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content/post/_index.md

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+---
+title: Recent posts
+type: list
+---
+
+All stories are here organized chronologically, starting from the most recent.

content/post/fiction/light.md

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+---
+type: post
+title: Light
+date: 2004-06-12
+categories:
+- Short story
+- Erotica
+tags:
+- Sexuality
+- Romance
+description: A very old piece of erotica. I was on my bullshit even back this long ago.
+ratings: X
+---
+
+A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes, that's how it would start, I suppose. I'd settle in behind him, and crane my neck over his shoulder to give him a kiss on the cheek. Light. A touch. I wouldn't hold him tight, either. Not squeezing, at least not now. Just slide my arms loosely around him, above the paunch, below the breasts, the place where the arms just rest, adding to him lightly instead of pressing.
+
+"What are you doing?"
+
+"Enjoying you. Is that okay?"
+
+Ask. Always ask. It's always about permission, because permission is always about trust, and where is love without trust? What happens to love if I trust everyone completely? Do I love everyone? I might.
+
+"No...ah...yes, I mean. I don't mind."
+
+"Mmmh..."
+
+Another kiss, still light, this time to the back of the neck. That place on people who actually have substance where the skin is pressed out in a gentle rise. Yes, just above there. I suppose my forehead would brush through hair. Shiver. The neck is sensitive there.
+
+Maybe now a squeeze. A light one, at that place where the arms rest nicely, before moving, brushing fingertips along the jaw line on the side nearest, brushing fingernails back down along the side of the neck. Another shiver.
+
+"Hnn..."
+
+"Can I touch you?"
+
+Always ask. Permission by nod. Fingers continue down from neck, down over the chest, avoiding the spots that are too sensitive, skirting gentle rises before moving back up. Go underneath the over-shirt, like that, go ahead and nudge it aside, maybe even over the shoulder. Now maybe even use some more of the hand instead of just fingertips; not the palm, really, just more of the fingers. (What about the other hand? Maybe a little, just shift it down the side, trace a curve, but not too far.)
+
+Another kiss, the third, to the base of the neck, but the side, where the shoulder meets it. Longer this time, too, linger a little, enjoy it some. It's okay to go slow, don't worry if he gets a little bored, have fun. I suppose now would be a good time to shift a little, too, and, shifting, shift off his over-shirt. Two shirts is seeming like a little too much right now.
+
+"Ah...where is this going?"
+
+"Only as far as you want."
+
+He's unsure, and submissive. It might go farther than he'd like. Is it taking advantage of him? I can egg him on about that, but I know what he'll say; I can stop, but must I? At least it's slow, giving him time to think about what's happening, time to object, time to accept, time to relax, time to get nervous, time to enjoy. Close your eyes, go on, don't mind the hands, they'll just search out skin. (His neck. Brush the fingers back up the other side, let more of the hand in, run fingers through hair. You know, entwine, but it doesn't need to be firm, still light.) It's okay to move, tilt your head, mine will be there to rest it against, cheek to cheek, though I'll have to stretch a little for that. (And back down, but give the under-shirt a miss, slip beneath the radar, under the collar, find the real one, the collar-bones. Yeah, just explore along those for a bit.)
+
+"Hey..." (Pause. Okay, maybe a little movement, with the fingers,)
+
+"Do you want me to stop?"
+
+May have to ask this at every step (but that makes it sound like I have plans. I might). Slight nod's enough, keep going along the collar-bone until it slips up on the shoulder, but slip off the path there. Fingers down over the chest, over the upper part of the breast, then between the two, but gently, it'll make him squirm. Hand's in his shirt, now; any farther and it'll be an arm instead of just a hand. That's okay, got two hands: send the other down, cross the belly to his hip, find the hem, slip up beneath, go back the way I came beneath the shirt, it'll follow. He'll squirm, so will I.
+
+A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes, then reposition. That seems like a good place for hands, so send the other down over the front to join the other up beneath the shirt. It gets complicated, trail fingernails down along the upper edge of his tummy (I don't understand how people can't like that. The word, and the weight. Skinny people are just scary).  Down over his sides, along the lower boundary of the ribcage, not too low or he'll jump. Shirt's all tugged up on his front; lean back, slip hands to skin, slide it up further, make as if to take it off.
+
+"May I?"
+
+"Um."
+
+Wish he'd answer, but he lifts his arms. It's yes enough, so go ahead and slide hands up and over his back, take the shirt with, hands beneath the collar. Up it goes, over the head, with hands, then in front, let him deposit the shirt.  Why not trail hands along arms and shoulders while I'm at it...
+
+"And mine? Is it alright if I take mine off, too?"
+
+"Uh."
+
+He's tense, and shifty-eyed; he's shaking, but so am I. It's okay, just go back to the beginning. Slide arms around him, rest between chest and midsection. Lightly. Light squeeze. A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. That's how it began.
+
+"I can't...I don't know. I, ah..."
+
+"Shh."
+
+Another squeeze, why not, and tighter this time. Longer, hold it. Hold him. Hold myself. The light's there. It flows, in through the head, out through the heart. Skin to skin, but who's keeping track. He's shaking, and tense, he's crying, but so am I. The light burns both, full and empty...
+
+Shift! No, crawl around in front, face my fears, face him, face light, face to face. Cheeks are wet though tears have stopped. He won't meet my eyes, grabs his shirt. But first...
+
+A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. And another, to the forehead, and one more, right where it counts. Lightly, to the lips, share a little of the light, so he knows it's pure. Okay, now let him put on his shirt if he wants. Or giggle, whichever comes first.
+
+"It's...it's alright...like this."
+
+"What?"
+
+He makes a move, reciprocates, returns, even leans in. My turn to be surprised. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. A kiss. Light and only to my cheek. Yes, and a hug. Hugs and kisses. Hugs are awkward when on the ground. I could try not supporting myself, see what happens. Wrap my arms around his middle, relax my back and hips. Back to him, with the surprise. Over we go. Lands half on me, half on the ground, self-conscious about his weight, squirms, I'll let go, mustn't push. Rolls onto his back, back to kneeling for me, over him, rest a hand on his chest, if it'll do ya, odd folds in his pants, mustn't hope (but he's blushing. Maybe a little hope).
+
+"I don't know what to do..."
+
+"Relax..."
+
+I'll take off my shirt. Didn't ask. Hope it's okay. Looks, averts his eyes, looks again. Smile, get a smile back. Trace invisible lines with fingers, maybe meridians, middle of the chest makes him tense, eyes half closed (both). Over his front, sides, belly, try and feel if those folds mean anything without him noticing, though he blushes more.
+
+Lean down. A kiss. Light, and to the lips. Apologize silently for being brash, then do the deed. Gently now, mustn't startle, just with the fingers, and light, always light. Belt buckle. Button. Zipper. Tented. He squirms, and blushes furiously, he's hard, but so am I.
+
+"Ah...!  I...ergh." (Lift hand, quick, but let it hover.)
+
+"Did I go too far? Should I stop?"
+
+Now's a good time to panic. Think about what you've done, my life, his life, the light, always the light, think with my head, think with my crotch, balance the two and weigh the options. He's squirming, mostly his hips. He looks pained, but so do I. Grabs my hand, wavers, holds, shakes all over, holds, puts it back down on his crotch. Sigh, smile, kiss him on the cheek, but always ask.
+
+"Are you sure?"
+
+"No...but go ahead."
+
+Slow, then. He's hard, but so am I. It's pointed up in the air, and up towards his head, angled, fingertips move down to the base, hand wraps gently around it through cloth and squeezes, light. Other hand kneads at hips through shorts, down over thigh, other hand down from erection to between legs, spread slightly, along inner thigh, hem of shorts, elation. Skin. Hand up along skin, inside of shorts, other hand back up along thigh, elation. Skin, up through shorts. Boxers. Always wanted to. Up through shorts, fingers between legs, skin pulled tight, wrinkled with nervousness, just a touch.
+
+Back down, out. Back up over shorts, another squeeze to the erection, and I can look again. His eyes are closed, his brow is furrowed, his face is red, and light is shining. A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. It's time.
+
+"I...want to see."
+
+"Okay..."
+
+Zipper.  Don't need to take them off. Zip. Touch, he shivers, search, he tenses, opening in boxers, there. Skin touches skin and he whimpers (but so do I), lightly, ever lightly, wrap fingers around and disentangle from clothes. Out in the open. Cut. Curved upwards, slightly to the left. Can he get any more red? Can I? Skin silky, tip slick, be brave, do it. Deed is done, his eyes open, he leans up.
+
+"Are you going to...you know...s-suck?"
+
+"If you'd like..."
+
+Savor the taste of the one lick, get another non-answer. Make up my mind. The light burns more than ever, in through the head, out through the heart, overflowing, need to share, need to give, need to take, need to have, to hold, to know, to be. Adjust self, stretch out, get comfortable, he's still on his elbows. Just the head, now, go slow, first time for both. Vaguely salty, vaguely metallic, definitely warm. Press tongue to the underside, suckle warmly on it, like I'm gonna get something out of it. No teeth. He bucks, surprise, that's okay, take some more, warmth. Mouth. Wet. Not sure what to do with hands, he touches face, hair, ears, shoulders, head. Leans back again, arches, get more in my mouth. Suckle firmly, rub with tongue, move some, bob along it, use a hand around the base, since it doesn't quite fit. Pick up speed, he's tense, but so am I. He may be close, know I am. A tug on my hair.
+
+"I'm...ah...shit..."
+
+"Mmnrgl."
+
+The taste! Almost pull off, but I need to share, the light, the taste, oh god, Jesus...The light comes in through the head and out through the heart, and the seed is made inside and comes out the shaft, coats my tongue, fills my mouth. Bitter. Salty. Swallow. Writhes. Hold it. God...Warm. Squirms...
+
+"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, aw jeez, I'm sorry...ow..."
+
+"Nngh...I'm sorry..."
+
+Sensitive, pulls me off, hurriedly hides himself with clothes, blushing furiously, turns away from me, curls up. I'll curl around him, snug an arm around his chest, just above his belly, press close against him, form fitting. He's crying, I'm still hard, don't notice. Hold him tight and bask in the light, flows in through the head and out through the heart, wash around us.
+
+A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. The cheek, twice salted with tears, hides his face from me but nestles back to my front. The light is blinding, bury my face against his neck, hold him tight, laugh.
+
+"What's so funny?"
+
+"The light. Love is all light."

