Daily Prompt: Mystical

Posted on by under Shorts

The god of the well

He looked back up at the woman dressed in a deep-violet-colored robe, unsure if he had heard well.

“You must undress before you enter the water”, she repeated with a flat voice.

A light breeze was flowing making the thin cloth flutter around her body and her short raven-colored hair ripple in waves. Her emerald eyes however were fixed on him and did not waver, he felt that she was somehow peering directly into his soul.

“The guardians of the lake will not be pleased to meet you if you are tainted with earthly possessions, one must enter pure of body to hope to have a chance to communicate with them”, she added .

Her voice echoed around them against the stone and mud walls, reverberating infinitely in his ears. He knew she was serious but he couldn’t help being a tad unwilling to comply. Being naked in front of her was the least of the reasons he could think of: the air was cold, he could see the small clouds of steam coming out of his mouth each time he breathed, and he was sure the water would be even colder. What really bothered him however was the idea of leaving his equipment behind, he knew enough to not blindly trust the sorceress nor the guardians and yet he had to do this without any means to defend himself in case something happened… He looked up at the sky, only partially visible even through the gigantic opening. The myriads of stars paled against the brightness of the Rift’s bluish glow that illuminated the aethers. The night was dark, as dark as it could have been. Apart from his breathing and the slight rustling of the clothes, everything was silent, even the water, as if nature around the lake had gone to sleep.

“You have to decide soon, traveller. The spirits will not be patient indefinitely…”

He turned to her once more, her pale face reflected the bluish gleam of the night, before setting his eyes on the dark body of water. It was even darker than the sky, barely reflecting the scar on its ink-black surface. Unmoving, its calm stillness not even disrupted by a single ripple, it seemed like black mirror made of onyx, darker than darkness itself, barely visible to the human eye as if it sucked in all the light around. He had never seen such a sight. He had never felt such a thing either. He could feel its cold presence emanating from the darkness and saturating the whole space. He knew he had to go in, not out of duty or necessity but, for once, out of curiosity. He had to. If he didn’t then he would never know… But if he did… The thought made him shiver. He felt like a butterfly flying towards a bright fire, blinded by the light and not realizing it would burn itself.

The stillness of the black body of liquid in front of him was eerie, but it wasn’t that or the freezing temperature that covered his skin with goosebumps. No. It was the things he had heard about it, about those who had tried such a thing before him. Tales of madness and death, crippling pain of unimaginable proportions and visions that would shatter more than one sane soul. Plus the look the robed woman was shooting at him wasn’t reassuring one bit. He took a quick glance at her once again, his dark gaze meeting her emerald one. Her face betrayed no emotion but he could have sworn he had seen the shadow of a smile flash through her eyes. Even the resemblance was eerie… But he couldn’t be thinking about that right now. He took in a deep breath and steeled his resolve.

He might have seemed calm in appearance but, as he began undressing himself, his heart was racing and his mind was in overdrive. What if something happened? Would he be able to react in time? Would he even know how to react? Slowly he took each and every piece of cloth on his body off. He felt his cheeks burn as he started undressing. The fresh breeze on his skin made him shiver. Finally, once he found himself in nothing but his underwear he looked at the sorceress again.

“You are on the right path, traveller…”, she commented with a smirk.

He sighed, knowing she was enjoying every bit of this, that she would not advert her gaze and that it was useless to try to cover himself for it would remain intently fixed on him. Finally he took the last piece of cloth off. Once it was done he felt completely vulnerable, more than he had ever felt in his life. And he couldn’t be sure it was because of what he was going to attempt… He took off the necklace around his neck and carefully places the silver pendant on the top of the pile of clothes. If he had been less worried he might have chuckled at the slightly ironic sight of the finely designed butterfly. He then turned towards the lake. He sighed once more before taking a tentative step towards the dark and completely still body of water, feeling her gaze on himself with every step.

As his bare foot touched the cold water it sent a unique ripple throughout its surface. The breeze got stronger as he began entering the water. He clenched his jaw and wondered what he would find on the other side, trying his best to take his mind of the freezing temperature. It took him an eternity to reach a waist-level depth but as soon as he did he felt an intense wave of magic hit him at full force. It surrounded him and grasped his body and mind like a vice. He tried to stop it, to resist, almost backing out of the lake, but found himself unable to keep control over his limbs, they wouldn’t respond to him anymore. He knew his will to be strong but against such a quick and powerful aggression, and having to face the freezing temperature of the lake, he had not been able to react in time.

