24 April 2024

This is a poem about that Atlantis/magical girl story I started a while back. I still want to do something with it, but even with what I have here, the opening isn’t landing quite right for me. I’ll have to tweak the idea later. It’s definitely not my priority, though; Perish Song, Majesty, and Rapunzel are all higher on my list than this one. Just wanted a change of pace.

I did think the idea of how I formatted this poem was kind of cool, though. Would’ve been better if I made the fairy stanzas more consistent in line length, but that was a bit mroe trouble than it was worth, at least for a rough draft.

Come, see Atlantis, and join up in our fight!

Gawk at all our wonders, partake in each delight.

There’s a bit of danger, this I won’t deny,

But ‘tis but a smidgeon. What then is thy reply?

Thinkest me a fool?

Lying wretch, begone.

Though wonders offered,

I will not be swayed.

The prince was at a loss; he knew not what to do

Without a promised partner, the gate won’t let him through

So he huddled in her bedroom, miserable and lost

And watched the daily life of this girl whose path he’d crossed.

Pitiful rabbit

Wherefore called a prince?

A week I ponder

Should I twist the pact?

Become a reaper

Slay cosmic horrors

Both eldritch and fae

What say you to that?

When she at least agreed to meet, I thought I would rejoice

But once conditions heard, I promptly lost my voice

A reaper? Truly? But why would she wish so?

What could my kind have ever done to be considered foe?

Art thou so blind, then?

How these girls recruit?

Risk naught, asking all

How should they be judged?

20 September 2022

The next two entries are based on a song called Godhunter by Aviators (link here. It’s also on Spotify.). Something about the song always fascinated me and sparked my creative juices ever since I’ve heard it.

So, I started writing it. I’ve got a whole collection of potential god-kings for this Godhunter to slay, and all the ways it’s ridiculously hard. It was actually a lot of fun to plan out; the problem is, as part of designing the god-kings, I also needed to envision what made them worthy of being called “tyrant”. There are a couple exceptions, but they’re not good people, at least in the version I would write. And living in the same headspace as that messed with my head. So, for now, until I can find some thread of hope to make that world a place worth being/saving, I’m taking a break. I’ve had a few thoughts, but nothing definitive enough to come back to it yet.

Still, I did have fun writing and planning it, especially the entry below, which serves as a “begin at the end” kind of prologue.

She looked up at the black fortress before her, scythe resting on her shoulders. It had been grand, once; a symbol of strength, or fear, depending on who you were. She’d been, once, exactly a century ago. Banners had fluttered in the breeze, and people had bustled about. Merchants, peasants, but mostly soldiers, doomed to die in a pointless war.

Now, though, it was empty. No more banners. No more crowds. No more soldiers. Just black walls, wreathed in shadows and silence.

Unperturbed by the gloom, she pushed through the front gate, each footstep echoing into the night. She could have softened the, moved silently, but for this target, there was no need. He already knew she was coming. He was the last, and he knew it. Let her footsteps announce her arrival; his fear would serve her better than any advantage surprise could offer.

She paused in the courtyard, trying to guess where her prey might be lurking, before she focused on the central tower. Nodding to herself, she strode inside and marched up the stairs.

At the top, she found a sad excuse for a throne room. Faded drapery hung limp along the walls and ceiling, thread-bare and moth-eaten. Half-rusted suits of armor paraded down the walls on either side, most of them missing at least one piece or another. And in the center, a man with greasy black hair and sunken eyes sat on a tarnished throne. A sad excuse for a beard marred his face.

He met her eyes and croaked, “Have you come to kill me?”

“Yes.” She made a show of looking around the room again and added, “Although, it looks like you’re already halfway there.”

He coughed out a laugh, a raspy, painful sound like the screech of unoiled metal. “Go on, then. Finish it.”

She flipped the scythe off her shoulder, and slowly brought the blade behind his neck. There she paused and stared at him. “So was it worth it?”

He sneered and spat, “Go to hell.”

She shrugged, and pulled her scythe forward. And the last of the god-kings fell.

How does one kill a god? Some will see the future and avoid it; others won’t die no matter how severe their wounds; and others will simply turn to ash, only to reborn moments later, unharmed.

She began by watching. Watching daily hunts of men and women for a war god’s amusement. Watching the jilted goddess fawn over her latest object of affection. Watching the god-priest compel his followers into a mad frenzy of unholy wrath.

It was fortunate, then, that she called the reaper herself mother; for as death always lurks just out of sight, unnoticed by all but the most wary, so too could she lurk unseen. And it was for her mother she would kill them; for how else would they have gained immortality had they not ripped it from her mother’s corpse?

The seeress would be hardest. Unfortunately, that meant she also had to be first; if she targeted one of the others, the seeress would foresee it and warn them. The question was, how could she prevent the seeress from foretelling her own doom?