content/post/fiction/post-self/qoheleth.md

@@ -1,4 +1,5 @@
 ---
+draft: true
 categories:
 - Short Story
 - ARG

content/post/fiction/sawtooth/gigs.md

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+---
+title: Gigs
+type: post
+date: 2020-06-26
+description: "Gig economy is kind of the worst! We want happy lesbians, not frustrated ones."
+series: Sawtooth
+img: flag.svg
+tags:
+- Furry
+- Employment
+categories:
+- Short Story
+---
+
+*Well, shit.*
+
+Winter trudged heavily through the piles of dead leaves lining the gutter, the lynx's broad paws crunching through them. There was a sidewalk, but this wasn't a mood for sidewalks. This wasn't a mood for keeping clean, staying out of the way. This was a proper sulk.
+
+She pulled her phone out for the umpteenth time and thumbed at the screen, tapping out yet another message to Katrin that she wouldn't send. Deleted message. Put phone away.
+
+A low growl started in her chest, rose, crescendoed, and she let out a brief yell. No words, just a vent of frustration. Birds startled from the tree beside her.
+
+It didn't help.
+
+"Making a damn fool of yourself," she grumbled. "Twice over."
+
+She hesitated on the corner of Linden and 18th, stopping mid-stride and staring down the street. She should turn. She should turn left and walk the next two blocks. She should head up the stairs. She should open the door, set her phone down, change out of her clothes --- clothes she'd now have to return to the market --- clean up, start cooking.
+
+She should tell Katrin what happened. She should look for a new job.
+
+"Shit," she repeated, this time aloud, and kept walking straight. Five blocks to the plaza. She'd grab a coffee, sit on one of the benches. Watch the early afternoon crowds putter along the mall.
+
+Or maybe she shouldn't grab a coffee she could no longer afford. Maybe she should be saving her money.
+
+She kept walking.
+
+She got her coffee.
+
+She sat, and she watched.
+
+-----
+
+Katrin and Winter stood still, heads bowed, both searching through their thoughts.
+
+Winter couldn't guess at her wife's thoughts. The fox was always so inscrutable. Winter would sometimes watch her face while the vixen worked, the blank mask of pure white, punctuated with only the pitch-black nose, those darkest-brown eyes, and try to decide if the inscrutable part was the all-white fur or some sort of Scandinavian magic.
+
+Today, she couldn't tell. Katrin's matte-white fur reflected light so well that there were no shadows left to reflect her emotions. And yet, there was still something foreign to those features. The almond-shaped eyes, the blunt muzzle, the ears almost hidden in thick fur.
+
+Perhaps another Swede would be able to read that face, to say what Katrin was feeling, but not Winter. Not right now.
+
+"And they didn't give any recourse?" The fox looked up to Winter. "Just *come pick up your last paycheck and drop off your shirts*?"
+
+The lynx nodded. "Just that. Mr. Stevenson just said he couldn't keep both managers on board, and, well, Kayla's his daughter."
+
+Katrin nodded and slid her paw across the counter top to twine her fingers with the lynx's. "I understand. I'm sorry, love."
+
+"It's okay." Winter sighed and gave those fingers a squeeze in her own. Even with the flour still clinging clinging to her wife's fur, even with the coarseness of her pads, worn from so much kneading of dough, they seemed so delicate in her thick-furred mitts. "I'll start looking tomorrow."
+
+"Okay. Let me know if you need any help, I'll do what I can."
+
+The lynx nodded.
+
+"It'll be okay, love. I promise." Her smile was tired.
+
+-----
+
+Gone were the days of sitting up at the kitchen table, circling help-wanted ads in the newspaper. Hell, gone were the days of the newspaper.
+
+Instead, Winter grew addicted to job posting boards, both local to her town and some that ran on a wider scale. Once she got her résumé all fixed up, she began flooding local stores with it, starting with all of the local grocers --- as Stevenson's had been --- and then broadening her search to related retail outlets.
+
+And then unrelated.
+
+Then non-retail positions.
+
+She would work in shifts, spending an hour prowling through postings, then spending five minutes making sure her files were in order, then another two hours applying. The act of uploading a résumé to a site that promised to read all it could from it, then required her to fill in all that information again in form fields became rote, numbing.
+
+There were a few calls back, but more often than not, silence. It was starting to feel futile. It was starting to feel like hollering into the void. She would click submit on yet another application, and it would just...go away. It would go nowhere.
+
+Even an outright rejection would feel better.
+
+She had set herself a week to exhaust all of the usual application channels. On the third or fourth day, she started driving around to stores and dropping off paper copies of her applications as well.
+
+It was on one of those outings towards the end of her time-boxed week that she first noticed the ride share sticker in someone's window.
+
+-----
+
+"Winter? For Malina?"
+
+"Yep, that's me," the lynx replied cheerfully.
+
+"Great!" The badger hauled a few sacks of groceries into the back seat and slid in after them. "Thanks so much for the ride. Car's in the shop and all."
+
+"Oh, no worries." Winter waited for Malina to get herself buckled in before tapping at the GetThere app on her phone to set the satnav to direct her to the badger's destination. "Hopefully nothing expensive?"
+
+Malina laughed. "Shouldn't be. One of those warranty things. A part recall or something. I'm out a car for a day or two, but at least I don't have to pay for it."
+
+"No loaner, then? Do they even still do that?"
+
+"I'm not sure, honestly. They might. But either way, I'm within walking distance from work, so I figured it wouldn't be that big of a deal." With a wry smile, she added, "I just wasn't counting on having to do a grocery run for work. Starts getting cold out, and we start mowing through milk."
+
+Winter slid the car back into traffic --- mercifully light today --- and started down the road back toward 13th. "Fair enough. Where do you work, that you go through milk so fast?"
+
+"A coffee shop. The Book and the Bean, on the plaza. There's a few shops within walking distance that sell dairy, but none of them sell the more exotic milks, so I have to head further out. Easy enough to walk there, but I'm not hauling all of this back."
+
+"Oh, yeah! I know the one. My wife's restaurant, Middagsbord, is just down the block." She grinned. "I doubt those bags are light, though, yeah."
+
+Malina laughed and shook her head. "Not at all."
+
+There were a few moments of silence as Winter negotiated a left turn and the badger in the back seat thumbed through her phone.
+
+"How about you?" came a distracted voice from the back. "Is this your full-time thing? Driving?"
+
+Winter shook her head. "Not exactly. I just started this not too long ago. This and random gigs on Simpletask."
+
+"What's that?"
+
+"Just random things people want done but don't want to do themselves. I've done filing, transcription, cataloging...boring stuff, really."
+
+Malina nodded. "Sounds like driving's the more interesting of the two."
+
+"Wasn't really my first choice, but it's turning out to be way more fun than I thought it would be."
+
+"Oh yeah? What about it do you like? Setting your own hours?"
+
+"I try to work pretty standard hours, though for me that means working morning rush hour driving, doing some tasks, driving during lunch, more tasks, and then evening rush hour." Winter thought for a moment, then continued, "No, I think the thing I like about it is that it gets me a lot of the best things I liked about retail without the standing all day or dragging boxes around."
+
+In the rear-view mirror, Malina grinned. "Yeah, that makes sense. Just the meeting people sort of thing?"
+
+"Mmhm. Meeting people, being helpful. People are generally kinder here than they are in stores, too. Most folks are grateful for the rides, and those that aren't having a good day are usually pretty quiet. I don't get many people hollering at me."
+
+Malina laughed. "Oh, I know that one. I used to work in finance, but got sick of it. I figured moving to where I saw people instead of numbers would be easier on the soul. I was mostly right."
+
+"Mostly?"
+
+"Yeah. A lot of people are grateful for coffee, but like you said, those who aren't tend to holler."
+
+It was Winter's turn to laugh. "Yep, that's the type. I guess that's what I mean, though. I got good at the sort of happy retail mask that one puts on around them, but I haven't needed it here. Not as much, at least."
+
+As expected, the drive was a short one. Once they made it to the loading zone at the end of the 13th Street Plaza, Winter helped Malina unload the bags of milk and other sundries from the back of her car.
+
+"Thanks again, Winter," the badger said, loading herself up once again. "Stop in any time."
+
+The lynx nodded and waved before hopping back in her car and turning off the hazard lights.
+
+-----
+
+While the biggest benefit to this new form of employment was the free-form nature of it, that very benefit worked against it. It was up to Winter to schedule her day around the best times for driving, and the best times for working on projects on Simpletask.
+
+However, when Sawtoothians needed rides was unsteady. Sure, there were times when rides were more likely: rush hour, some time over lunch, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. She started keeping track of sporting events, concerts, and conferences.
+
+Some days, Winter would be flooded with rides, and the lynx would dart all over town, picking up passengers of all stripes and driving them to some concert venue or the UI-Sawtooth campus stadium.
+
+And some days, she would be stuck on her laptop at The Book and the Bean --- Malina having convinced her to become a regular --- waiting for either a ride to crop up or a task she was qualified for. Warm days were usually slow, as folks would be more willing to walk or bike. Some days, she'd make seventy percent of the income for the week, and some days, she wouldn't make a thing.
+
+And then there were the customers.
+
+Her experience of folks being grateful for rides held true, as did her experience of folks having a bad day generally simply being quiet. Those types were both easy enough to deal with, if not outright enjoyable. Over time, though, she began to see a wider variety.
+
+Around Thanksgiving, she started making trips too and from the airport and bus station, and families getting off longer trips were rarely happy. She got snapped at more than once by upset fathers trying to wrangle children or mothers coping with family through stony silence. On one occasion, played therapist along with a coyote to a frightened weasel having a panic attack, in town to visit her family and have some complicated-sounding interaction with her ex-husband.
+
+The worst of all were the drunk folks. When she first started driving folks home from bars, it felt good. She was doing a sort of service by keeping tipsy bar-hoppers or plastered sports fans off the road. The first time someone vomited in the back seat, however, her opinion of the task began to sour. It may be nice to keep drunks from driving, but cleaning vomit out of the foot-wells --- thankfully, the dog had managed to miss the seat --- was hardly a pleasant task.
+
+Football games became a source of dread. She wasn't even safe before they began, as she'd haul thoroughly pregamed fans from parties to stadium, groups of students hollering painfully loud, nigh unintelligible, whether from drink or simple in-jokey camaraderie.
+
+The tasks from Simpletask, while a break from the enforced social interaction that was an integral part of driving, were riddled with their own problems. People generally expected that someone driving for GetThere knew what they were doing enough to leave them alone.
+
+Not so with someone performing data entry from scanned documents or making brochures for events. She discovered a particular brand of cruelty that seemed unique to the role of small business owners, which they held in reserve for menial labor.
+
+The lynx lost track of how many times she was called an idiot. She lost track of the number of times she was lured in by a sizeable tip, only to have it withdrawn after she had completed the project during the three-day grace period. She lost track of how often she was brought on to be the small one, to make someone feel bigger.
+
+Still, she had to pay the bills, didn't she?
+
+-----
+
+Winter don't know how long she sat in the car, forehead resting against the steering wheel, before there was a soft knock at the driver's side window.
+
+"Love?" Katrin's voice was muffled through the glass.
+
+Winter looked dully out the window at the vixen, unseeing. Some part of her knew that she should get out of the car and head inside, should at the very least lift her head from the steering wheel, and yet she lacked the executive function required to even do that.
+
+"Winter, can you come inside?"
+
+The lynx took a deep breath. Perhaps it was the lack of something that was keeping her trapped here rather than some unwanted presence. The lack of oxygen. The lack of air. The lack of motivation.
+
+When the breath did not bring any further energy, she let it out in a rush and, through force of will, sat up straighter and unlocked the door. She might have sat there longer, but Katrin didn't give her the chance; the door she was leaning against angled smoothly away from her.
+
+No helping it now.
+
+Winter unbuckled her seatbelt and accepted her wife's paw to help lever herself out of the driver's seat. Together, they shut and locked the car and made their way inside.
+
+Only once she was settled at the kitchen table with a small plate of dill-heavy dumplings --- some new recipe Katrin was testing out --- was she able to loosen up.
+
+"I'm sorry, Katrin. I just...long day."
+
+The fox nodded, frowning. Never able to completely cease working, she seemed to be dissecting one of the dumplings she had made and was poking at the insides of it with the tip of a knife. "You've been having rather a lot of those lately, sötnos."
+
+Winter frowned. "I suppose. I know it's not exactly ideal."
+
+"It's okay, don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see that you're out and about doing work. I just worry."
+
+"Yeah..."
+
+Katrin, apparently satisfied with the internal texture of the dumpling, popped half of it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. When she had finished enough to do so, she continued. "Tell me about your long day, love. I want to hear, because it sounds like it was more than simply the length."
+
+"I suppose." Winter stalled for time by eating a few of the dumplings. They were quite good, though perhaps saltier than she would have liked. "Just had a really gross ride partway through and never quite recovered."
+
+"'Gross' how?"
+
+"He was just really adamant about sitting up in the front seat with me."
+
+Some inner part of her smiled, despite the competing emotions. She knew she had Katrin's full attention when the fox finally put down her silverware. "I...see. Are you okay?" she asked.
+
+Winter nodded. "He didn't do anything super gross physically, but it was just everything else he did."
+
+Katrin blinked slowly, ears tilted back. Winter was never quite sure what emotion went along with such an expression, but this time, she was certain it was one of concern or worry. Perhaps anger.
+
+"I'm alright, though, I promise. He just got really pushy about sitting up front and kept saying all these vaguely...uh, sexy things, I guess, and kept staring at me."
+
+"Did you report him?"
+
+"Yeah, I mentioned it on his review."
+
+The vixen nodded.
+
+"It just made the rest of my shift feel extra long, is all. Every time I'd go to accept a ride, I'd get nervous. I drove to the other side of town just to be sure he wouldn't request another from me."
+
+"And did he rate you well?"
+
+Winter winced. "No. He complained that I was unfriendly, and I got a note from the system about unacceptable behavior, like it was somehow my fault."
+
+Katrin reached out a hand to tug one of Winter's over for a squeeze. "I'm sorry, love."
+
+Winter returned that squeeze of the fingers distractedly. She couldn't drop the topic, though. Not now. Not after the dam had burst. "It's just so humiliating. I can't keep myself safe or I risk their ire. I can't look for jobs that pay well because I know they'll just recall the tip after and I'll be out a bunch of cash."
+
+"It's been a month," Katrin said once the flare of anger died out. "Do you think you might look for something more traditional job again?"
+
+"If anyone's even fucking hiring," the lynx growled.
+
+"It's still worth looking, perhaps."
+
+Winter bit her tongue to stay silent. It must have been evident to the fox, whose frown deepened.
+
+"Winter, you know that I love you and won't push too hard, but this is not healthy. You have been having 'long day' after 'long day' for the last few weeks. I'm glad you can get paid for stuff like this, but I don't know if it's worth it long term, at this rate."
+
+"You're right," she said after a long, deliberate pause. "No, you're right. I'll finish these and then start searching again."
+
+As expected, reference to the food immediately drew the fox's attention away from the problem at hand. "Do you like them?"
+
+"A bit salty. Maybe more lemon?"
+
+Katrin smiled ruefully. "The salt is high, yes. I think you're just a sourpuss, though."
+
+Winter swatted at her wife and laughed. It had been a calculated gesture, getting her to talk food, but one that she knew would distract them both. "Not as salty as you, though.
+
+-----
+
+"Surprised to see you in today, Winter, and for so long."
+
+The lynx looked up from her laptop, gratefully accepting hot chocolate number three from Malina. "I suppose I've been here for a while, yeah."
+
+"About two hours." The badger hastened to add, "No complaints. The busier we look, the busier we get!"
+
+The hot chocolate was good. Malina seemed to have picked up on Winter's penchant for whipped cream and piled this mug high. Something about the way the cocoa would break through the whipped cream was...not exactly soothing, and yet nonetheless she felt more at peace after.
+
+"As long as I'm not a problem," she said.
+
+"Not at all. Just surprised you're not driving today. Figured it'd be lunch hour rush."
+
+Winter shrugged. "Not really feeling it lately. Had a string of creeps, so I'm mostly doing Simpletasks and looking for something more stable."
+
+Frowning, Malina looked around The Book and The Bean and, seeing no one in need of drinks, pulled out the other chair at the lynx's table to sit. "Hopefully nothing too dramatic happened."
+
+"No, thank goodness. Just a string of bad luck with lewd assholes." She typed at her laptop briefly, pulled up a site, and turned it toward the badger. "Apparently there's a site for reviewing drivers on a sort of hot-or-not basis, and I guess I made the list."
+
+Malina's frown deepened. "I'd say congratulations if that weren't completely disgusting."
+
+Winter laughed and shook her head. "Yeah, no congrats needed."
+
+"There anything that GetThere can do about it?"
+
+"I don't think so. They don't seem to care about the drivers all that much, truth be told. Not like I'm the first to bring it up or anything." Winter gave her hot chocolate a slow swirl, watching the skin that was starting to form on the surface ripple. "They just sent me a canned response of, like, how to stay safe as a driver."
+
+Malina crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat. "That's frustrating. Is Simpletask treating you any better, at least?"
+
+Something about the lynx's expression caused her to look away. They sat in silence.
+
+"Either way." Winter tried to keep the dejection out of her voice, tried to sound positive. Tried to smile. "If you have any tips on job openings, I'm all ears."
+
+"Well, do you know anything about coffee?"
+
+"I...well, no. Are you hiring?"
+
+"We've got some shifts that could use some coverage." The badger smiled, shrugged. "It's a coffee shop job. Doesn't pay much and I don't have a full-time work week's worth of shifts open, but if you're willing to learn--"
+
+"Of course!" Winter caught herself short and laughed. "Sorry. Yeah, I'd be up to learn."
+
+Malina's smile widened. "Great. Follow me."
+
+Wrong-footed, the lynx tilted her head. "What, now?"
+
+"Sure. It's fairly slow. I can at least show you around behind the bar."
+
+She looked between the badger and her laptop, then shrugged and closed the lid, slipping it back into her bag. "Well, fuck it. Why not?"
+
+-----
+
+The Book and The Bean was not enough to carry Winter, but it was enough to allow her to be more selective in her jobs. She still drove occasionally when not at the coffee shop, but the added income let her focus more on Simpletask.
+
+What it offered beyond that was something less tangible. It leant a sense of stability that the gigs could not. She could always rely on at least a little bit of money to help supplement Katrin's income from Middagsbord. She could trust that a few shifts would help cover her share of rent, and that anything else would be covered by one-off tasks.
+
+More than that, it eased tensions between her and Katrin.
+
+She hadn't realized how frustrated the lack of security made her wife until she had regained it. The vixen once again became easy to talk to. She laughed more readily. She gushed about new recipes and bitched about customers. All those little things that are part of daily interactions that had been tamped down in the face of trying to make ends meet were suddenly back and in full force. That Winter was now working in food service as well certainly helped her case. They could commiserate in ways that neither had expected.
+
+And they were happy, in their own way. A new kind of happy. A different kind. And really, what more could they ask for?

content/post/fiction/sawtooth/sorting-laundry.md

@@ -1,7 +1,7 @@
 ---
 author: Madison Scott-Clary
 categories:
-- Flash fiction
+- Flash Fiction
 series: Sawtooth
 ratings: G
 date: 2017-02-11

content/post/fiction/sawtooth/what-defines-us.md

@@ -0,0 +1,173 @@
+---
+date: 2019-07-01
+title: What Defines Us
+type: post
+description: Darren and his mother struggle with the rammifications of the past repeating itself.
+categories:
+- Short Story
+- Epistolary
+tags:
+- Furry
+- Family
+- Divorce
+---
+
+Darren,
+
+Haven't heard from you in a while. Do you think I could come up and visit for xmas? Been a while since I've seen the little monsters. Let me know before prices go up.
+
+How are you? How is Leila?
+
+LYF
+
+Mom
+
+-----
+
+Mom,
+
+I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you recently. Things on our end have been awful, if I'm honest.
+
+Leila and I are thinking of splitting up.
+
+I don't know about Christmas. I hope you understand.
+
+LYFA
+
+Darren
+
+-----
+
+Oh honey, I'm so so sorry. What happened? Was it about work again?
+
+I still want to come out and see you. More now than I did before. Can I do anything to help?
+
+LYF
+
+-----
+
+Mom,
+
+Sorry, I guess my last email was pretty skimpy on the details.
+
+Yeah, the work thing got bad, then got a whole lot worse. I knew Leila was unhappy with it and all, but I don't think I realized how unhappy. I mean, I'm not happy with it, either, but obviously it's the life I live---and have lived---so it's in my blood. She wasn't happy hearing that.
+
+Well anyway, dozens of arguments later, it comes out that she got fed up enough to start sneaking out and seeing others. Maybe if she'd been open about it or whatever, I would've been more able to work with it, but I think it just goes to show that neither of us are happy and neither of us can trust each other.
+
+We tried doing the counseling thing. Even brought Jer and Eileen to some, but I don't know, mom. I feel like I'm in a bad spot with that. I feel like I'd like to be the one to talk things through with the kids, not some very expensive stranger, you know? It makes me feel like I'm out of touch with how they feel about things, and like it would just sow distrust in them of us.
+
+I'm lost, mom. What do I do? This is all so overwhelming...
+
+LYFA
+
+D
+
+-----
+
+Darren,
+
+It's not easy stuff to work through, I know. It sounds like you're doing a good job of things, and certainly like you're doing right by the kids.
+
+You both knew that there would be a lot of compromise going into this relationship, but maybe you just didn't realize how much? I hope I'm not overstepping or anything, just that sometimes compromise works and sometimes it doesn't. That's just the way of things. You and I had to compromise on a lot, and it's worked out okay (I think!!), but Justin and I tried and never could get it to work.
+
+As for what to do, just be honest. Painfully so, if need be. That said, you should be careful about Jeremy and Eileen. If you want to talk about all this and work on the divorce thing, \*don't do it on your own.\* Do so with Leila. Both of you talk with them together, and don't be afraid to talk about the problems you and L are having. They're smart cats, they'll be able to understand, and may have good advice for you, too! Treat them like adults, and they won't treat you (either of you!!) like mysterious unapproachable aliens throwing their lives into chaos.
+
+Call me if you need?
+
+LYF
+
+Mom
+
+-----
+
+Mom,
+
+Sorry for the delay. Things are up and down over here. We did as you said and have been talking things through with the kids, to mixed results. I can tell they're uncomfortable and unhappy about it all, but I feel like they're getting it, and having their say. And I feel more connected with them about it.
+
+The downside is that it's splitting L and I's thoughts on the matter in a weird way. When we talk about things in front of the kids, it feels like we're saying one thing, but when we talk in private, it's something different. We both act so civil around them because we have to, that it's made our arguments in private more painful. Things were sort of a maybe until we started doing this. Now it's feeling more like a definite.
+
+It hurts so much, mom. I love Leila, and I love the kids. If this is the direction we're going in, I guess that's what needs to happen, but none of this work stuff is going to look good to a judge. The thought of losing them has me not eating, not sleeping.
+
+I don't know what to do.
+
+LYFA
+
+-----
+
+I know, honey. I don't want to sound like a broken record, but I know it's not easy stuff. When things have broken down this completely, there is no outcome of this that is going to feel fair, but you love your children. It's plain to me, and I hope it's plain to Leila and any judge in the matter. You won't have them taken away from you. Just make sure you stay in their lives. Make sure you do what you can to help them want to stay in yours, too. (Not saying buy their affection, just show your love and appreciate (visibly) the love they show you.)
+
+LYF
+
+-----
+
+Yeah, the goal is not to be my dad here.
+
+*Sent from MobileMail*
+
+-----
+
+Darren,
+
+That's not fair to me \*or\* your dad at all. He and I had our differences and we couldn't work them out, but my goal was never for you to hate him. We shared our time with you as we did, for better or worse, and I tried to keep channels open. That's why I'm saying what I am. Help them want to be in your life.
+
+LYF
+
+-----
+
+That's just the thing, mom. You keep pushing me to him, but there's nothing there. Not saying your advice is bad, it's certainly good. It's advice I wish you could give dad. The guy hit me, though. I was never good enough for him. He was an abusive jerk and you know it. Why would I want to go and show him \*any\* positive attention?
+
+Seriously, I've tried to handle this divorce shit and my relationship, hell, my fucking life the \*opposite\* of how you handled things. You both provided me with so many bad examples of how things could go. And yet here I am, reliving the fucking past.
+
+*Sent from MobileMail*
+
+-----
+
+Darren, honey, I'm so sorry.
+
+Not a day goes by that I don't think about you. You're my baby, remember? Long as I live.
+
+So please, please understand me when I say that I'm sorry. Both your dad and I handled that entire situation terribly. \*Both your dad and I.\* I messed up back then, and if I could go back and change things, I would. I don't know if that means staying with Justin longer so that I could protect you or getting the divorce sooner to get you away from him. I don't know how I can fix it now, other than to help you not \*become him.\* We're after the same thing, here. Neither of us want you to be him, to wind up in his shoes.
+
+That's why I keep pushing you toward him, though. I know it had to have hurt him for you to cut him from your life. I can't imagine how much it would hurt if Jeremy and Eileen did that to you.
+
+I can't speak to your relationship with Leila. You know that Justin and I were cordial to each other, but when things ended, they ended, and there was no going back. If you two can patch things up, then that would be great! If you can't, though, you're right: don't be like your dad and I.
+
+Love you forever
+
+Mom
+
+-----
+
+I'm sorry, mom, you're right. I know things weren't great for you and dad either, and I know you're just trying to help. It's just hard. It hurts a lot, and it's making me really upset at the drop of a hat.
+
+Love you for always
+
+D
+
+-----
+
+And as long as I live My baby you'll be!
+
+The problem with being a parent (and you'll understand this more and more as Jeremy and Eileen grow up) is that your children are both the better versions of yourself and also doomed to repeat so many of the mistakes you did. You took a lot away from how things were when you grew up. Like you said, you took away the things that went wrong and want to do the opposite. You have my blessing on that! You make me endlessly proud when you do so.
+
+But you also took away my work ethic. That's a good chunk of why Justin and I didn't last. Not the main reason, of course, but still, it was there. And now it's playing havoc in your life.
+
+All we can do is try and do better. What happened isn't all there is to us. What defines us is also what we become.
+
+LYF
+
+Mom
+
+-----
+
+I don't really know what to say. I didn't realize that was a problem you and dad had, too. I'll have to think about it.
+
+Things are still up and down, but have been a bit more up recently. I still think things are going to end in a divorce, but talking with the kids forcing us to be more civil has helped a lot, and we've started talking about an equitable split.
+
+Thank you, mom. I know I got snippy, but you're right, and have helped more than you realize.
+
+Can you still come up for Christmas?
+
+LYFA
+
+D

