Wataza’s Backstory

Melyion demon!

The priests quickly removed the stone from his palm, and hurried him into the great shrine.

He heard no voice during the great ceremonies. No voice answered his prayer. On the way back home, the priest told him they would try again next year, but he must commit himself fully to Balor in the coming months.

At night, he dreamed about that stone, that warm, brilliant stone, with the blue etchings he seemed to know.

That year was rough. The priests shaved his head, and began harsh mediation sessions. He fasted for weeks, he meditated through nights, and all the while, that stone slipped into his thoughts. One morning, during a fast, he heard a little voice in the dusk. Something small and crying. He broke his meditation and followed it. He ran through the tangled overgrowth of the shrine garden, down into the nearby town, chasing the little sound.

And there, in the dirt of the town square, he heard it loudly.

“I’m here!” it cried out.

He bowed his head to the passerbys as he wandered closer, something in the dust crying out to him louder than ever before.

There it was. The red stone.

He shoved it into his robe and ran back to the shrine. It talked endlessly as he sprinted. It thanked him over and over again as he rushed back into his room.

“Shh. Someone will hear you!” Wataza whisper barked to the gem in his hand.

“No they won’t.”


“My lord…” She cleared her throat. He didn’t budge. “My lord, you’re going to suffer summer sickness if you sleep in the heat here.” She put her bucket by her feet, debating if she should kneel down and touch him. “My lord.”

His breath was smooth and even. He was far away in his dreams. Laurel almost felt bad as she got onto her knees and reached out. “Lord Saeran.” She whispered, hoping to wake him gently. Her hand made contact with his shoulder, giving him a tiny shake. “Lord Saeran.”

He moved far too quickly for her to react. His hand shot out like from a bow and clamped around her neck. She took a sharp breath inward, the lack of air she could take in as Saeran’s grip grew tighter. Her own hands grabbed around his wrist as she made a gurgling sound. Saeran’s eyes were empty as she beat at his hand. She kicked her legs out, knocking her bucket over. Nothing was getting to him as her world started to fade at the edges. She could feel spit eking from the corner of her lips as she tried to make words.


Laurel’s world went dark.

Poetry: Puppets

Where we met, I forget.

But it was there I took your hand and tied a string around it.

And when I got upset, I pulled the string to forget all my pains and woes.

You would come to meet my hand.

Like a puppet on a string.

If the line would go slack, you would always come back, and life was good with you and I.

My puppet on a string.

There was another I soon forget, one we took in our hands and gave him strings as well.

We were a sight of endless delight

Three bodies tied by strings.

On the string between him and I, a silly little ring.

A promise little ring.

My dear puppets on their strings.

Time did pass but we did last, we tied up hundreds of strings.

Some were frail, some were strong, some we kept very long.

They were our friends, but none as tight as the bonds that bound the first string I tied between you and I,

My favorite puppet on his string.

But the string bound around that ring?

One day when the line went slack, I pulled it back…

Only a shell came back.

I took my strings and tied them tight, to make him dance for my delight.

So I would not crack, I brought him back.

A ghost upon sorrow strings.

I made him dance, I made him sing, I hid behind him, pulling the strings.

To hide my heart from falling apart.

Me and my secret on a string.

Yet again time did flow.

Now it’s just a story few know.

I hide my heart a long ways apart.

My hidden doll on his strings.

Trapped behind a wall of sorts, a barrier he can not cross.

To a place where puppets should not be.

Where all beings should be free.

He still remains, I dare not part,

Still protecting my fragile heart.

Though I should give up his strings and put to rest

That empty, silent shell… would be best.

A puppet master with empty strings.

Other strings tied to other things, promises they do speak.

Of how the strings that have been tied between them and I

Are just as strong as the first string I had tied.

So maybe I can give up my dear shell.

Goodbye, soon, my puppet on his string.

You know the worst part?

My favorite puppet on a string…

If the same were to happen to you…

I would not hesitate to slice the strings to my doll.

Let the painful memories finally fall.

In this place where he does not belong.

I’d tie you to me, like it was all along…

Just you and I.

To hide my heart.

So I would not fall apart.

I’d make you dance, I’d make you’d sing.

And lose myself upon your strings.

Would you be alright?

If I turned you into my doll?

Because I could not stand, if you did fall…

Thunder Rolls

Flash. The storm begins. Old women cross their hands and aim them to the sky. Old men lower their tools, their hats, their heads. Mothers find their children and lead them to canopied safety while their wide eyes watch as the young and strong begin their work.

Crack – of both thunder and wood. The men work without a word, repeating the motions they have seen. The action is imprinted at birth. Almost.

Continue reading “Thunder Rolls”