X), or by proposing new definitions for knowledge[2c]. To this day, no consensus has been reached.

For the purpose of this essay, which is concerned about belief more so than knowledge, we may comfortably ignore the Gettier problem. “Knowledge is justified true belief” will suffice.

Why Theism and Atheism Matter

It goes without saying that we should aim to know as much as possible. But it follows that we believe more things than what we actually know, and because it is evident that our beliefs affect our behaviour[6], what we believe is at least as important as what we know, if not more so.

Belief in the Christian God, for example, will likely influence the believer’s attitude on topics such as education, women’s rights, and climate change, and their attitude will likely affect how they vote for public policy, which in turn, will affect people who do not share the Christian’s belief.

For this reason, the topics of theism and atheism matter.

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Oct4

Midnight Mass – Spoiler-Free Review

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Midnight Mass – Spoiler-Free Review

Rating: 9.5 / 10

Midnight Mass is an ensemble drama and supernatural horror, a seven-episode limited series available on Netflix.

You’d be forgiven to mistake Midnight Mass for an excellent adaptation of a Stephen King novel, except that the story is, in fact, an original by Mike Flanagan—the person who also created and directed The Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor. Both Hauntings are excellent TV shows, but Midnight Mass is something else again. Mike Flanagan has outdone himself and produced a masterpiece.

The story is set in the present day on a fictional island, Crockett Island, an isolated islet where miraculous events start to occur, events which renew the small community’s religious fervour as well as deepen existing personal divides. At the centre of the mystery is Father Paul, a newcomer. There is something strange about the charismatic young priest, something a little off. Will the miracles that happen after his arrival prove to be for the better of the residents of Crockett? Unsurprisingly, the answer is no.

It’s impossible to have a great show without good writing, and Midnight Mass has exceptional writing. Clichés are avoided. Tropes are made the writers’ own. Contrivances are kept to a minimum—only one nips at my brain, a decision made by characters regarding a particular group gathering. I wonder if people would make this choice in real life. That said, motivations were explained well enough for me to forgive the contrivance in the moment. It was the decision I wanted the characters to make, after all. There is another instance where I thought the actions of a character led the way to a too-convenient conclusion, but by the end I understood that said actions were completely in character. The conclusion remains convenient, but there is a kind of ironic genius to how it all plays out.

The plot is clever. I found the mystery to be engaging, and the reveals and resolution to be surprising and horrifying. In a strange way, Midnight Mass is a kind of origin story, in that the essence of the mystery is an emerging concept to the characters in the story, like if they encountered Santa Claus when the notion of Santa Claus didn’t exist in their world.

The characterisation is strong. Crockett Island is stuffed with interesting people. There is the disgraced prodigal son, his forgiving devout mother, his unforgiving fisherman father, his altar boy younger brother, and his childhood sweetheart who’s now a teacher and expectant mother. There is the zealous and polarising Christian community leader. The hated town drunk. The island handyman. The weak mayor, his wife, and his disabled daughter. The gay doctor and her ageing mother who suffers from dementia. The Muslim sheriff and his son who struggle to fit in. And of course, there is the enigmatic priest, newly arrived to replace Monsignor Pruitt, Crockett’s longtime minister who is recovering off-island after a long trip to the holy land.

The character development is outstanding. It’s a big ensemble cast and yet, I feel that most everyone gets their time in the sun to struggle and change for better or worse. Their arcs have impact and I was invested, surprised, and satisfied with their journeys. I empathised and cared as I got to know the characters better, and I also deeply, so very deeply, hated a particular character that I wanted to strangle them personally.

The dialogue is delightful. Characters feel authentic, speaking like you and I might, but they also engage in extended conversations that feel like orations—dramatic, poetic, and philosophic—often made even more thought-provoking and compelling by carrying a double meaning. This balance between ordinary and extraordinary works a charm in a supernatural horror. It elevates the value of the genre above merely scares and gore.

And Midnight Mass has a lot to say. The show explores a multitude of themes—faith, grief, regret, redemption, family, suicide, racism, alcoholism, death, the afterlife, self-righteousness, love—and all these themes are explored meaningfully, with wisdom and insight. It’s impressive that the show packs so much in its episodes while still remaining nail-biting and binge-worthy. Another noteworthy feat is that the writers managed to write a show about religion, with Christian, Muslim, and Atheist characters, in such a way that all three groups can watch and enjoy the show and be not afraid (offended). It’s a fine line to walk and I think the writers deserve to be commended.