content/post/fiction/the-hand-of-god.md

@@ -0,0 +1,192 @@
+---
+title: The Hand of God
+description: A bit of fanfiction for Jeff VanderMeer's The Southern Reach trilogy.
+date: 2020-05-29
+tags:
+- Horror
+- Fanfiction
+categories:
+- Short story
+ratings: G
+---
+
+The day began with the botanist giving the physicist a hand in setting up countless contraptions around the rim of the clearing, describing an invisible net of arcane geometries held there five feet above the ground. She lugged the total station while he placed the equipment. He prattled on as he went, describing what he was doing, what tools he was using, what equipment she was carrying. She largely lost track after the word 'theodolite'.
+
+Theodolite.
+
+*Theo*-dolite?
+
+*Theodo*-lite?
+
+The *-ite* put her in mind of stones. Of something semiprecious. Pretty, but not costly. And that *theo* weighing down the front-half of the word got her thinking of gods and, perhaps, of God. Theology. Theogeny.
+
+*The God-stone? Does that make sense?*
+
+Or perhaps it was the *-dol-* stuck in the middle. Sadness? No, that wasn't it. Pain? Dolorimetry, yes. The measure of pain. Was that a science? A sub-field, perhaps. Not hers, not the physicist's.
+
+*The God-stone: amber of the highest quality, embedded in which is a kernel of pain.*
+
+Here the physicist was, describing measurements and chromatic aberrations and spherical lenses and timed strobes and...
+
+And all she could think was *would I know the God-stone if I saw it? If I touched it?*
+
+"Hey."
+
+The botanist jerked upright. She had been crouched. Or hunched. A near feral wariness had overtaken her and formed her body into a bow. Taut, ready. She put forth a conscious effort to straighten up, square her shoulders, let them relax.
+
+"You okay?"
+
+"Yeah, sorry."
+
+"It's alright. Did you hear something?"
+
+"No. Maybe. I don't know."
+
+The physicist frowned, peered out into the trees in the direction the botanist had been looking. "I thought you might have heard something. You froze and started looking over there, over to the staircase."
+
+She didn't remember which way she had been facing. She knew that she had turned to face the physicist, though.
+
+"But then you just kept standing there. It wasn't like you were listening. You were just frozen."
+
+"Yeah, sorry. Maybe this place has me a little on edge.
+
+At that, the physicist's demeanor relaxed. "Right, yeah. The air's so thick here, like there's too much oxygen."
+
+"Mm."
+
+They walked back into the shade of a tree, epiphytes strange and new winding around its trunk. Once the physicist had strung wires between these arcane points, describing a sigil the botanist could never hope to understand, they could seek relief from the sun. Ferns fingered the air and fronds like hands seemed to be reaching out to touch them.
+
+A flash. A sudden light from all five posts set the clearing in stark relief.
+
+The physicist smiled dreamily. "Thank God that worked."
+
+And then they unwound the entire procedure from before. Undoing the cabling, unearthing the rods, undowsing, in some strange way, the work of the theolodite.
+
+On the way back to the camp, the physicist continued to chatter. He was measuring the way light and shadow moved within Area X. "No reason to think something as basic as light would differ here," he had assured her. Or at least assured her form, as her mind was elsewhere. "But you have to admit, everything's a little strange."
+
+At the camp: quiet. The four sat, each in front of their tent, thinking or not, reading or not. At one point, the linguist asked after the architect, and the psychologist repeated, "He went back to base."
+
+And then: quiet.
+
+They ate.
+
+The botanist read for a few pages, and then set her book down, tented up over the unfinished page, and fingered instead the thin shim of metal that was her bookmark. Brass, or something like it, it had become her fetish over the last two days. A thing to touch. Something known. Something remembered. Something grounding in this most ungrounded of places.
+
+"What *is* that, anyway?"
+
+"What?"
+
+The linguist gestured to the bookmark, the etched letters on its surface. "That. Every time we're here at camp, you read like two pages of your book and then just play with that. What is it?"
+
+She shrugged and handed it over. "Gift from my dad. We had a...complicated relationship, but he gave this to me before I left. Just a bookmark, probably from some tourist trap."
+
+"'May the road rise up to meet you', huh?" The linguist looked as though she was on the edge of saying something snarky, but her gaze softened. "Go n-éirí an bóthar leat. It's Gaeilge. Irish. Supposed to be 'may your travels be successful', but someone messed up the translation ages ago, and we got this version."
+
+"You know it?"
+
+"Yeah. I studied Celtic languages for a while and wrote a paper on the whole blessing for an undergrad anthropology class. Write what you know, I guess."
+
+The physicist: "'The whole blessing'?"
+
+She grinned. "Yeah, it's several lines. Uh...*go n-éirí an bóthar leat, go raibh an ghaoth go brách ag do chúl, o lonraí an ghrian go te ar d'aghaidh, go dtite an bháisteach go mín ar do pháirceanna, agus go mbuailimid le chéile arís, go gcoinní Dia i mbos A láimhe thú.* I think. It's been a while. It's like, 'good luck on your road, may the wind be behind you, may the sun shine on your face, may the rain fall on your fields, and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.'"
+
+It was the most any of them had spoken in hours about anything other than...than work? Than whatever it was they were doing out here in Area X. All of them were listening.
+
+And as she listened, the botanist felt that hand, felt God's hand, close around her mind. Felt it cradle, grip, tighten, squeeze. Felt it test her limits, and, on finding them, sit just shy of too much. She was sure there must be some visible change, a hand-print sprawled across her face, but none of the others said anything about it.
+
+The physicist: "See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands."
+
+Silence.
+
+He looked abashed. "Isaiah forty-nine something."
+
+The psychologist lifted her sleepy head. "You're Catholic."
+
+It wasn't a question. She knew already. Knew all of their profiles. A statement, then, for the benefit of the others.
+
+"Yeah. I'm, uh...gently lapsed, I'd say. I still believe, still read the bible. Just don't go to mass. I don't like it there."
+
+Silence.
+
+Hands.
+
+Hands.
+
+Always hands.
+
+The botanist had tuned out, and some distant part of her was surprised to find that she had stood, that she had been pacing, that she had stopped and hunched and tensed, once more facing the stairs. The stairs. That finger pointing toward God.
+
+The psychologist: "Are you excited, too?"
+
+She frowned, the tension draining from her as a blanket settled over her unsettled mind. Turned, abashed, back toward camp. "No. Maybe. I don't know."
+
+The hand of God had loosened its grip around her mind and here she was, back at camp, back beneath the trees, back by the tall reeds, back by the ferns fingering the air and the fronds like hands reaching out to them.
+
+It did not last.
+
+The camp grew quiet once more. The physicist handed her bookmark back and she fingered it, book forgotten. She felt the letters etched into the thin brass, felt the words there, proven now to be incorrect, felt the letters telling lies against her skin. She felt the weight of that hand, at once comforting and threatening, settle once more against her brain-stem, compressing, caressing, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing...
+
+The quiet grew thick. The air grew heavy. The light failed.
+
+And one by one, they went to bed. The physicist. The linguist. The psychologist. The botanist.
+
+One by one they retreated to their tents and their own personal narratives diverged once more. Perhaps they slept, perhaps not. Perhaps they dreamed.
+
+Perhaps the others dreamed. The botanist knew that she did. She lay on her camp pad and closed her eyes and there must have been some point at which she fell asleep, at which she crossed that border, but she was not aware of when. She was only aware of opening her eyes again and seeing before her her own face.
+
+It was not a mirror, for the movements were not exact. It was another her. Another version of herself, and while it blinked as she might, and when she lifted her head, it lifted its own, the exactitude was imperfect. There were subtle differences. Their breathing was off by half a second, perhaps, or she was sweating more heavily than it.
+
+And when she reached out her hand to touch its face, it reached out its own to return the gesture, and, very specifically, moved its arm above her own so that they would not collide. Was that something that a reflection could do?
+
+And the touch was real. It was palpable. It was warm. It was present. There was the softness of her palm. There were the callouses on her fingers. There was the dirt beneath her nails.
+
+And her cheek was as cool as her own felt, and those tiny hairs that lent to the softness of her skin were beyond familiar: known in a way that proved the relationship beyond a doubt.
+
+And while the dreamy confusion was mirrored on her face, there was also curiosity, also a detached fondness, an understanding, however inexact, of oneself. And these, too, were inexact, for she did not understand, did not feel fond. Did not feel anything.
+
+And she had stopped thinking of this Doppelgänger as something other than herself. She was not it. She was she. She was she.
+
+And her hands were her own. She had a hand in their making. Her hand was forced hand in hand with blood on her hands washing her hands of the matter. After all, was a bird in the hand not worth two in the clearing, their beside the stairs where, written on the wall, were the words, "Were lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner"?
+
+And there she was, and if there had been a transition from her being in her tent to her standing in the clearing, to her moving toward where those stairs bored down into the earth, she missed it, just as she had missed that transition between waking and sleeping.
+
+And yet was she asleep? Was she? She was here, and the air was heavy, and the light had failed, and the quiet was absolute aside from the sounds of the night. No words, no words.
+
+And there she was in front of her. There was her. There was *her*. There was her mirror image, her perfectly imperfect self.
+
+And they crouched toward each other, feral, as if in preparation for flight. 
+
+And they reached out toward each other and their fingertips touched and the touch was warm and the callouses were real.
+
+And they relaxed, and the botanist felt that even as the darkness deepened, the light within her grew, and they both settled down to their knees.
+
+And finally, the mirroring was broken as the *her* that was not her slid *her* fingers up over her wrist and gently guided her hand down toward the soil, loamy and damp, and she knew then that she must spread her fingers and dig them down into the earth, there by the stairs which were a finger pointing at God such that she was in turn pointing at...at what? At the owner of that hand? At the owner of that finger?
+
+And as she did so, she felt that the dirt beneath her fingernails took root, that her nails themselves must have been rootlets and that her arm a stolon, that her whole body was the runner for some tree, some entity other than herself, for at that point, she took root.
+
+And her fingers crawled beneath the soil, and drank of the water there, and tasted the nutrients, and found purchase beneath the layer of loam and humus.
+
+And there, her fingers curled around the God-stone, and indeed, she knew it as she felt it, amber with a kernel of pain embedded within.
+
+And even as the bark crawled up her arm, she saw her Doppelgänger stand and smile to her. A dreamy smile; not kind, not cruel, not knowing, not ignorant. Just a dreamy, inevitable smile.
+
+And she felt growth accelerate as, bound now to the earth, her bones became wood and her muscles loosened, unwound, and thus unbound began to lengthen, to strengthen, to arch skyward, seeking stars, seeking God.
+
+And when the physicist awoke, he was the first to notice the botanist was gone. 
+
+And when the psychologist awoke, she was the first to notice the new tree, where ferns fingered the air and fronds like hands reached out to touch them.
+
+## The physicist
+
+Breathe.
+
+*Breathe.*
+
+"Come on."
+
+Hands clutched soil.
+Grasped for purchase, for solidity.
+Anything to help keep him anchored to reality.
+*Pin me to perception - or perception to me,* he begged air gone thrawn.
+
+His cries, nonverbal, were nonetheless beat back by some unseen force, some will bent on countering his own with mindless determination.

content/post/fiction/the-presence-between-the-pages.md

@@ -0,0 +1,146 @@
+---
+date: 2020-03-04
+type: post
+title: The Presence Between the Pages
+description: |
+    Belek Oorzhak: reluctant warlock.
+tags:
+- Furry
+- Fantasy
+- Horror
+- D&D
+categories:
+- Short story
+---
+
+"Every five years we must take down every scroll, stack by stack, and replace the rugs beneath them. We must also unroll the scroll and make note of its condition," the monk rasped. "The latter will not be your responsibility, young one, but we are happy to provide you with a cot in the dormitory, and you will be welcome at the refectory during your stay here. Can you eat our food?"
+
+Belek bowed politely to the monk. "I will eat what I am able, grandfather, and I will work."
+
+The monk smiled faintly at the honorific and gave a subtle nod in return. "We do not interact much with the cat people. Too stationary for your kind, perhaps. The khiidiin nomyn san does not move, after all. We will do what we can to provide for you in exchange for your labor within the limits of our strictures. On completion of the task, we will be able to pay you for your time here, though you must understand that the monastery is not wealthy."
+
+*Within the limits of their strictures* proved to be plenty within Belek's. While they could not eat the monks' tsampa during lunch, they would take butter in their tea and fill up with steamed balls of the filling the monks had within their momo at dinner.
+
+They kept to themself, bowed at anyone in a robe, and worked quietly. In the morning, they would let the younger monks lade a frame pack with scrolls and books and move them to the hall where the older monks toiled, checking for silverfish and signs of rot.  In the afternoon, they would roll up the rugs and take them to a patio where they would be inspected and cleaned and repaired if possible, or set out for the beggars if they were too worn.
+
+And at night, they would run through the list of items they had carried throughout the day and consider which would be a more appropriate payment than simple coin.
+
+-----
+
+When Belek worked - and work they did! - they would search for jobs offered by those with big hearts.
+
+The empire was not fond of cat people, and their family moved often enough with the others of their tribe when they were young, so they were used to finding work where they could and drifting from town to town, job to job, never staying anywhere long enough to raise suspicions.
+
+As it was, they were unfailingly polite and always appeared to work within law and custom.
+
+They had worked during shearing season with a small family for a spot on the floor and food for two weeks, and had come away with a small official payment, and a larger unofficial one of an entire sheep slain in the quiet of the night and expertly skinned, the dried meat and hide folded away into a pack they had hidden in the rocks, collected on the way to the next job.
+
+They had worked as a midwife, helping to brew the groaning beer and ferry hot water before purring gentle reassurances into the lady's ear as she screamed and cried. They had curtsied to the men and averted their eyes, and come away with a handsome sum in coins, a glowing recommendation, and two small jade statues.
+
+They had walked the streets of the city with a family as a porter and made a pittance for their labor, and a far larger sum for pickpocketing both the crowds around them as well as the father.
+
+They were always careful. They were never caught.
+
+They were always Belek, or mister or miss Oorzhak, the polite young cat with no family or friends, the one who was slight and feminine enough to be a midwife, and boyish enough, deceptively strong beneath that gray fur, to be of help with the men. They were hard working, and quiet on the job, but friendly to their employers during downtime, really opening up and telling stories of their adventures, never wholly true, but never, ever false.
+
+Somehow, one of two things would happen before they left. Either something terrible would happen - a sheep would go missing, howls in the night and blood on the grass; a poor father pickpocketed while in the market, the porter hunched under his load - or the employer would find themselves entranced by this worldly feline - here, take these figures with our blessings, may they bring you good fortune, my dear Oorzhak.
+
+The size of their employers' hearts would cover any payment beyond mere coin.
+
+And then they were off to the next city, with a kind wave or a sad bow, to sell their was real gains at market and look for the next big-hearted rube.
+
+-----
+
+"Grandfather, I thank you for your kindness," Belek said. They had introduced themself as male for the monastery job by necessity, but found that some aspect of feminine grace and vocal mannerisms went quite a ways with the old monk. "May I eat with you?"
+
+The skin around the monk's eyes crinkled in a smile and he patted the mat next to him. "Please, young one, sit."
+
+The cat did so, settling down cross-legged with their bowl of steamed dumpling-filling and buttered tea. They smoothed out their deel, removed their cap, and popped a meatball into their mouth, chewing thoughtfully and waiting for the monk to begin talking as he always did.
+
+"Tell me, Belek, where will you head next?"
+
+They swallowed their mouthful before giving a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps I will head North. I once worked for an empire wheelwright for a month. They are very skilled, and usually one must apprentice for years before working as one, but this man's apprentice was a, well," the cat leaned in conspiratorially. "He was one of the men who shifted."
+
+The monk nodded solemnly. "I know of these only through tales. Was he as dreadful as they say, young Oorzhak?"
+
+Belek's tail tick-tocked in amusement before adding in the more human smile. "Very few of them are terrible, grandfather, but sometimes they do not shift well and wind up mad with rage or stuck in agony. This young apprentice wound up in the latter, so he begged a sword from a friend and fell on it."
+
+The monk covered his mouth, aghast. "His soul! His soul will wander forever."
+
+Nodding sadly, the cat finished another few meatballs before continuing. "This wheelwright, he was crushed, both emotionally and with his labor. While I could do nothing to help him of his loss of a friend, I was at least able to run the treadle of his lathe and carry wood for him. The empire does not care for my kind, and many find us untrustworthy - I think because we do not have the same faces and expressions as them - but some in the north have kind souls, as do you here at the monastery."
+
+The monk paused while rolling a ball of tsampa to smile widely at Belek.
+
+"He could not pay me much, but he gifted me a fine awl. It was well worn, of course, and he had taken delivery of a much finer replacement during my stay, but he was a generous man. Perhaps I shall find such generosity up there again." The seed was planted. Before the monk could respond, however, Belek, pulled the conversation suddenly in another direction. "You said 'his soul will wander,' grandfather. What did you mean?"
+
+The monk chewed thoughtfully, then washed the tsampa down with water. "Some walk in dream even while awake. When they die, we say their soul will walk still in dreams. Some, however, walk in unceasing nightmare. Perhaps, when they die, that is when they wake up, but should they take their own lives, their soul cannot awake, and will continue to wander forever, living in a nightmare. They become demons or wicked spirits."
+
+-----
+
+After a week of work, the direction of scrolls, books, and manuscripts began to reverse. The cataloging complete, Belek began hauling loads of materials back into the library, helping the younger monks to place them back on their shelves according to some system the old monk - the cat supposed he must be the librarian - held within his head.  There was a small celebration when the last of the shelves was emptied, and the monks pulled out thin beer, sparinga small lump of sugar for Belek to add to their tea in lieu. From then on, it was a task of re-loading the library and finishing the last mending of mats.
+
+Three days later, and the work was finished.
+
+"Grandfather, I thank you again for the kindness you have showed, and for the chance to work here," Belek said while fingering the spines of a few books. "I have never been surrounded by such knowledge in my life"
+
+The old monk nodded absently as he worked on filling in some final notes. "Thank you, young Oorzhak. You have shortened our labor by days."
+
+Still running their fingerpad along the spines of books, the cat paused, feeling a sudden chill against the coarse skin there. They hesitated, then carefully drew the leather-bound book from the shelf. It was not just cool, but cold. Actively cold, as though it strived to be so. They could read the language of the empire - slowly, to be sure - but the writing on the cover of the book was of some other tongue.
+
+"Belek."
+
+The cat jolted and whirled around. The voice had seemed to come from the book itself, an echo or a whisper or perhaps only the suggestion of a voice, but there was the old monk staring at them, a strange glean in their eye. "My apologies, grandfather, I-"
+
+"You have done such wonderful work for us, young one, would you accept this book in exchange for your labor? In addition to your wages, of course."
+
+The cat blinked. There were other books they had their eye on. Gilt, illuminated, fancy ones. Still, now that they held this one in their hands and they were growing used to the cold weight of it, there was suddenly nothing more precious. "Surely this book is too much," they stammered.
+
+"You have provided us with a service," the monk said. His voice was eager, his brown skin stretched perhaps a little too tight with some hidden exertion. "Please, I would be honored if you would accept this small tome of knowledge in exchange."
+
+Belek bowed low, finding themself unable to say anything other than, "I accept."
+
+The words were stilted, unnatural. They felt oily in their mouth, leaving behind a thin sheen of premonition. They hung in the air, vibrating with anticipation.
+
+"I, Otgonbayar, give this book to you, Belek Oorzhak, in free exchange. It is now yours."
+
+The monk's equally stilted words clashed with Belek's in the air, and suddenly, the book began to warm in the cat's paws. There was a scent of ritual to the exchange, of power of choice and bargain and deals accepted. Deals beyond just a gift to go with one's wages.
+
+And then the moment passed.
+
+"I must...I must rest, young Oorzhak. I thank you once more for your labor. Your wages...your wages will be in the refectory... Ah, preserve my soul." If the monk had looked crazed before, now he looked truly on the verge of madness. His eyes no longer tracked Belek, but seemed to be reading something written on the ceiling. His muscles are rigid. Sweat stood on his brow, and spittle clung to his chin.
+
+"I...yes, grandfather," Belek mumbled. "You look unwell. Please rest well, and perhaps I shall see you again soon.
+
+The monk only moaned in response. After a moment's silence, he toppled to the floor, falling as would a tree, rather than crumpling.
+
+Belek skittered from the library and down the long hall towards where the other old monks were packing up their pens and scrolls.
+
+"The old monk!" they shouted. "He has fallen in the library!"
+
+The other monks dropped their materials and lept to their feet, hollering. One of them dashed up to the cat and opened his mouth to speak before noticing the book clutched in their paws. His look of worry turned into one of dawning horror, then of sadness. "I see you two reached a deal."
+
+Dumbstruck, Belek looked down at the book, then back up to the scribe, holding out the book. "He offered me this in exchange for my efforts. If he was mistaken-"
+
+The monk shook his head and pressed the book forcefully back into the cat's paws. "The deal has been made. Your wages are in the refectory, please take them and your belongings and leave."
+
+"Leave? But I-"
+
+"Leave. The monastery thanks you for your work but you must leave at once. You must be away by nightfall. Perhaps the librarian shall recover, then." And with that, the monk rushed off.
+
+Belek stumbled numbly to the refectory and picked up the small bag of coins left atop their cap and cloak. The whole monastery seemed to be rushing to the library, and suddenly the advice to leave seemed extraordinarily prudent. They ran to the dormitory to shoulder their pack, and were on the road away from the monastery before the sun began its long, slow decent toward evening.
+
+They bivouacked in the lee of a patch of scrub and it was by the rude light of a small, dry fire that they read the book. They did not rightly know why they decided to remove the book from their pack and opened the cover. Perhaps it was another whispered 'Belek', and perhaps it was something more akin to a compulsion.
+
+More, they did not know how they were able to read the book. The language, when they focused their eyes, was not one that they could read, but were they to let their eyes drift just out of focus, the meaning came to them. It came in waves, in gusts, in inexorable currents. It washed over Belek and left their stomach rolling and their eyes watering.
+
+At the turning of the final page, there sounded a distant blast of horns, a low, sustained note from the direction they had come.
+
+"Belek," came the voice, now more than simply echo. "Do you hear that, Belek? The horns to announce the death of a monk. What better way to forget me than through death?"
+
+The cat could manage no more than a groan. The meaning of the text was clear.
+
+"Belek, Belek, Belek. The deal has been made."
+
+"I'm...I am a drifter," they muttered. "I walk the steppes for work. What could I possibly hope to offer, lord?"
+
+"The deal has been made," the presence between the pages purred. "And now you will go North."

content/post/fiction/tu-pater-et-mater.md

@@ -0,0 +1,57 @@
+---
+type: post
+date: 2003-05-01
+title: Tu pater et mater
+description: In high school Latin class, we were provided with the opportunity to clean coins from ancient Rome. This program was put forth by ACE, Ancient Coins for Education. As part of this program, an essay contest was put on regarding inscriptions, as inscriptions were studied along with the coins. My teacher at the time, Ms. Gibert, had me participate. The idea was to write an essay in 1st or 3rd person from the point of view of the person whom the inscription was for, by, or a passerby reading the inscription. Here's the result.
+categories:
+- Short story
+tags:
+- Death
+- Latin
+- History
+ratings: G
+---
+
+> Tu pater et mater lacrimis retinete dolorem, nam fato raptam non potes eripere.
+>
+> *You, father, and mother, hold back your sorrow with tears, for you’re not able to take back what fate has snatched away.*
+
+The withered old man held the punt steady against the shore as the young boy clambered aboard. The boy was only nine or ten at most, short, with brown hair, and obviously not a slave. Slaves usually didn’t make it onto this ferry.
+
+The man in the boat held out a pallid hand and croaked, “Fare.” His voice sounded older than time itself.
+
+Nodding distractedly, the boy spat out a slightly damp coin into the outstretched palm and resumed looking about. Out past the battered bulwark, the river flowed by darkly, coming from out of the gray mist and heading right back into it. On the shore he’d just left, an occasional solitary soul drifted past, staring longingly at the old craft.
+
+The old ferryman was pushing off now, so the boy sat down. He’d only ever been on a boat once before and he didn’t yet trust himself to remain standing. He watched the old man as he pushed the craft slowly along with his long pole, wondering how someone so thin and withered could keep the boat steady with just a stick.
+
+“Does your job ever get boring?” asked the boy curiously.
+
+The ferryman turned and stared at him blankly, punting still, even though he was no longer facing the direction they were going. The boy didn’t question it; the man looked like he’d been at this for quite the long time.
+
+“My name’s Lucius,” he continued, whispering the rest of his name as the man continued to stare. “Lucius Silvanus…” The ferryman clearly wasn’t much of a conversationalist, the boy decided. He kept on talking, because the boat made him feel lonely.
+
+“I saw Caesar once! Before I came here, I mean. I saw him when he came back from that place… uh… Gaul. He was bald.” The boy giggled conspiratorially, “He looked kind of funny. I didn’t say that, though. There were soldiers staying near us. He went and talked to them, then his soldiers fought their soldiers. I couldn’t tell them apart, really. Caesar’s were dirtier. I went to watch, even though I wasn’t supposed to.”
+
+The ferryman continued to punt and stare, though his gaze may or may not have been softer. Lucius was on a roll, though so he kept going.
+
+“Before that, I always wanted to be in the army, but when I saw all the men fighting, I changed my mind. I saw one guy get hurt; he screamed real loud…” Lucius drifted off into silence.
+
+The ferryman knew of whom the boy was talking about. Many people had come through recently, most of them with money to pay the fare, and many of whom had mentioned people screaming. It was like an exodus from the boy’s hometown. None of the man’s features betrayed this, of course; he just kept pushing the boat along. He wasn’t a very interesting person.
+
+They were about halfway across when the boy spoke up again. “I got hit with an arrow at the battle, in my shoulder. I didn’t cry though,” he added toughly. “Someone from where I live found me and took me home. I couldn’t walk to well, and I was bleeding a lot. I think my mother and father were angry with me, though, for going and watching; I wasn’t supposed to. They were crying”
+
+Lucius was starting to run out of things he wanted to talk about, and they were only two thirds of the way across the dark river, so he took a little break to save what he was going to say. In the mean time, he watched over the side of the craft for any fish in the water. He saw some things that might’ve been fish, but he wasn’t sure. It was awfully murky.
+
+“Before I came here, you know, they said the arrow was Pompey’s. I don’t know who he is,” the boy said retrospectively. “But I really think I like Caesar better. He didn’t shoot me.”
+
+Lucius looked up from the flowing water to the poling man. He had the same blank expression on his face. The boy wondered whether it was really as shallow as it made the man seem, or if he could just say the word ‘fare’.
+
+He tried a question, “Do you know Caesar?”
+
+This didn’t get a direct response, but the man did start poling faster. Lucius didn’t know if it was because of the question, or just because they were starting to near the other shore. He kept on talking, he had a few more things to say before he left.
+
+“I told my parents it’s okay to cry. I always feel better when I cry. I maybe cried a little bit when I was in bed and they were taking the arrow out. I was dizzy then, so I don’t remember a whole lot.” Lucius looked down at his hands, “That was the last I saw them, though.”
+
+After a few moments of silence, the battered boat slid smoothly up onto the shore, where the ferryman held it with his punting pole, gesturing for the boy to get off. After scrambling onto the shore, Lucius turned back to face the ferryboat, whispering, “Thank you.”
+
+The man nodded – the first reaction he’d seen from him – and pushed back off the shore to pick up the next paying soul. As the boy turned and headed further into the underworld, Charon smiled – barely – to himself and pushed his way across the Styx. People rarely talked to him, but he always enjoyed it when they did. Especially those who were still innocent. All too many either tired with life or kicked out for good reason came through and tarnished his lovely boat, and the little boy, Lucius, was almost a breath of fresh air. He’d put in good word for him.