The pacing of Midnight Mass is slow. A slow burn, as they say. Is it too slow? Not for me. I was only ever engaged. The quality of writing sustains interest, but so do the atmospheric setting, the art of the filmmaking, and the skill of the performances, not to mention the mystery and horror.

I’ve never quite seen a place like Crockett before. A tiny, wind-blown island. It’s lonely and creepy, with old buildings in need of repair and a fishing industry in decline. But the harsh land is quite beautiful too, alive and breathing in its own way, like it’s another character to complete the ensemble. It’s fascinating to watch.

The standard of the filmmaking is top-notch. The cinematography and camerawork, the direction, the editing, the sound and score, the casting, the art direction, the sets, the makeup and costuming, the special effects (which you don’t notice)… every discipline did a great job. I particularly enjoyed the dynamic single-shot sequences and the long, slow-zoom takes that allowed the actors to really perform and live their characters.

The acting is brilliant. There is not a single weak performance. In lesser hands, the oft lengthy dialogue may have been too ambitious, but every actor delivered, keeping me spell-bound. In particular, Hamish Linklater and Samantha Sloyan gave career-defining performances for which I hope they receive award recognition.

Midnight Mass works as a character-driven drama, but does it work as a horror? I think so. Absolutely. It’s not a slasher-type horror with gruesome deaths every episode. If that is all you’re looking for, the show is not for you. The horror in Midnight Mass is a slow-boil, relying on mystery and atmosphere, but lest you be worried, there are spill-the-wine jump scares and blood and carnage too. Just you wait.

For me, Midnight Mass is not only the best Netflix show of the year, but the best show period. I can’t stop thinking and talking about it. Of course, I run the risk of over-selling the show and spoiling people’s first-time viewing experience. In truth, the less you know before watching it, the better, but I was compelled to exorcise Midnight Mass from my body by writing my praise down. The show will not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it sure as hell is my cup of tea.

Sep7

A Better Understanding — The Blood Priest: Prologue

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A Better Understanding — The Blood Priest: Prologue

The medicine man of Naaqtok woke from a fevered sleep, coughing up phlegm. He spat the mucus out and lay back on his pallet, staring at the frosted breath that escaped his raw throat. His blankets were pushed aside and the fire pit was cold, but he did not feel winter’s bite. A furnace consumed him from within. His aching body was drenched in sweat.

Fear motivated him to get up. He stumbled across the clay floor of his hut, making his way over discarded glass bottles. For two days, he had methodically taken every elixir in his apothecary, but none of it had worked. His infirmity persisted.

More worrying were his hands that flaked, the skin peeling off in sheets, and his hardening nails that continued to blacken. The symptoms were apparent, the diagnosis evident. He was a Newborn, condemned to endure the birth pain of his infant spirit.

He knew this to be true, but still he refused to accept it. There had to be a cure!

Regrettably, his medicine was depleted. What remained were nostrums—potions that cured nothing but financial troubles. Nevertheless, he opened his satchel of tinctures and grabbed one of the vials of alcohol mixed with…something. Without reading the label, he pulled the stopper, drank the solution, and reached for another vial. Before long, he consumed them all.

Head swimming, he staggered to his bed, lay on his back, and closed his eyes to darkness.

But the darkness was tainted.

A ring of colour invaded his peripheral perception, shimmering like the viscous tendrils of air over fire, and in the black centre of his vision, a flock of stars drifted. From each pinpoint, there flowed dual streams of steaming light, white entwined with blue. Instinctively, he knew that the white light was a part of him, and that the blue was not.

He opened his eyes.

His thatched roof was there, and the sprigs of rosemary that he had hung from it the week before. But so too was the arrow of light points, migrating, far above his hut.

Puzzled, he sat up.

Colour instantly saturated his view. A thousand suns surrounded him—each a different size, tone, and clarity—and like the roaming specks above, he was tethered to them with rivers of light. The streams ran directly into him, as if he was a celestial ocean.