content/post/fiction/unseeing.md

@@ -0,0 +1,551 @@
+---
+author: Madison Scott-Clary
+categories:
+- Short Story
+ratings: G
+date: 2020-12-26
+description: A blind ascetic is gifted sight
+type: post
+tags:
+- Furry
+- Fantasy
+title: Unseeing
+---
+
+On the morning of every day, when days are warm and there is no rain, on days when Lyut knows when it is day and when it is night, he will gather his ingredients onto a small board and sit at the entrance to his cave and make his incense for three days hence.
+
+Lyut works with measured care, for he does not want to injure the pads of his paws nor nick his already-scuffed claws nor shave off any of his fur, nor, Ýng preserve him, damage his carefully honed equipment. He works with measured care and a practiced slowness, with a patience known to one who holds the highest devotion to his labor and to his lord.
+
+Lyut works with particular care when employing the use of his knife for he has cut himself before. He has cut himself and knows that not only will this spoil his incense for the day, it will also leave his pads aching and sore, will leave his fur matted and sticky, will leave a thin layer of blood upon all he touches until the flow stops and the wound scabs over. Knows that he would have to make his way down to the river to wash. Knows, too, after a particularly bad accident with his knife, that the stick he uses to guide his way down the path gets slippery and would need to be cleaned as well, that to bind a wound with only the use of one paw carries some particular difficulty.
+
+And so he gathers his ingredients and tools onto his board and carries them to the entrance to his cave where he sits and works with measured care.
+
+He works from left to right because he holds the knife and hammer in his right paw, and he builds the scent from bottom to top because that is how he has laid out his ingredients, and because it is the base notes of the scent that are the most forgiving to balance.
+
+Begins, then, with the crushed roots of nardin, which previously he had pounded and which now he lays against the board and measures ten claw-widths thereof and cuts with his knife. To this is mixed ten teardrops of common mastic the width of a claw. On holier days he may find himself using copal in its place, and indeed he may use that later. For now, he attempts to find nodules the size of one of his claws without requiring that it be cut or broken, lest his senses be dazzled and the balance lost
+
+The middle notes come next and Lyut takes a fingertip's length of sweetgrass and puts it into the bowl with the base notes. The scent of sweetgrass is, yes, sweet, but it provides also the bulk of the material that will burn throughout the day.
+
+To this he adds sweet flag root which has been carefully washed and hung and dried. He grates this first with his knife before adding it to the bowl, scraping the blade almost perpendicular along the root to shave off a fibrous powder.
+
+These are all taken together in a stone mortar and ground with a stone pestle to pulverize them into a uniform powder, which he checks with gentle touches of the last fingertip on his left hand, which is the most sensitive.
+
+Judges with his nose and, deeming it correct, finishes, now, with the lone top note of a precious dried pod of cardamom and what he judges to be one third again in weight of makko powder to bind the incense.
+
+To build a scent from the bottom up is to tell the first of three prayers of creation to Ýng, and Lyut works with devotion in his heart as he grinds. He does not speak his prayer; the sound of stone against stone are his words. He does not look up to the heavens where he knows Ýng to reside for sight is not a sense he possesses; allows, instead, his lord's presence to pierce his heart and travel down his limbs and guide the motions of his paws.
+
+The powder of the incense, thus created is sifted into a small bowl, the finest silt brushed from the mortar with the very tip of his tail.
+
+To mature incense in the quiet and the dry and the cool is to tell the second of three prayers of creation to Ýng, and Lyut again works with devotion in his heart as he unlimbers himself from where he had been kneeling and carries the bowl to the back of the cave where it will always be driest. He does not speak his prayer; the sound of his paws padding in dirt and fingertips dragging along stone wall are his words. He does not look for the shelf containing the other two incense bowls for sight is not a sense he possesses; allows, instead, his lord's presence to pierce his heart and travel down his limbs to place the bowl beside the other two.
+
+Lyut then cleans his board, bringing it back into his cave and replacing unused ingredients in their bowls, jars, or baskets by touch and by scent
+
+At last, he picks up the rightmost bowl in the line and scoots the other two up into its place and carries it to the mouth of his cave. Along the way, he bends down and lifts a dish filled with ash, and carries it with him as well.
+
+To lay the incense trail is to tell the third and final prayer of creation to Ýng, and Lyut works still with the devotion in his heart as he tamps down the ash in dish into a smooth plane with the tip of his finger, then draws a careful furrow in the fine powder, sowing incense in its wake. He does not speak his prayer; the rhythm of the tamping and the quiet hush of incense and ash are his words. He does not look at the boxy spiral he draws for sight is not a sense he possesses; allows, instead, his lord's presence to pierce his heart and travel down his limbs guide his left foreclaw while the right hand follows by touch, dropping the powdered incense in its wake.
+
+The presence of his lord burns bright within him. Lyut does not know light from darkness, but were he pressed to answer, he would say that Ýng's presence is that of light, Their absence that of dark, and by this point in the day, Lyut is filled with light.
+
+The prayers of destruction follow the prayers of creation.
+
+Against a crease in the rock at the entrance of his cave is his fire pit. The night before, he brought in sticks and bark from the near-woods and laid them at the feet of the fire. In the mornings after preparing his incense, he begins the first prayer of destruction, of breaking down the sticks and shredding the bark into tinder and kindling. The sound of the crack of dry wood and the tear of fibrous bark his words, the spirit of his lord guiding his every movement.
+
+The second prayer of destruction is the forging or rekindling of fire. If there are embers left, then the words of this prayer is the sound of Lyut's breath against them and the slow crackle of kindling catching alight. If the coals are out, then the words of this prayer is the singing of the bow drill between his feet, thermoception stretched taut as he strains to feel the warmth of the new flame starting in the tinder.
+
+The third and final prayer of destruction that Lyut offers to Ýng is that of the lighting of the incense. He works with the same measured care as he lights a punk from the fire, the spirit of his lord singing along his limbs, and touches it to the small mound of incense at the center of the trail he has built. The words of this prayer are silence.
+
+Only now does he speak his prayers aloud, and by now, he is overflowing with light. It seeps out through his fur, falls from his mouth in honeyed drops, shines from darkened eyes.
+
+Ýng is with him now as he chants, as the smoke wreaths him, as the scent of his labors fills his cave and the clearing and rises up past the tree-tops.
+
+Ýng is with Lyut, and I am as well.
+
+-----
+
+After prayer, Lyut feeds his fire and sits for a while before it to ensure that the sound of the wood burning is just as it should be and no louder and that the heat of the fire is neither too hot nor too cool, for he knows that a hot-burning fire that roared and rushed with the voice of Ýng's anger was one that would at best burn out too soon and he had been taught that at worst it would claim souls as easily as wood.
+
+With the smoke of the fire mingling with that of his incense, with the scent of his devotion lingering in his nose and clinging to his fur and stinging sightless eyes, he takes up his knife walking stick and pads slowly down the path from his cave to the section of river he calls his own. His feet guide him with soft shuffling. His stick guides him with gentle tapping. His ears guide him with the sounds of the river. Ýng guides him with Their hand on his shoulder.
+
+At the river by his cave, there is a pool where the water flows out from between two rocks, and it is across that gap that he has strung a net.
+
+Lyut sets his stick aside and crawls on hands and knees to one of the rocks and with a long-practiced swish of his fingers through the water, he catches up the cords of the far end of the net from where they lay on the bank and sweeps his arm around to draw the net around and back toward him.
+
+I have smiled on him today, and in the net he feels the dancing of a fish and, upon dragging the net ashore, feels in its knots also the hard-shelled bodies of the crawfish that live their silent lives on the bottom of the silt-bedded river.
+
+The net entire is laid flat upon the shore to let the fish and crustaceans drown in air while Lyut cleans his paws and knife in the water of the stream.
+
+To wash in cold water is to speak a prayer of cleanliness to Ýng, but also to me, to me who knows the meaning of light dancing on clear water in a way the god of the sun cannot, in a way that blind Lyut cannot, and so I sustain myself with those prayers even as the ascetic guts the fish with measured care, washes once more in the stream, and then with practiced slowness strings his net once more, letting the constant stream of water flow brightly through the pounded and knotted reeds to catch fish, to catch food.
+
+Dripping and naked, Lyut crawls upstream along the shore, fingers crawling among the grass until he comes across the fronds of a fiddle-head fern of which he plucks two. Washes these, then wraps in them his daily catch of fish and sluggish crustaceans, and packs around the bundle clay from the riverbank.
+
+Takes then his stick in hand and taps his way back to his cave, where, after banking a portion of the fire, he nestles his bundle among the hot coals until it is dry and parched on the outside.
+
+In the meantime, Lyut walks carefully into the woods perpendicular to the hill on which his cave rests, brushing aside further fronds to the place where his nose tells him he may have his toilet. After finishing, another trip to the river is made, this time carrying a jug slung over his shoulder to be filled with water for his camp.
+
+By then, the smell of steamed fish is beginning to escape from the clay baker that he has formed, and the time to break his fast is upon him.
+
+His walking stick, hard and long-cured, is used to drag the baked clay from the embers and the jug of water put in its place to bring to a boil. He says a short prayer to Ýng for his bounty, for his food, and for the taking of three lives in order to fill his belly, and by the time the last word is finished, the clay is cool enough to tap and crack apart to exposed his steamed food. I sup from that prayer as well, for I provided him with his meal.
+
+He sets the spent clay aside and unfurls the ferns from around his food. His first bite is of the curled heads of the fronds, seasoned with the fat of the fish and the heady scent of crawfish. His second and third bites are the flesh of the fish scraped away from soft bones with sharp teeth. The rest of his meal is a silent contemplation of what wonderful complexities the silty life of a crustacean must hold, as he pulls the tails from the crawfish, eats the meat within, and sucks the butter from the heads.
+
+Fish head and skeleton and crawfish shells are placed in the jug of water now boiling, the makings of a thin broth which will be his sustenance for the rest of the day.
+
+For the third and final time, Lyut washes that day, and I revel in the act of his careful attention to his postprandial grooming. This is the time when he ensures that his pelt is clean and free of ticks and fleas. This is the time when he massages the dirt out of his pawpads. This is the time when he brushes his whiskers. This is the time when he lays his fur in order. This is the time when he makes himself pure in body before Ýng, having already made himself pure in spirit.
+
+Too, this is the time when he makes himself pure before me, though he knows it not. This is the time when he gives thought to the direction his fur is facing. This is the time when he gives thought to any dirt which may cover him. This is the time when he, blind pekania, blind fisher, puts thought, however abstract, into what a watcher may see.
+
+-----
+
+Lyut lives his life in prayer and devotion. It is a life that is lived ascending in a steady spiral of years, for time moves upward and yet is echoed below by the change of days, the change of weeks, the change of seasons. This year, this day, this soft spring is an echo of last soft spring beneath it. It is antipodal to the autumn that will come
+
+Cycles within cycles, spirals within spirals. This morning, too, is an echo of the day beneath it, behind it, in the past. His days are defined by the cycle of incense, prayer, fishing, foraging, meditating. He knows that it is day when he wakes when he feels the warmth from the sun. He knows when it is night when he feels the warmth fade. He knows when it is morning because he hears the birds sing. He knows that it is night when the birdsong of the day settle into the chorus of insects.
+
+Clean now, he meditates on this. He meditates on cycles. He meditates on warmth and coolness. He meditates on his relation to it, and on his relationship to Ýng.
+
+He has surmised, for instance, that his fur is of a particular quality that the sun is drawn to, and he has surmised that this is as worthy of prayer as the incense he makes, for was not the sun with Ýng? The sun is drawn to him as it is drawn to the rocks and the dirt and the bark of the trees. It is drawn to them and it dwells within them, for the sun powers him as warmth, and the sun fills the trees with a captive warmth that is released by fire.
+
+And are there not things that the sun shies away from? The sun shies away from night, from water, from the cool fresh leaves that interrupt it, for one need not sight to understand directionality, to understand shade as a consequence of sun's arrow.
+
+Lyut lays on his back to let sun's arrow dry him, to let that warmth pull the water from his fur and the chill from his bones, and then he lays on his front and lets Ýng's light bathe his back as well.
+
+Not all prayer, Lyut knows, is in ritual.
+
+In ritual lies comfort. In ritual lies service. In ritual lies the active participation of worship, that portion of devotion that is a conversation with his lord. The time of ritual is the time when Lyut may speak up and say to Ýng: I am here, I am yours, I am your vessel of light and all that I do is in service to you and by my very existence, my every action, I serve your glory.
+
+Not all prayer is in service to Ýng, either, for some of it is to Their servant, to himself.
+
+In service of Their servant, he keeps himself clean and free of sin and distraction. In service of Their servant and to Their servants, he prepares the incense that wreaths himself and the village below. In service of Their servant and servants, he subsists only off a single meal drawn from the river and whatever alms the village cares to provide him along with the ingredients for the incense that he makes in turn.
+
+But in meditation lies the comfortable companionship. In meditation lies love. In meditation lies reassurance and trust. The time of meditation is the time when Lyut may sit next to Ýng in silence and appreciate the wonder of Them and the world that They have made.
+
+So this morning, he lays in the sun next to Ýng, beside Ýng, and revels in all that Ýng has created rather than singing praises to Them, because it is important even for the ascetic to understand the beauty of the world, the wonder and delight in it. It is as important for Lyut to feel the way his fur tugs at the sun, collects the warmth, and the way the sun pulls the water from him. It is important for Lyut to feel the ground beneath him and hear in its silence the praises to his lord. It is important for Lyut to marvel in the way Ýng's sun shuns the underside of leaves and follows the bark of the trees on the side it faces. It is important for Lyut to bake until he's panting and gulping in breaths of air, and then it is important for him to crawl back into his cave, stricken from the sun by the laws of directionality that he understands on a visceral level in lieu of a visual one, for sight is not a sense he possesses.
+
+And then it is time for him to remove his simmering broth from the fire and to sip it from the cool shade of his cave, straining it through sharp teeth to prevent fine carapaces and finer bones from getting caught in his throat, unsalted but nonetheless savory, until, despite the heat of the broth, his thirst is quenched.
+
+This, Lyut knows, Lyut relishes, is the cycle of the day, the cycle of the year, and, his lord promises him, the cycle of his life, for he will surely be reborn when the hours of his life slow to a stop.
+
+In this, Ýng is a liar, but it is a kind lie, a lie of omission, for when Lyut dies, *I* will take him unto me. I will take him and his acts in life together into my bowl and crush and knead and he will rejoice with me and I will rejoice with him and then whatever rest he has now, whatever glory he knows now, whatever elation he may feel shall be pale in comparison to what comes after.
+
+-----
+
+Lyut prays and works for the rest of the day, for today is the day that he makes incense for the town below.
+
+This week is the week of fasting and next week is the week of rejoicing, and so this week he must prepare for them three times the normal amount of incense, as this is the week they subsist on smoke until they cannot tell, Zita promises him, the white thread from the black after the sun sets and the cool night comes. This is the week they live on prayer and next is the week they live on celebration, when they bake small cakes in the heat of their fires, in the heat of their ovens, and five of which Zita will leave for him.
+
+Zita may or may not be her name, or perhaps only her title. He does not know, because beyond a few kind words, she will only pray with him and pick up the incense from the edge of the clearing before his cave and leave in its place the alms that the village provides, of flatbreads and berries, of the ingredients for the incense which they grow or perhaps purchase from other villages, who may purchase in turn from villages going south, going south and east.
+
+So today he retrieves his board once more from his cave and on it stacks all of the ingredients for the incense of the week of fasting that will feed the village and the two amphorae that will hold it. He sings wordless hymns to himself as he works with measured care cut the sweetgrass, to shave the calamus root, to count the cardamom pods. He sings to Ýng as he pounds and grinds batch after batch of incense until his hands are humming, until his pads are singing along with him.
+
+And then he takes his board back into the cave and returns with the stack of ingredients for the incense of the week of feasting, with the base notes of cassia and vanilla, the middle notes of ginger and turmuric, and the top note of star anise, the spices that season the cakes that they bake in celebration, and these he pounds with laughter and with tears, for with celebration comes mourning and with devotion comes the sudden feeling of loneliness brought on by laughing by oneself.
+
+It is evening and he can feel the sun's arrow striking horizontal by the time he finishes, and when he steps out of his cave, cradling his three amphorae to his chest, he can smell even above the incense Zita sitting at the entrance to the clearing. He walks carefully until he can hear her breathing and then sits cross-legged before her and sets the vases down between the them, and they pray together:
+
+<div class="verse">They who make the world,
+They who end it,
+They who bring the thunder,
+In Tsuari which fell,
+In Tsuari which rose from the ashes,
+We offer up the words of our forefathers,
+We offer up the smoke of our forefathers
+We offer up our hearts to you.
+In Ýng's name we pray,
+In Ýng's world we pray,
+In Ýng's own voice we pray,
+By the light of the sun we pray,
+By the heat of the fire we pray.
+</div>
+
+And on until the sun's arrow has wandered off course and into the night sky.
+
+This week, this week of fasting, Zita has not brought him alms. There are no soft leaves of flatbread or ingredients for incense, just as one year ago there were no leaves of bread, and one year before that, there were no leaves of bread.
+
+This week, Lyut does not smile kindly to Zita as she collects the amphorae and walks the path down the slope to the village, because the fasting of prayer is also a fasting from emotions and worldly attachments.
+
+And the next day, it is truly a fast, for there are no fish in his net, and if there are no fish in his net, he knows that he must not collect the fiddlehead ferns, and instead of savory broth, Lyut drinks only boiled water, hot and cleansed by fire, and he spends the rest of the day in meditation, and he goes to bed hungry.
+
+I watch as he sleeps, fitful, and leave for him two fish in his net for his unknowing devotion to me.
+
+-----
+
+It is the last night of the week of fasting and it is the thirtieth year that Lyut has served Ýng and myself that I have decided to change him and by changing him, change the world, for while I am the god of the water and the god of watching and the god of death, am I not also a trickster god?
+
+I am the trickster god who confounded Ýng in his creation of the smooth plains of the world by carving the land with my rivers. I am the trickster god who confounded the lord by setting the moon in the sky to tug at the waters of Their oceans in tides, even when the moon is not seen. I am the trickster god who brought death to Ýng's ever-living world.
+
+I am the trickster god and my trouble will come back on me thirtyfold, I am sure, but Lyut is the thirtieth ascetic who has served me and I am ready.
+
+Lyut has once more gone to sleep hungry, belly filled with prayer and contrition and boiled water. No fish in the net, no ferns to be had, no stale leaves of flatbread or sun-dried berries. I come to him then. I come to him and I touch the back of his neck, then the crown of his head, then the lids of his eyes and the scars around them, and then I sit in the clearing and wait for him to waken. I sit and watch, for that is my jurisdiction.
+
+When the pekania stirs at the slow warming of day, his eyes drift open as usual to the slit of relaxed muscles that is his habit, and then he shouts.
+
+He shouts because I am a trickster god and after forty years of life, after thirty times thirty years of blind ascetics serving Ýng and myself, I am ready for change and I have given him sight.
+
+I know his thoughts: I know that when he perceives the light of the sun for the first time in his forty years, blurry and bright, that he is struck with a mighty pain and a fear far greater than any accident with a knife could cause. I know his terror, his confusion, and his instinctual need to escape, and so I watch him scramble back into his cave and press his face to the back wall for minutes on end, barely breathing, eyes clenched shut. 
+
+"Ýng!" he cries at last. "My lord, my lord, what is happening?"
+
+I answer in Ýng's stead: "You see."
+
+He pants into the silence that follows. I know his thoughts: I know that he hears Ýng within his heart and within his bones and within his breath. I know that I have spoken to him in the language of sound, and that this brings with it its own fear.
+
+"You see," I say again.
+
+"You are not Ýng."
+
+"I am Týw. I am the god of the moon and the water and of watching and of death."
+
+"Týw?"
+
+"Týw," I repeat, and smile at his confusion.
+
+"But Ýng is the god of all things. How are you the god of those things?"
+
+"Ýng is the god of all things, and They are the god of me, but of those things not under Their direct dominion, some are under mine, and I am the god of watching, of looking, of seeing. I am the god of water, and I am with you when you fish and bathe. I am the god of the moon, and when it shines down on you, I am with you. When Ýng is with you, I am as well. When you serve Ýng in these ways, you also serve me."
+
+Tears course freely down his cheeks, and he says: "It hurts to see."
+
+"You have never seen before. Come out of your cave."
+
+He does not move, and so I wait. I know that he will need to attend to his day soon, and I know that he is praying to Ýng and feels the compulsion to perform his acts of service, his rituals, and I know that the village below is waking up to ready itself for a day and night and week of celebration. So I wait.
+
+Too, Ýng waits, because although I sense Their wrath on the horizon, I think that it will not come yet, because this is also new for Them, and They also watch.
+
+Eventually, Lyut, crawls, eyes clenched shut, on hands and knees, crawls out into the sun, and sits cross-legged in the center of his clearing.
+
+"Open your eyes."
+
+He does not. I know that he can see the warmth of the sun behind closed eyelids, showing dusky orange through them. I know that he can sense the shadows cast in the sun's arrow by the leaves above and around him. I know that even this seeing is too much for him.
+
+"Open your eyes, Lyut, faithful."
+
+"You are not Ýng, you cannot command me."
+
+"No," I say. "I cannot command you, but you are as faithful to me as you are to Them in the ways that I have described, and so I ask for this small obeyance."
+
+Lyut ponders this for a long while, his tail flitting agitatedly behind him, drawing praises to me in the packed earth. Finally, he opens his eyes, a crack, a squint. He opens his eyes and looks at the ground before him. He looks at his naked body. He looks at the clearing and at the trees around him. Looks in wonder. Looks in awe. Looks in terror and in panic. Looks at the ground and the trees and the sky. Tries, even, to look at the sun, and learns that the sun's arrows are keenest above all to the eyes.
+
+"It hurts! It hurts!"
+
+"Do not look directly at the sun, faithful," I laugh. "Ýng has decreed that the sun provides your life, and so it is too dear for you to behold."
+
+He grinds his palms against his eyes and smears his fur with tears and with dirt. Even as he cries, he is marveling at the flashes and swirls of light that come to him now, and each phosphene that blooms in pink and white and green is a prayer to me, so I allow him this moment of non-darkness until the moment passes and he can open his eyes once more without pain.
+
+"Where are you, Týw?"
+
+"I am with you."
+
+"Can I see you?"
+
+"We are also too dear for you to see with your eyes, Ýng and I, but do you not feel the way we pierce your heart and burn along your arms as you prepare the incense for our offering?"
+
+Lyut is silent once more, still once more. He prays. He prays to Ýng with a fervor he has not yet shown in his forty years. Tears stain tracks down his cheeks as he struggles with the sudden, overwhelming sight. Sight, a sense he now possesses.
+
+"Go and prepare for your day, faithful. I am with you."
+
+-----
+
+Lyut is slow to begin moving, and when he does, he walks as though a great dream has come upon him. He lets Ýng guide his movements and I stand apart from the lord and Their servant.
+
+Lyut moves as though a great dream has come upon him and lets Ýng guide him, and even so his morning task of making incense is far slower than usual, for his eyes water constantly and he marvels at just how drab the ingredients, so bright and colorful in the nostrils and so familiar to the touch, are to behold. He has not known the comparison of color before, but even to one for whom sight is a new sense, he is surprised to find that the crushed root of nardin and the shaved root of sweet flag look so similar despite the vast difference in aromas and purposes, that the mastic, that steadfast base of a scent, nearly glitters in the sun while the jewel-bright scent of cardamom is belied by so dun a color.
+
+He moves as though a great dream has come upon him until it is time to lay the powdered incense in the bowl of ash, that third prayer of creation, and he realizes that he can see the furrow he digs in ash with his claw, can see the tan powder that he packs in its place, and can see the spiral he builds, and then tears come upon him once more, and all of his prayers of destruction are completed through sight blurred by shock, and he relies on his habits and Ýng's guidance to make it through to the end without burning himself.
+
+I stand apart from the lord and Their servant and watch, and drink in what prayers I may along the way.
+
+At last, the time for ritual passes and Lyut stumbles into the woods to tend to his toilet and lingers a while in wonder at the sight of his own body, the sight of the woods and the leaves and humus on the forest floor, before returning to his cave and, out of the habit of so many years, grabbing his stick to guide him down to the river.
+
+"Do you need that, faithful?"
+
+After a moment's confusion, the fisher laughs. "I suppose I do not, Týw."
+
+"Will you leave it behind?"
+
+His answer is a long time in coming. "It is comforting in my paw. I will take it with me."
+
+Guided still by habit --- and perhaps by Ýng, for I do not know the lord's every thought --- Lyut taps his way down the path to the water, and perhaps it is for the best that he has brought the stick, for his eyes are drawn constantly to every detail along the way, from the way the suns arrow strikes the leaves to the way their shadows dance across the ground when the wind moves across them. His eyes water still, for he is overflowing with sensation. A life lived without a sense is still a full life, and to one born without that sense, raised without that sense, he did not think of himself as blind except in comparison to Zita who picked up the amphorae of incense with such ease that he had never known.
+
+Stops, at last, at the edge of the stream and stares at my domain, mouth open as though to speak, though no words come forth.
+
+I wait a while, and then ask: "Faithful, do you see the wonder of my creation? My friend the water?"
+
+"I had never imagined that it looked like this." His voice is barely above a whisper, and his eyes drink deep of the sight of the stream. "I did not know that something could be as beautiful."
+
+This fills me more than any prayer yet that day. "I am the god of the water and the god of watching and the god of the moon and death. When you come here to fish, when you come here to bathe, when you come here to drink, those are praises that you sing to me."
+
+Lyut tilts his head. "Is Ýng not the god of all things? I am sorry for asking again, but I must know."
+
+"They are the god of many things, and They are the god of me. To sing praises to me is to sing praises to Them in turn." At this, I feel the lord's anger at me soften, though it does not wholly retreat.
+
+"I do not know the words to any prayers to you, Týw."
+
+"That is alright, faithful. You may pray all the same by fishing and bathing and drinking, by rejoicing in those things that are under my jurisdiction."
+
+Lyut nods and steps into the water. This is not the usual order of his mornings, but as the wonder on his face at the sight of the water moving around his legs fills me to overflowing, I do not complain. He stands in the middle of the section of the stream that is his own, in the pool held up by the narrow gap across which he strings his net, in the cool water where the sun's arrow pierces the canopy of the trees. He stands there and he watches the way that the light reflects off the surface of the water. Watches, too, the way the water eddies around rocks, around his legs, explores the funnels of whirlpools with his fingers, peers through clear water to the silt and rocks and algae below the surface.
+
+"What am I now, Týw?"
+
+"What do you mean, faithful?"
+
+"Before this morning, before today, when I did not see, I was complete."
+
+I remain silent.
+
+"I am sorry, god of water and of watching. I do not doubt you, for your gift has spoken for you. I do not turn away your gift, and I offer my praise to you. But if I was complete before and a servant to Ýng, then what am I now?"
+
+I watch him curiously, this servant of mine and of my lord's, standing in the middle of a pool in a stream where his thighs are steeped the cool water. "You are Lyut, faithful of Ýng, faithful of Týw. Has that changed with your sight?"
+
+He runs his hand above the water, feeling the boundary between water and air with his pawpads. He feels the surface tension of the pool, and through him I feel his wonder. He tests and plays as might a kit of his people even as he begins bathing. Each time he comes up for air, he sings a line of praise to Ýng, and every time he is beneath the water, I know that he is thinking about what he is now. Each time he dives, he is singing his praises to me as well, and now he is cognizant of this as well.
+
+After he has said his prayer and cleaned himself he wades to his net in which he finds three small fish. He gives thanks to Ýng and, after a moment, to me as well.
+
+With the fish on the shore, wrapped in net and stunned, gasping and drowning in air, Lyut watches. He watches them glitter and wiggle. He watches them die their slow deaths. He traces sun-struck scales with a claw and asks: "Do the fish see beneath the water, Týw?"
+
+"Yes, faithful. They see my domain and all its beauties."
+
+"Do they smell beneath the water?"
+
+"After a fashion, yes."
+
+"Do they smell my incense?"
+
+"No, faithful. The boundary between the domain of air and the domain of water is too firm for the smoke of your incense to pass. After all, do you smell your incense beneath water?"
+
+"No, I do not breathe under the water." Lyut looks angry, then laughs. "Only, I wonder."
+
+"Yes, Lyut?"
+
+"I wonder if the fish upon the shore here has the chance to smell the incense and hear the prayers to Ýng before it dies."
+
+I do not answer directly, saying instead: "You are not going to die, faithful."
+
+He looks satisfied at this answer and I realize that I have said what he needed to hear. I know that Lyut holds terror in his breast even still, that he will hold it there until the end of his days, for I have taken his innocence from him. I am pleased to see his satisfaction, and I sense Ýng's bemusement at my anxiety over pleasing a servant.
+
+I am pleased all the same, and I remain with my servant.
+
+I am with Lyut as he gathers his fiddlehead ferns and pawfuls of clay. I am with him as he sets his net once more. I am with him as he cleans his fish and heads back to his cave to prepare his daily meal.
+
+Three times, he closes his eyes and his whiskers droop as he attempts to settle back into his unseeing routine. He is testing himself, I know, and I do not stop him. I do not stop him because I know that when his eyes are open, he is closer to me, to Týw the watchful, and when his eyes are closed, he is closer to our lord, Ýng, the god of all things, and it is good for him to understand this.
+
+He closes his eyes to shut out the sight of preparing his meal, too confused by the twisting of the ferns around his fish. The leaves which make so much sense to his long-practiced fingers do not behave to his eyes the ways in which he expects.
+
+He closes his eyes to eat his food after cracking open the clay baker, for the sight of the fish changed by fire is unnerving. The change in texture he had always known had changed, as too with the taste, for Lyut was no stranger to the flavor of raw fish. Now, sight-ridden, he finds the taste of the fish reduced when his eyes are opened, as though too much of him, of his mind, his being, is taken up processing that which he sees.
+
+And he closes his eyes, last, when he lays on the ground to dry and meditate.
+
+He closes his eyes as he lays on his front, and then when he rolls onto his back, he keeps them closed, and I see his cheeks wet with tears.
+
+"Speak to me, faithful. Why are you troubled?"
+
+"You say that you are the god of watching, yes?"
+
+"I am."
+
+"Must watching always be with sight?"
+
+Again, I do not answer directly. "Do you wish now that you had not regained your sight?"
+
+"It is too much, Týw."
+
+"You are strong, faithful."
+
+"It is too much." He shakes his head. "I feel less holy. I feel less pure when distracted by seeing. How can I serve Ýng as faithfully now that my time spent watching is time spent serving you?"
+
+I feel Ýng's anger rising against me once more, and I answer carefully. "To live is to be holy, to live and rejoice in life, to be pure and clean in your actions and words. Ýng is the lord of all things, and to Their servants They gave life as a way for the universe to recognize its own beauty and wonder."
+
+Lyut's face twists in a anger. "And yet I cannot hear Ýng as well today as I did yesterday. He is with me, I know, but..."
+
+"The only mind which can hear as purely as it sees when both eyes and ears are open is that of Ýng, true, and yet in seeing, do you not also praise Them? It was They who made seeing as well as hearing. It was They who made me."
+
+At his his features soften. His words are slow, and he processes his thoughts and feelings aloud. "I, as a servant, do not understand the hierarchy of the gods, but, yes, if Ýng made the light and the sun and colors and also you, then I suppose I pray to him as easily by rejoicing in sight as I do in sound and touch."
+
+The sun is overhead and tipping down its long path through the afternoon. The colors of the trees are bright and I am with Lyut. "Rejoice, then, in your sight, faithful, for in doing so, you offer prayer to Ýng and to myself."
+
+A slow minute passes as the fisher meditates. At last, he opens his eyes and looks up to the trees and cloudless sky.
+
+"I will try, Týw."
+
+"That is all we ever ask of our servants, Lyut."
+
+-----
+
+When Zita comes up from the village, bearing an armload of flatbread and a small basket full of spice cakes for Lyut, he had since ceased his conversation with Týw and had ceased meditating by laying on the ground, and had instead settled for sitting cross-legged in the entrance to his cave looking out. Zita sang as she walked, as she had for the last ten festival weeks that this had been her duty, and so Lyut hears her before he saw her.
+
+He debates for thirty heartbeats whether or not he is willing to keep his eyes open for her arrival. He debates whether or not he is willing to see, to perceive someone with senses other than those he had been born with.
+
+Lyut makes up his mind and closes his eyes when he hears Zita rounding the curve of the path toward the clearing before his cave. He sees her shadow move in the trees, he sees a hint of her between the trunks, and all courage fails him in that moment.
+
+"Faithful, why do you close your eyes?"
+
+Lyut stays silent.
+
+"As you wish, faithful, but know: while some miracles are private and must be held close to the heart, not all of them, and to hide this one would be to live a lie before me and before the village."
+
+"I am not brave enough."
+
+Zita's singing crescendos as she enters the clearing, then abruptly stops. Lyut supposes that because he is not sitting in the customary place with the customary smile on his face, that she must sense in him some change beyond her ken, and at this, his fear only grows. 
+
+He turns over what I had said within his head. He turns it over ten times and considers the ramifications of it. Were he to keep his newfound sense a secret, then yes, he would in some way be living a lie. He would have sight at his disposal and yet the village would know not of the incredible power of the gods that had granted it to him. And yet there was terror to be had at the thought of anyone finding out. He was holy in part because of his unseeing, was he not? He was pure before Ýng at all times, and he was pure in the ways that the village could not be, for that was his role as the ascetic, as the incense-maker, as blind Lyut.
+
+And yet to lie is to sully oneself. To lie before the village was to betray his role as ascetic and to make himself less holy in the eyes of Ýng. To tell the truth was to test the village and change tradition, but to lie was to destroy it for the sake of the village.
+
+To live a lie until Ýng took him and decided at what point in the endless cycle should be placed his death was too terrible a thought, and the need to tell truth, to remain as pure as he could be, won over in his mind.
+
+"Lyut?" Zita speaks, tentative.
+
+And so he opens his eyes. He opens his eyes. He opens his seeing eyes and looks across the clearing and sees Zita there, shorter than him, softer and rounder than him. Too, she is better fed than him --- though that is not his place in the world --- but she is different on a level more fundamental than any he could have imagined. She is, he thinks, unlike anything he had expected her to be.
+
+He smiles. "Zita."
+
+That he had opened his eyes and looked upon her seems to startle Zita, and she takes a half-pace back away from the cave.
+
+He speaks as calmly as he is able, but he does so quickly as to preempt her leaving. "Zita, Ýng has blessed me this day. Ýng and his servant have blessed me, and when I awoke and opened my eyes, I saw. I saw for the first time."
+
+She frowns and walks toward him. She moves slowly, and then steps a few paces to the side when she is halfway across the clearing to approach him from a diagonal. It is a test, I know, and when his eyes track her movements, she rushes to him and sets down the bread and cakes beside him.
+
+"Ýng has done this?" she says quickly and quietly. "Ýng has worked a wonder! Such a wonder!"
+
+"Yes," Lyut says. It is a small lie, but one easily fixed when first the topic of me, of the god of sight and of watching comes up. "Ýng has granted me sight. I have been praying and meditating, and I do not yet wholly know the reason why."
+
+Zita's eyes dart this way and that as though to take in all of his face, to look at his eyes and to check for the scars that Lyut had sometimes felt beneath his fur while washing, though he knew not where they came from. At last, she looks into his eyes for a long while.
+
+This makes Lyut uncomfortable, and he does not rightly know why. Was there something to behold there? He can see her eyes, and is seeing them for the first time, and to do so fills him with anxiety. They are round and dark, and seem to be made of a ring of brown surrounding a circle of black, and as her eyes move, he sees that the circle of black sometimes grows larger or smaller, though perhaps it is some trick of the light.
+
+But those were simply the mechanics of sight. He can see her eyes, yet he feels that to look directly into the eyes of someone else is to *truly* see them, and he worries that, on some level, Zita will be able to read his thoughts and fears, that she will know deeper secrets about him than he could possibly ever know about her. Was this some knowledge of the sighted that he must someday learn himself?
+
+As well, this close to her and he can smell her better than he ever had before, and she is in no way, in no sense unpleasant.
+
+The feeling of being sullied and unholy hangs around him like a cloud.
+
+He asks, then, quietly: "What do you see, Zita?"
+
+"I see you as I always see you, but I see you with your eyes open and clear, where they used to be cloudy and dim, and I see your fur brown and thick without the scars that my mother says have lined your eyes since you were born."
+
+"Yes, but what do you *see*?"
+
+Zita finally averts her eyes, though only to pick up a cake from the basket and split it in two, holding out one half for Lyut and keeping the other for herself. The cake is the color of the sun and bespecked with the cassia and cardamom which had gone into the incense. "I see that Ýng has wrought a miracle and that our time of fasting and keeping holy has led to something truly wondrous."
+
+Lyut lets his shoulders relax from a tenseness he had not known he was holding, and he accepts the spiced cake from her. "I see. Thank you, Zita. I have been praying and meditating on this all day, and though I know I must not, I doubted this miracle and felt unholy."
+
+She bites into her cake and chews, her eyes focusing seemingly on nothing. Lyut can hardly read her expression, so new is his sight, so he remains silent. She swallows her cake and says: "I think that you are as holy now as you were at the beginning of the time of fasting. You have kept holy as have those who came before you, and the village has kept holy, and perhaps the whole world has kept holy, and now Ýng has provided for us a new thing."
+
+Lyut eats his spice cake and thinks on this. He thinks about what I had told him. He thinks about the shock of sight, still so new to him that the brightness and colors in the world sting his eyes and bring him to tears. He thinks of the newness in things that have always been there. He thinks of how overwhelmed he is by this mere fact, and he thinks about how small he is before Týw and smaller still before his lord.
+
+He thinks about how small he is and realizes that his devotion burns more strongly within him than it had ever before. And, though he does not know or understand my motives, he knows that any servant, that *every* servant of Ýng's is master of him, for the most holy are truly the servants of servants.
+
+He thinks about this and then he smiles to Zita once more and nods. "Yes. Yes, this is a new thing that Ýng and his servant Týw have done, and in their presence I will continue to be holy."
+
+Zita tilts her head to one side, and Lyut wonders if perhaps she had not heard well. "Who is Týw?"
+
+I break my long silence and say, "I am."
+
+Lyut stiffens and Zita startles to her feet.
+
+"I am Týw, and I am the god of the water and of the moon and of watching and of death, and I am servant to Ýng, and I have given sight to Lyut."
+
+When Zita understands, she falls to her knees and prostrates herself before Lyut, seeing no one else to bow before. "A spirit! A spirit!"
+
+Lyut laughs at this, though not unkindly. "I believe Týw, that they are the god of the water and of watching, though I know not what the moon is. I have prayed to Ýng about this and I believe that Týw is Their servant."
+
+"I am. I have given Lyut sight and Ýng is watching all of us."
+
+"I cannot see you, though," Zita says.
+
+"As the sun is too dear to look at, so are the gods, faithful."
+
+"How can I be your faithful?" There is an edge of frustration to her voice, and her tail dances about behind her. I accept her agitation just as I accepted that of Lyut.
+
+"Every time you bathe or drink pure water, every time you keep watch on the world, every time you behold the beauty of the moon, and every time you mourn the dead, you give praise to me, for not all prayers are in words, as Lyut well knows."
+
+He nods in agreement.
+
+"These things are my dominion and Ýng is my lord in turn."
+
+Zita sits up slowly. Still frowning, she considers this. "Why have you given Lyut sight?"
+
+"That is not for you to know, faithful, not yet. There will be a time when you may, however."
+
+She relaxes at my words, for she knows the workings of the gods and the mystery therein almost as well as Lyut does.
+
+"Now, it is almost evening," I say. "Put away the bread and the cakes lest the night animals take them."
+
+Zita nods and moves to help Lyut gather his food before remembering that he can see the basket and the flat loaves of bread as well as she, and they laugh together.
+
+After the food is put away, both fishers kneel together and begin to pray aloud to Ýng.
+
+<div class="verse">They who make the world,
+They who end it,
+They who bring the thunder,
+In Tsuari which fell...
+</div>
+
+I let them finish their prayer and bask in the jubilant way that Zita's voice rings out to her lord.
+
+When they finish, Zita smiles to Lyut and stands once more. "I must go down to the village and tell them of this miracle. Tonight you will see the moon, holy one, and know its beauty and that will be your praise to Týw."
+
+The thought fills me with joy, for the moon is indeed beautiful, and I watch Zita put her arms around Lyut in an embrace --- his first in many years --- before departing down to the village once more.
+
+-----
+
+Lyut stays up late into the night at the promise of the moon. Night is not day, this he knew, and the subconscious understanding that the sun brought light would mean that the absence of the sun would bring darkness does not surprise him.
+
+He remains curious about all things. He marvels at the red and pulsing glow of the embers of his fire. He wonders at the way the sun's arrow disappearing colors the sky pink, purple, navy, black. He drinks in the way in which the color drains from the world.
+
+The first night of the week of feasting is the night of the full moon, which Lyut had known but had not understood, but now he does. He understands the moon and its importance when first it creeps into view of his clearing. He understands its beauty, and he weeps. He weeps for my creation, and I am filled with praise unclouded by words. Filled to overflowing as I have never been since Ýng created me at the beginning of all things.
+
+And that night is the night when Ýng comes to me and makes his decision.
+
+The next morning, a second strange occurrence greets Lyut when he opens his eyes. Sitting at the entrance to his cave is a creature very much like him in many ways, but in many ways different. Long and lithe, yes, strong and slender, yes, but shorter, and with fur of the purest white as opposed to the dark brown of his own. A face more slender and ears larger, and on the tip of his tail, the fur is dark black.
+
+"Who are you?"
+
+I smile to him. "It is I, faithful. It is Týw."
+
+A look of confusion comes over his face, and I must hold back amusement as the fisher sits up and rubs his eyes, looking around as though the answers were to be found in the air itself.
+
+"Týw?"
+
+"Yes, faithful."
+
+"I thought that the gods were too dear to be seen?"
+
+I close my eyes. I revel in the blackness this brings. I revel in the feeling of terror and the exaltation that come with being embodied. I revel in the power of our lord. "Yes, this is true. This has always been true through the long years and longer millennia. However, I was not completely honest with you yesterday, Lyut."
+
+He frowns, staring intently at me in my new form. "If you are a god and you are holy, how can you lie?"
+
+"It was a lie by omission, for I am the god of water and of watching and of the moon and of death, but I am also a trickster god. I am the god who sows chaos while Ýng brings order. Forever we work together or strive against each other. Forever we move in a cycle. This is our very nature. This is the way of things, for Ýng must have something to strive against that time move forward and his creations grow and change with it."
+
+Lyut sits cross-legged and bows his head as he thinks on this. He knows that, on some level, it must be true, for there are times when the weather is bad for days on end and he cannot --- or could not --- tell the difference between day and night, and there are times when he will go a week without food from the river, and once there was even a time when something happened to the water of his section of the stream that caused it to taste bitter and plant-like, and no amount of boiling could remove the flavor and he was sick with fever.
+
+"You sow chaos and Ýng fixes it?"
+
+"There is no fixing chaos, faithful. I sow chaos because that is who and what I am. Ýng brings order because that is what They are. There is no moral ground on which to judge the chaos that I sow, just as there is no judgement to be made on the order of our lord. Both are holy in their own way, because they are the chaos and order of gods"
+
+"Is the chaos of your servants not holy, then?"
+
+"It is not. It is my role in the world to sow chaos so that you may learn and become better for it, but when you sow chaos for each other, you lower yourselves in our eyes." I see confusion on his face and sense questions in his mind, but he does not speak, so I continue. "The chaos sown by living beings is an exchange of power. Inevitable, perhaps, but it bespeaks a lack of devotion."
+
+Lyut frowns as he considers this.
+
+I give my servant time, for he has learned more in the past day than any of his predecessors have in their spans.
+
+"So then," he says at last. "How can I see you now? What are you?"
+
+"I am the god of watching and of water, of the moon and of death, and I am a trickster god, but all of these things are a part of the world separate from you. I am, this body is, the concrete manifestation of myself and I will take this form for a time. I am this concrete manifestation because I committed a concrete act by giving you sight, and the ramifications to me are also concrete."
+
+"You made it so that I can see you?"
+
+"No, faithful. Ýng has made it so that you can see me, for They are my lord and I am Their servant, and I sowed chaos and They have in turn brought order to *me*. At least, for a while."
+
+Lyut looks startled at this. "Is it a wicked thing that you have given me sight? Have you made us both unholy?"
+
+"No, faithful, dear Lyut." I smile and hold up my hands. "It is good and holy that you may see, and Ýng agrees. However, They control the balance, and so they have decided that the balance, the exchange, for you seeing is for me to be seen. I will live for thirty years among the world in this embodied form, and you will find that the chaos that I bring is vastly reduced while I am here, for in this form, I cannot work my usual methods."
+
+"Is that not a punishment, for a god to have their power lessened?"
+
+I laugh. "No, I do not think so. Ýng was at first angry with me and perhaps They wished at one point to punish me. But They understand now, and this is instead a matter of me experiencing what you experience in the way that only a god can, for gods must learn and change along with their servants."
+
+He thinks for a long while on this, and I know that he is praying to Ýng throughout, that he is closing his eyes so that his hearing is sharper and his smell is more keen and perhaps his sense of the holy is as well. I do not interrupt his prayer, for Ýng is with both of us. I pray with him. We sit in silence in the cave and hear the wind and the stream and the birds, and we smell the cassia and cardamom and copal, and we share our prayers.
+
+"Týw," he says at last. "I have faith in Ýng and I have faith in you that I will remain pure and that the world will remain pure with us. I do not understand, but I have faith."
+
+"Good. Now, I will teach you to see, faithful, and you will teach me to be seen, for everything --- *everything* --- will be different now."
+