He turned and the radiance shifted.

The bright suns were in the direction of the city. To the jungle, there were more of them, but they were smaller, dimmer, and more distant.

Is this a fever dream?

No. He rejected the thought. A vision could not feel so natural and familiar. He believed, instead, that he had snatched a truth from the world—a better understanding of life that had always been just out of reach.

Despite his diseased and intoxicated body, he felt exhilarated. His curiosity compelled him to explore. He surveyed the luminous delta that flowed in and out of him. Then, he dipped into a stream…

He tingled with sensations: images, smells, tastes, sounds, impressions, hungers, movements, temperatures, and thoughts. At first, he comprehended the buzz of shared senses, but as he descended, his coherence failed under the pressure of coalescing streams. The vibrations quickened and multiplied until it swarmed his awareness.

Realising the danger, he tried to retreat, but the surface escaped him. His light had evaporated, leaving nothing to follow in the swirl of colour. He was helpless, suspended in the experiences of others.

There. A stray impression of pain touched him. From who or what, he didn’t know, but it provoked a memory which gave him an idea.

He desperately recalled his misery, searching for the symptoms of his affliction. To his relief, he found them, one by one—wet nose, stiff joints, itching hands. He clung to these, and in time, his light condensed enough to pursue.

Following the white trail, he ascended, and slowly, the trilling calmed. When he pierced the surface, the foreign senses dissipated altogether. In the void, overlooking the glow of life, he was simply himself again.

I felt everyone in the city! he thought.

His first impulse was to dive straight back into the torrent, his panic forgotten in the face of wonder, but prudence was necessary. His intention had been to explore a single stream, but once inside, many had flowed together to form a violent river tide. He needed to isolate one.

He inspected a nearby sun, which he now knew to be a human’s spirit. Cautiously, he dammed the person’s stream, dimming their light while keeping his own bright and free-flowing. The ability to control the light came naturally to him. Feeling confident, he darkened all the suns at once, leaving only his own spirit illuminated.

For a moment, he considered the slow-changing angles of his spirit-flows as the fettered citizens of Naaqtok moved about. Choosing at random, he brightened a person’s spirit and plunged inside.

It was a woman. He didn’t know her, but her sensations betrayed her.

She loved to cook…the house was warm…the stew smelled tangy…it reminded her of her mother…the children’s laughter was shrill…the noise annoyed her…the potatoes felt rough and grainy…her husband was bare-chested…his brown body piqued her desire…she was hungry…the carrot tasted sweet…

He could not resist snooping and proceeded to spy on other people, experiencing their lives until they bored him. As he progressed, he became increasingly certain that he could not only interpret spirit, but interact with it also.

When he came upon a Revered Elder cheating on his wife, he knew that he had found a perfect subject for an experiment.

YOUR WIFE KNOWS.

He cast the words at the elder and immediately recognised his mistake. Failing to stem his own spirit-flows, he projected his thought to every living thing in the vicinity. The mass interaction of the thought-cast overwhelmed him, his body convulsing from the effort it required.

The medicine man of Naaqtok felt the shards of a shattered vial cut into his clenching fist. When his shaking finally ceased, he surrendered to fatigue.

His spirit faded.

Aug10

The Furies of Ukunkulu

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The Furies of Ukunkulu

The roar was deafening.

Drenched in spray, Umoya studied the waterfalls crashing before her, an amphitheater of violence, the twelve Furies of Ukunkulu.

I’m going to die here, she concluded. But what choice do I have?

The current threatened to sweep her legs. She stood knee-deep in waves, fifty yards from the falls where the turbulent lake narrowed to form a funnel. To lose footing here would mean a miserable death by rocks and water, her corpse dragged down the long ravine to end up dumped on the river bank or caught in a whirlpool.

Taking a step forward, Umoya screamed at the Furies. It was a pale, drowned-out challenge, a tadpole taunting a pike, and yet the defiance stood, however feeble.

I will silence you, if only for a moment.

She touched the boneshell pendant around her neck. How many people had died for her to wear it? Best not to think about that. She had to concentrate now like never before. Her tribe depended on her. Everyone who had survived the Clysm depended on her, but Umoya did not know this. She sought only to save her people and knew not the true extent of the coming threat. It was a fortunate ignorance, for had she known, her courage would have faltered.