content/post/fiction/where-do-you-see-yourself.md

@@ -0,0 +1,51 @@
+---
+title: Where do you see yourself five years ago?
+type: post
+date: 2020-09-04
+tags:
+- Science fiction
+categories:
+- Flash fiction
+---
+
+*"Where do you see yourself five years ago?"*
+
+The signs hollered at him. Shouted. It was so noisy in here. No one talking. No music playing, everyone just sitting and waiting, reading or toying with phones or lost in thought.
+
+It was the colors, he suspected. All those posters and signs on the walls. The "cheery" green of the paint and clashing purple of the carpet. They were the ones leading to the sense of din. *A waiting room should be calm and muted,* some part of him reasoned. *It should instill boredom, not terror. I shouldn't flinch away from the walls in a waiting room.*
+
+*"Where do you see yourself five years ago?"*
+
+This one particular sign with its twisting of tense and archaic, faux-1900s aesthetic had caught his eye and would not let him go. It was understated, given much of its competition: red letters stamped on a cream background with silhouettes pointing toward a hopeful sunrise.
+
+He focused his attention on that. Did his best to will tunnel-vision into existence. Tried to block out all of the garish surroundings and just take in those few muted colors.
+
+*"Where do you see yourself five years ago?"*
+
+He knew where he saw himself. Had agonized over the prospects and lived all those counterfactuals in his head over and over and over to himself. He had read all the brochures --- carefully procured away from home, carefully disposed before returning --- and had gone through the requisite interviews and investigation. Always careful. Always where Iosef would not see, would not find out.
+
+He knew where he saw himself: he saw himself away from here. Away from where he was. Away from Iosef. Away from that apartment they shared with their cat and all of the pain bound up there. All of the din of anxiety and trauma that those three rooms held.
+
+Finally, they called his name and brought him back into the office. Relief crashed over him in a wave. Relief not at what he was doing --- he was mildly surprised that there were no regrets in his mind --- but simply at being out of that horrifying waiting room. The office walls were painted a dusty lavender and the furniture all a rustic, unfinished pine.
+
+The contrast would have been jarring if it weren't so much of a sight for sore eyes.
+
+The official walked him through the steps. He'd get a mild hypnotic. He'd write himself a note to explain why he was here, what he'd done. He'd sit in the chair by the wall, there, and speak the three words he was allowed to speak, and then...
+
+And then he'd be done.
+
+The hypnotic went down easy. It tasted like lemon yogurt.
+
+The note was easy, too. Words flowed onto the paper with a practiced ease.
+
+The chair was comfortable.
+
+The machinery clicked on and the official spoke in quiet, coiling repetitions to him, easing him down into something akin to a trance. *"Speak your words, think your words, believe your words. The you of five years ago will hear like a thought unbidden. Speak your words to yourself, think your words to yourself, believe the words you hear. The you of five years ago will hear like a thought unbidden."*
+
+And then he spoke: "Don't say yes."
+
+A hum, a whirr, a sigh, a beep, a blink, and he was awake.
+
+Frowning, he looked down at the note in his hand. The frown relaxed, turned into a relieved smile.
+
+And when he went home, it was to the apartment he shared only with his cat.

content/post/poetry/asertu.md

@@ -0,0 +1,20 @@
+---
+type: post
+title: Asertu
+date: 2018-10-07
+categories:
+- Poem
+- Esperanto
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Disvolvu mian haŭton el mia karno
+Verŝu mian sangon el mi kiel vino
+Prenu mian vivon, tenu ĝin sub via lango:
+    Amara pilolo por gustumi
+
+Bruligu min, entombigu min poste
+Loku ŝtonon super kie mi kuŝas
+Lasu tempo manĝi vian memorojn pri mi
+    Lasta peceto por gustumi
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/being-transgender.md

@@ -0,0 +1,62 @@
+---
+date: 2015-10-14
+type: post
+title: Being Transgender
+categories:
+- Poem
+tags:
+- Gender
+- Transition
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+You get to explain gender to all of your friends &mdash;
+    And all of your family &mdash;
+    And maybe once more to be sure &mdash;
+    And random strangers &mdash;
+    And maybe, like, doctors and nurses who should probably know better;
+
+You get to explain to your partner that nothing has changed &mdash;
+    And that you were always this way &mdash;
+    And that really, honestly, nothing has changed &mdash;
+    And that this has no effect on your love for them &mdash;
+    And I promise;
+
+You will get to come out again &mdash;
+    And explain that it wasn't that being gay wasn't enough &mdash;
+    And explain that it has nothing to do with who you like &mdash;
+    And explain that that shouldn't matter &mdash;
+    And &mdash; oh right, this means you might be straight after all;
+
+You get to go through that awkward period of growing your hair out &mdash;
+    And learning how to ask for a more feminine haircut &mdash;
+    And trying a curling iron for the first time &mdash;
+    And figuring out how to eat noodles without also eating your hair &mdash;
+    And the worries that you're just trying to be rebellious;
+
+You get to worry whether you're maybe just trying to be rebellious &mdash;
+    And whether or not you might just be faking it &mdash;
+    And whether you're really Trans Enough or not &mdash;
+    And whether you're maybe just appropriating femininity &mdash;
+    And whether or not passing really matters to you anyway;
+
+You get to dress up in your best clothes &mdash;
+    And your best makeup &mdash;
+    And worry that your shoes are too masculine &mdash;
+    And have your hair game on point &mdash;
+    And convince the doc that you deserve those patches and pills;
+
+You get to go through puberty again &mdash;
+    And it will be weirder this time around &mdash;
+    And your skin will grow soft &mdash;
+    And you'll get more sensitive to temperature changes &mdash;
+    And &mdash; YEOWCH! That's a new sensation;
+
+You will cry a lot &mdash;
+    And bite your tongue often &mdash;
+    And lower your gaze &mdash;
+    And learn to take up less space &mdash;
+    And talk softer;
+
+And your dogs will still love you.
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/haiku.md

@@ -0,0 +1,72 @@
+---
+categories:
+- Poem
+- Haiku
+type: post
+title: Collected Haiku
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Arctic fox's den
+adorned with flowers and snow
+garden in winter
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+A measure of grain
+and a measure of water &mdash;
+spring's own time and heat
+
+Air carries the scent
+of myriads of lives spent
+on summer's warm breath
+
+Crumb and density,
+warmth buried beneath crisp crust &mdash;
+autumn's crackling leaves.
+
+Loves and loaves and loaves
+baked for comfort in the cold &mdash;
+winter calls for stores.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Leaves fall, grass withers,
+and I step back to witness
+winter's frozen form.
+
+Half an hour's silence,
+body relaxing slowly,
+letting springtime in.
+
+A season to stretch,
+then one to learn everything &mdash;
+summer's exploring.
+
+What will autumn bring?
+Maturity? Strength? Wisdom?
+Dry heat and cool nights?
+</pre>
+
+------
+
+<pre class="verse">
+And I walk until
+all I can hear is the wind
+among the fir trees.
+
+Summer breezes bear away
+all the choices of years past.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Drink deep of death-thoughts
+as the day dies with a yawn &mdash;
+the year starts to fade.
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/i-should-note.md

@@ -0,0 +1,38 @@
+---
+categories:
+- Poem
+tags:
+- Poetry
+title: I should note
+date: 2004-04-08
+type: post
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+The undersides
+        off gray
+    of clouds
+    drift
+        while I
+            on the path
+        stand
+    above
+        where the crow flies
+    me.
+Off
+        with purple
+    gray, I
+        wandering
+    ponder, should
+        in a perfect
+            were there such a thing
+        world
+    be a
+        though the word is plain
+    color with it's own
+        to name
+            as they say
+        creates
+    word.
+It soothes.
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/important-people.md