Umoya crushed the pendant on her chest. Blood flowed from the cracked shell, slowly trailing down between her breasts. It burned like a strip of flayed skin as her body absorbed the ichor. Inside her, her boneskill swelled. Awakened. Enraged. Umoya feared her body might rip apart and yet the thrill of it was intoxicating.

Quickly, she clapped her hands together and raised them.

The sky darkened, clouds forming rapidly. The very air shifted, stirring. A breeze brushed Umoya from behind, and steadily it grew and grew until her beaded skirt flapped wildly. Before long, the now gale-force squall cleared the mist and spray from the mountain. Still, the wind gained strength, blowing the waves back.

The lake had lost its rage, appearing strangely calm and smooth. But it was not enough.

Sparing a portion of skill, Umoya boneanchored her feet to the bedrock, and then lowered her arms toward the waterfalls. The shrieking storm grew to a terrible zenith, ripping even the clothes from her body. The thunderous growl of the Furies fell silent. The hurricane blew the water of the lake out of its stone basin. Even the muck and the rocks of the lakebed could not withstand the force.

On the lakeside there stood a single tree, an ancient sentinel that had sprouted leaves long before humankind arrived in Elmeria. This too, the violent air uprooted. The proud evergreen, ripped from the earth, hurtled to the cliffside, spinning. Wood collided with stone and the impact shattered the tree. The splinters hurled up toward the sky, disappearing into the waterfalls now falling upward.

Umoya nearly succumbed to exhaustion, but she kept her footing. She would survive this yet, if not for herself, for her people.

“Keep quiet!” she spat at the Furies, then, redoubling her concentration, she delved into her remaining boneskill.

The storm kept the surreal lakebed dry, but now the blizzard carried the sudden bite of an impossible winter. Crackling ice formed on the surrounding grass, earth, and stone, snaking towards the base of the cliff. The remaining moisture in the air surrendered to the brutal cold, frosting up the stony cliff face, and when it reached the top, water instantly turned to blue-white ice.