@@ -0,0 +1,357 @@
+---
+tags:
+- Poetry
+- Romance
+type: post
+title: Unimportant verse about important people
+categories:
+- Poem
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+I see your past in cross-processed film,
+in blown-out colors and over-saturation.
+
+    You told me all about it, told me grand stories:
+    you were going to go back in time and save the world.
+
+I see your past in yellows and browns,
+in umber and sienna and amber, in a younger sun.
+
+    You sat and told me how &mdash; and you were always sitting &mdash;
+    you thought past-you dreamt of a future less complicated than today.
+
+I see your past through film-grain and vignette,
+with a thick white border, space on the bottom to write.
+
+    You told me how you learned so many imperfect things,
+    in so many less than ideal ways, always at inopportune times.
+
+I see your past in architectural drawings of unrealized buildings,
+in paperback covers reaching towards heaven, in trillions of words.
+
+    You figured past you dreamt of, not perfection,
+    but a world unconstrained by so many failures.
+
+I see your past with no me in it,
+and wonder if past-you dreamt of us.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Resuscitating ancient coins in class, we learned,
+takes a toothbrush and olive oil.
+Slow, steady strokes across, around...
+soft bristles dislodging soil
+one speck at a time.
+But no one that day was nearly as blessed,
+seeing a coin shine through
+at the end, full relief brightly expressed,
+as I was to see you smile.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+When you arrive,
+the whole world gets slow.
+Sluggish, amber-colored air
+mellows lively conversations.
+Everyone stops, marvels,
+turns eagerly toward you;
+and there are no complaints
+about warming our faces in the sun.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+We fit together in the strangest ways
+and seem to seek new seams to savor.
+Such joins are hardly perfect,
+thread tugging fabric unevenly
+unless it's reinforced over and over again.
+We seem to seek new seams to savor,
+and, weak though they are,
+revel in the imperfect unevenness of joining.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+"Comrade" would I call you,
+and "brave," and "fierce" and "true".
+"Lovely" have I called you,
+and hope but to live up to
+the example which you set for me.
+
+So, comrade, onward, ever onward.
+I know I cannot hope to offer
+much but word on cloying word,
+dull rhymes I strain to proffer:
+small flowers, small gifts, camaraderie.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Complementary, clashing anxieties.
+Dull clamor of intersecting feelings.
+Need, desire, craving, jealousy.
+Worry, fear, care, prayerful fretting.
+Love, lust, friendship, a need to share.
+Emotions on emotions on emotions,
+and, often, comfortable silence.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+I chose your name.
+To defend, it means. To help.
+I admit, having chosen it,
+that I chose it to defend you.
+When I picked you up by the scruff,
+Dragged you off to that place
+I hoped we could call ours,
+I expected that we'd
+simply find a way to survive.
+I never expected love,
+and rejoice every day in that surprise.
+
+I chose to collar you.
+I admit it was an experiment,
+I submit to most, but not my partners;
+until then I'd never owned, claimed.
+It felt vulgar, at first,
+greedy, jealous, possessive.
+Through you I learned the joy of possession,
+the love and trust and exactness of terms.
+Owner, partner, love,
+and pup, partner, love.
+My beautiful, my own.
+
+I'll hand you off some day.
+I'm a less than ideal owner
+in so many terrible ways:
+I owe you more than you owe me.
+I'll gather your leash up,
+I'll let you keep your tag,
+I'll bow, I'll kiss you one last time,
+and I'll bless you and your new keeper.
+And I'll never stop loving you.
+And I'll never stop loving you.
+And I'll never stop loving you.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+You, for whom a heart means all feeling &mdash;
+You, for whom yeah is an expletive &mdash;
+You, for whom even computers sing &mdash;
+You, for whom every tangle invites disentangling &mdash;
+You, for whom even <strong>I</strong> will rub feet &mdash;
+You, for whom shop always follows flop &mdash;
+You, for whom words form a squall-line &mdash;
+You, for whom I guess I &mdash;
+You, for whom &mdash;
+You, for whom even &mdash;
+You, for whom I reach &mdash;
+You, for whom my shit day leads straight to lets talk &mdash;
+You, for whom I curate my week's feelings &mdash;
+You, for whom I wait by the month &mdash;
+You, for whom I structure my year &mdash;
+You, for whom understanding of me seems always in grasp &mdash;
+You, for whom my struggles provide no obstacle &mdash;
+You and I, from whom us.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Tightly wound springs
+Of very carefully
+Not touching.
+    Secret words
+    To be said
+    With confidence.
+Rules.
+Prohibitions.
+Limits.
+    Discussions planned,
+    Side-channels arranged,
+    Whiskey purchased.
+And now anxiety
+Over what it means
+And how to work it.
+    Is it worth it for
+    Long-standing questions
+    To be answered?
+To invite disaster
+For sake of knowledge
+And further dreams?
+    Maybe the answer
+    Is that tired refrain:
+    Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
+And now we're
+Awaiting weeks
+Of careful touches.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+I could never tell you
+that you feel too much.
+That you feel too hard,
+or that your feelings
+overwhelm and overtake you.
+
+I could never tell you
+how beautiful that is.
+That I wish I could feel those things,
+that I wish I could feel that way.
+
+All I can tell you
+is how beautiful you are
+when you feel love.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+<em>Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba</em>
+Would that I had the faith
+To pray daily.
+Eleven months to let you go,
+And an amen to end the sorrow.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+When a light so far above me shines down,
+I lose my footing, stop, look around,
+and for once, see my way lit before me.
+
+Through you,
+    I learn how I move.
+Through you,
+    I see how I act.
+Through you,
+    I judge myself.
+
+When a light so far above me shines down,
+I turn my face to the warmth and bask,
+drawing strength, assured in my steps.
+
+Through you,
+    I recognize my failings.
+Through you,
+    I understand my strengths.
+Through you,
+    I gain perspective.
+
+When a light so far above me shines down,
+I reach toward it and grasp at what I can,
+hoping I might somehow gain my own luster.
+
+Through you,
+    I find my place.
+Through you,
+    I gain surety.
+Through you,
+    I learn who I am.
+
+When a light so far above me shines down,
+and I fail to shine myself,
+I hope only to reflect what I can.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Every time I seek to change
+my life, myself, my love, my name,
+every time I try and broaden my range
+in this shitty, all-encompassing game,
+I hesitate.
+
+With every change in my life
+comes the terror of maybe losing you
+of maybe being caught in strife
+over such insecurities as few
+have escaped unscathed.
+
+That you love me still
+reaffirms so many of my choices,
+and I set about with a will,
+ignoring querulous voices
+in favor of your calm laugh.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Between our houses,
+there is a simple fence -
+not a chasm, not a wall.
+Chain-link, waist high,
+bedecked with sweet-pea
+and set about with violets.
+Something we can tend,
+something to feel good about,
+something between us
+other than nothing.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+I will swallow my love for you.
+I will swallow my love.
+I will swallow my love for you
+And relish the magnesium flare,
+Rejoice in immolation,
+Cherish the autolysis
+Of secret cells.
+I will swallow my love for you.
+I will swallow my love.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+I live my life in eternal terror
+of the completeness of your own.
+I take up so little space
+and impinge upon it so gently,
+I only hope that there is space enough
+for a 'dear' here and a 'lovely' there.
+If beauty is at the edge of the terrifying,
+I live my life in eternal terror.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Cover me, crush me, compress me.
+Squeeze me down until I fit in your pocket.
+Let me jangle among your keys,
+or slip between bills in your wallet.
+Forget me, let me fray, let me fall apart.
+And, some day, pull me free,
+dust me off, flatten me out,
+and tell me that you love me.
+</pre>
+
+-----
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Every day, I learn to say "I love you"
+in a whole new way.
+And every day, I fall short
+of being understood.
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/kiun-sxi-povus-sxati.md

@@ -0,0 +1,37 @@
+---
+tags:
+- Poetry
+- Mental Health
+type: post
+title: Kiun ŝi povas ŝati?
+date: 2019-03-27
+categories:
+- Poem
+- Esperanto
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Kiun ŝi povus ŝati?
+Kiun ŝi povus ami?
+Ŝi demandis al Ŝi mem:
+Kiel ŝi volus diri
+Kial ŝi tiom zorgas?
+
+"Vi devas ŝati vi mem,
+Vi devas ami vi mem."
+Ri respondis al ŝi tiam.
+"Vi ne devas diri
+Kial vi tiom zorgas."
+
+"Mi neniam priparolas
+Miajn multajn zorgojn."
+Ri daŭrigis trankvile.
+"Finfine, mi neniam diras,
+Ke mi ploras por mi mem."
+
+"Ve, mi ĉiam pripensas
+Viajn belajn vortojn."
+Ŝi respondis larm'plene.
+"Finfine, mi neniam diras,
+Ke mi ploras por vi ankaŭ."
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/numeno.md

@@ -0,0 +1,22 @@
+---
+tags:
+- Poetry
+type: post
+title: Numeno
+date: 2018-09-28
+categories:
+- Poem
+- Esperanto
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Inter ĝuo kaj timo
+Estas loko de tro da signifo.
+Apud kompreno, ekster saĝo,
+Tamen ĝi tutampleksas.
+Mi kompareble malgrandas
+Kaj ĝi tro granda estas.
+Nekomprenebla
+Nekontestebla,
+Senmova kaj ĉiam ŝanĝiĝema.
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/pale-she.md

@@ -0,0 +1,113 @@
+---
+categories:
+- Poem
+title: Pale She
+type: post
+date: 2020-11-17
+tags:
+- Gender
+- Mental health
+- haiku
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Her eye turns inward,
+vision dims and movement stills
+as winter claims her.
+
+Thoughts like leaves fall slow,
+hesitate, drift, rustle, sigh.
+Frost-rimed remnants rot.
+
+Some paler she asks:
+do you see the sky through me?
+Do I frame its mien?
+
+That pale she lacks words.
+She does not speak, cannot speak
+without the wind's hum.
+
+Still she asks, all breath,
+am I invisible yet?
+Does snow tend steel skies?
+
+And when her breath fails,
+dark branches write on the clouds:
+Summer is a dream.
+
+Paler still, she cracks.
+Dreams, also, of ax and fire,
+false springs to thaw hands.
+
+Silent now, demands:
+there must be an end, there must be.
+Spring, silence, or fire.
+
+No one answers her.
+She stands stark against flat skies,
+ice claims bark, claims wood.
+
+Darkness comes heavy.
+Sleep for now, sleep forever,
+midwinter cares not.
+
+Neither, now, does she.
+How could pale wood think of whens?
+Of thaws and green things?
+
+The sun tells her lies:
+Melting snow will feed your roots,
+Seasons imply change.
+
+She does not listen.
+Pale she does not believe him:
+Brother sun's too quick.
+
+Brother sun tolls days,
+and pale she has no more need
+for hours with seasons.
+
+Brother sun's movements
+are breaths to her: days blink slow
+when spring is a dream.
+
+Sister moon speaks now:
+follow me, set time by me ---
+my months are guideposts.
+
+Pale she sleeps, sleeps still.
+Waking her may have listened.
+Endless winter calms.
+
+She invites cold in.
+Water, crystallized, freezes;
+cells lyse, die in droves.
+
+If spring never comes,
+pale she supposes, that's fine.
+Winter is for dreams.
+
+She'll dream, or she won't.
+She'll carry on or she won't.
+Cold has claimed heartwood.
+
+No one perceives her.
+She becomes terrain's wild hair,
+a forgiven sin.
+
+Would she wake for saws?
+For axes with keen-edged blades?
+Would she even care?
+
+And still the sun sets.
+And still the moon waxes, wanes.
+And still seasons change.
+
+Should pale she not wake,
+venerate her mute demise.
+Cut her down, cord her.
+
+A new life in fire,
+for pale she gives heat in death.
+Let this be her spring.
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/rush.md

@@ -0,0 +1,18 @@
+---
+title: Rush
+type: post
+date: 2019-06-18
+categories:
+- Poem
+tags:
+- Death
+---
+
+<pre class="verse">
+A flash of coppery sweetness,
+A clearing of the sinuses,
+A burst of unnamed colors,
+A rush of creativity, of wonder,
+Velvety softness, a low hum,
+And then the wave recedes.
+</pre>

content/post/poetry/twitter-haiku-collab.md

@@ -0,0 +1,90 @@
+---
+tags:
+- Poetry
+type: post
+title: Twitter Haiku Collab
+categories:
+- Poem
+- Haiku
+- Collaboration
+date: 2018-06-16
+---
+
+### [Makyo](https://twitter.com/makyo_writes/status/1008078803225042945)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Seven flies circle,
+Trimmers chatter down the block:
+The hum of summer.
+
+I listen, silent, waiting,
+Breathing in sun and out shade.
+</pre>
+
+### [Dwale](https://twitter.com/ThornAppleCider/status/1008368609683369984)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Scent of cinnamon
+Light slips over the mountain
+Cirrus clouds blushing.
+</pre>
+
+### [Mog](https://twitter.com/Mog_K_Moogle/status/1008434362256371718)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Warm wind from the west
+Sunlight pours across the plains
+Cicadas singing
+
+Four-hundred miles from home
+This western land not my own
+</pre>
+
+### [Makyo](https://twitter.com/makyo_writes/status/1009131881021837312)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Fig leaves like fingers
+paw feebly through still hot air
+and come up with naught.
+
+Too early for fruit to droop,
+we must wait past midsummer.
+</pre>
+
+### [Dwale](https://twitter.com/ThornAppleCider/status/1009137826250625029)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Blackbird headed south
+Down to the hawks and kudzu
+Six months 'til winter
+</pre>
+
+### [CM Averin](https://twitter.com/averincm/status/1009307822738161664)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+Redbud and dogwood
+feathers bursting from leaf-wait
+in the deep of here
+
+underneath cut mountaintops
+up and down flooded culverts
+</pre>
+
+### [Tarith Averin](https://twitter.com/tarithaverin/status/1009877999217307653)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+A light sighing sound,
+Wind slipping through leaf and wing,
+The heat's brief respite.
+</pre>
+
+### [Rayah](https://twitter.com/Rayahbunny/status/1009879693372411907)
+
+<pre class="verse">
+A storm is coming
+My ears perk at the crashing
+It is almost here
+
+The end of a season near
+Fresh rain pours from the heavens
+</pre>

layouts/_default/list.html

@@ -1,10 +1,12 @@
 {{ define "main" }}
 <div class="content wrapper">
-{{ $paginator := .Paginate (where .Pages.ByPublishDate.Reverse ".Params.date" "!=" nil) 6 }}
+<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="/css/pagination.css" />
+<h2>{{ .Title }}</h2>
+{{ $paginator := .Paginate (where .Pages.ByPublishDate.Reverse ".Params.date" "!=" nil) 10 }}
 {{ if eq $paginator.PageNumber 1 }}
 {{ .Content }}
 {{ end }}
-<h2>Recent pieces</h2>
+{{ template "_internal/pagination.html" . }}
 <ol class="post-card-box clearfix">
     {{ range $paginator.Pages.ByPublishDate.Reverse }}
     <li>
@@ -25,7 +27,6 @@
     </li>
     {{ end }}
 </ol>
-<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="/css/pagination.css" />
 {{ template "_internal/pagination.html" . }}
 </div>
 {{ end }}

layouts/index.html

@@ -119,13 +119,13 @@
                         <p>Along with standalone works and story collections, Madison has worked on several writing projects, often with others</p>
                         <ul>
                             <li><a target="_blank" href="https://ally.id">ally</a> - an ergodic, semiautobiographical project in the form of a conversation</li>
-                            <li><a target="_blank" href="https://post-self.io">Post-Self</a> - a collaborative fiction project designed to explore the implications of a universe where the sense of self can be blurred, split, or demolished through replication</li>
+                            <li><a target="_blank" href="https://post-self.github.io">Post-Self</a> - a collaborative fiction project designed to explore the implications of a universe where the sense of self can be blurred, split, or demolished through replication</li>
                             <li><a target="_blank" href="https://adjectivespecies.com">[adjective][species]</a> and <a target="_blank" href="https://lovesexfur.com">Love ◦ Sex ◦ Fur</a> - [a][s] is a metafurry resource aiming to take a look at the furry world from the inside out; LSF is a sub-project exploring the same in a more adult setting</li>
                         </ul>
                     </div>
                     <div class="small">
                         <a target="_blank" href="https://ally.id"><img alt="ally" src="/assets/img/projects/ally.png" /></a>
-                        <a target="_blank" href="https://post-self.io"><img alt="Post-Self" src="/assets/img/projects/post-self.png" /></a>
+                        <a target="_blank" href="https://post-self.github.io"><img alt="Post-Self" src="/assets/img/projects/post-self.png" /></a>
                         <a target="_blank" href="https://adjectivespecies.com"><img alt="[a][s]" src="/assets/img/projects/adjspecies.png" /></a>
                     </div>
                 </section>