Finally, Umoya collapsed. Her world turned black as the blizzard abated.

~~~

When she awoke she was covered in ice, numb and near death. Using a trickle of skill, she warmed herself. Everything hurt, but she was alive. She looked up at the silent Furies of Ukunkulu, a jagged crown of ice, and cried.

I did it. I actually did it!

Umoya surveyed the cliff face and smiled with relief. There. The cave was exactly where the book said it would be. She raised herself to her feet and approached the mountain, walking by crushed boulders of ice, jewels of the crown that had broken off and fallen. The waterfalls creaked and twanged above. Looking up, Umoya saw a chunk of ice crack free and drop. It shattered a ways off, but a brick of ice shot straight at her. The cold missile was only marginally off target.

Better hurry.

At the base of the cliff, Umoya paused briefly, breathing in a deep breath and expelling a crystalline cloud. She reached up, gripped a protruding rock, and started to climb.

The ascent was short but treacherous. She placed her hands and feet carefully, holding tight, all the time anchoring her bones to the rock as best she could. Halfway to the cave, she slipped and fell. Her skill saved her, but only just. Her reserves were strained to the limit. She slammed into the mountain and nearly blacked out from the pain.

Umoya allowed herself ten breaths to recover, then continued the climb. She navigated the rest of the way slowly and without incident. A minute later she dragged herself into the cave, and there she laid, on her front, exhausted, waiting for her racing heart to slow.

The sudden rumble spurred her to action and she scampered away from the cave mouth. The monstrous noise of the ice crown breaking was swiftly followed by the screaming water of the falls. The entrance to the Warren of the Wyrm was locked by the Furies once again. It would not be opened again for a hundred generations.

Emoya’s dismay — that the crown had failed so quickly and utterly, and that she was trapped inside a mountain — was short-lived and replaced by curiosity. The cave, she realised, was lit. Eish! she thought as she took stock of her surroundings. So beautiful.

The cave shone brightly, a sea of shifting colours that she could not begin to describe. Embedded in the walls, countless gemstones pulsated and swirled with light. Some were small, but most of the stones were fists of crystal. Her hand could barely cover the gem she reached out to touch. It was a wealth worthy of kings. No, gods. The gemstones were a fortune that would impress even the most indifferent god.

Umoya would have indulged in her reverie, but she had not come here for magical stones.

Well, maybe just one.

She latched her hand to a blue-green gem and pulled it from the rock. How easy the earth surrendered its riches? The crystal was warm to the touch, and Umoya could swear that she felt the light move inside. For a moment, she considered returning the treasure, but she quickly suppressed the thought. The gem would be a useful torch, sparing the need for skillfire.

Umoya stepped deeper into the mountain. The light stones adorned the wall of the tunnel for a hundred paces and then abruptly they ceased. She would have been left in total darkness if not for the gem she held.

The tunnel extended on and on, neither sloping up nor down. Whether the path curved, she could not tell, but it felt like it cut straight. Unnaturally straight. For an hour, she walked, accompanied only by the sound of her presence and the blue-green light, which the walls seemed to absorb completely. She could see no more than ten feet ahead of her.

Umoya nearly fell into the chamber. One more step and she would have broken her body on the stone floor a hundred feet below. She saw nothing beyond the clean-cut path — not the chamber below nor its inhabitant — but she appreciated the peril. She could feel the space. An immense void stretched out before her.

I’m here.

Umoya steadied herself. Her body shook. Exhaustion. Relief. Fear. But her back was straight, and her voice rang clear, “Hear me! I am Umoya of the Ashulu, Caller of Matrons. Hear me, Great One. The world is breaking.”

The dragon opened her eyes.

Sep2

Star Trek: TNG—Best Episodes

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Star Trek: TNG—Best Episodes

Star Trek: The Next Generation aired from 1987 to 1994. 7 seasons. 176 episodes. This summer holidays I binge-watched the whole lot.

ST:TNG remains one of the best science fiction tv shows ever created, but it’s a product of its time. Progressive as it may have been 30 years ago, many episodes are cringe-worthy and occasionally characters like La Forge and Riker are downright creepy. Nevertheless, it’s a great show (particularly the 5th season) and I love it.

Below are my favourite episodes. Instead of another ‘Top 10’ or ‘Top 25’ list, I’m listing my favourite episodes for each character…

Jean-Luc Picard

picardInner Light – s05 e25
Picard awakens to find himself in a village where he is a well-known member of the community suffering from a delusion of being a starship captain.

Darmok – s5 e02
Capt. Picard must learn to communicate with a race who speaks in a language that is not compatible with the universal translator.

The Drumhead – s4 e21
A retired admiral boards the Enterprise to investigate a possible act of sabotage and puts Capt. Picard in an uncomfortable position. Read the rest of this entry →

Dec13

Staying Silent

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Staying Silent

Content warning: sexual assault

Alice fell for him in the graveyard silence when the lights had faded and the songs were sung, and that was no small thing.

She rationed her affections. Men had to wear her down to get a taste. That’s just how it had always worked; attraction came only with familiarity. And yet, there she stood in the audience, enchanted by a musician whom she had never met.

But why not this man whose voice seduced and words inspired? He was of growing renown, a friend to women (if his lyrics were to be believed) and a generous gift for their eyes no less. Is it any wonder?

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Nov30

The Journal of Samantha Ward — 29/11/2017

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The Journal of Samantha Ward — 29/11/2017

Content warning: explicit erotica

I was on the pull that night, and I did warm a bloke’s sheets by day’s end, but it was also the evening I met him.

He is out of place, I thought. He didn’t fit the room.

The pub was crowded with Canary Wharf city-boys — and he was one of the clique too — but unlike his colleagues, his suit fit. But it wasn’t just his tailoring that set him apart, or his stature and easy charisma for that matter.

No, there was something… Arg! It’s hard to articulate.

He wasn’t the centre of attention in his group, but his friends worked for his approval — most likely without even realising it. He wielded a subtle power. And it was no accident, I knew. He was in complete control.

Everything he did was calculated and precise: how he spoke, what he said, how he moved, the way he surveyed the room…

Of course, he knew I was studying him. Those eyes (God, I’m getting wet just thinking about them), those eyes didn’t miss a thing.

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