He cursed himself for his carelessness, barely halfway in and he was already caught in a trap. He tried to free himself from this unknown power but it was as if he was an insect caught in a spider’s web, the more he resisted, the more he lost control. Slowly he felt himself be pulled towards the depth of the water by invisible but irresistible strings. He wanted to turn around, to yell at her for betraying him, he wanted to let his fury rage about but he was frustratingly unable to do anything except witness his own demise… As he was about to be completely submerged in the cold darkness, he heard the voice of the sorceress behind him.

“Now you must surrender everything you are to them, otherwise he will never see you… And so will your friends…”, she said with a wide smirk before turning around and slowly disappearing into the night.

That was the last thing he heard before the strings dragged him into the depths and the lake swallowed him whole. As the ripples faded away on its surface the breeze calmed down and everything became still again. It was as if nothing had ever happened, the only remainder of a human presence was the pile of clothes atop which was placed the silvery pendant, gleaming as it reflected the bluish light of the Rift.

Here is a scene I have had in mind for quite some time now and that I finally came around to write for this prompt.

I hope you enjoy it despite perhaps not getting everything.

via Daily Prompt: Mystical

My art, your art

Posted on by under Thoughts and other ideas

Art belongs, in my mind, as much to the artist as it does to the audience but in different ways.

A creation is completely dual in the way it can never be separated from its creator if one wants to understand it but at the same time it doesn’t need any context to be appreciated for what it is, to be given value. So being able to determine to whom it belongs in the end – to the author who created it with some intention behind it or to the reader who gives it his or her own meaning? – is very difficult.

Some say a creation belongs solely to the creator and cannot be dissociated from them. But what do you do in the case of someone who did things or thinks things that are completely opposite to your way of living? Can you still appreciate their art? What about Hitler’s paintings? Are they still art, knowing what he has done? Can you really enjoy Edgar Allen Poe’s POEtry (see what I did there? #lol) without knowing the tortured soul he was? Or The Rocky Horror Picture Show without knowing the political/cultural context of the time?

And others that it belongs to the readers/viewers/public who enjoys that art. But what if they use it in a way that was not designed by the author and that might contradict his or her view of their art? Or what if they change it from its original form to make it ‘better’ or more ‘politically correct’, can it still be considered as having the same meaning, the same impact as the original work? What if they read the meanings wrong or attribute it false ones?

How does one define the line of property for a piece of art (whatever it may be)?

I don’t have an answer to that question, I don’t know for sure. But It’s something that I think about quite frequently. I believe that, just as life in general is complicated, it is the same for art. There are so many different cases and scenarios… What I think I am able to say right now is that a creation should be able to stand on its own to a certain extent, that the public should be able to find beauty/interest in a piece of art just by experiencing it. And then, if they learn how it was created, what it means or what the artist wanted to represent with it, then the art piece can only become even more beautiful/interesting. So it’s paradoxical. The art and the artists are two different things that should be separate but at the same time completely merged together, thus creating a great piece.

I’d like to finish on the fact that I, for one, often insert meanings and references in my art (if I dare call it that), some of which are obvious and others are hidden from the public eye. There are some references I want my public to get, whether I hide them or not, then there are some that I design so that only people privy to the knowledge of my person will get, and then there are some that I insert here and there that may seem comprehensible and obvious (or not at all) but that no one except me will probably ever get. There are many layers to [my] art and I love that about it.

Now, I also think that, beyond what I meant to say, to make people understand through what I write (for example) I people should be able/free to understand/take out what they want from my creations. They are made to make you think, feel and be interested but not just in the way I designed them to be, also int he way you want them to be. And we come back to the paradoxical concept of art here because I want my creations to carry a message but at the same time I want them to be understood on a personal level by each individual who discovers them and in their own original way too.

Is there an answer to this in the end? I don’t, and probably never will, know if I am truly succeeding in this venture but I do truly hope that I do because that makes everything more beautiful. All I can hope is that some people do enjoy discovering and experiencing it as much as I enjoy making it.

PS: I realize now that I haven’t spoken about context until now but it is very important in my opinion. Because the context in which I write (or any artists creates) adds meaning and intent to a creation and so does the context in which people discover said art, it can change something beautiful into something ugly and despicable or inversely.

Sorry if this appeared as a bit of a rant or if it was incomprehensible, I just wanted to put into words what I was feeling and I pray that I did it in a sufficiently coherent manner. Also, example might have been a bit weird, I know…

I wonder

Posted on by under Poetry

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If you knew, what would you do?

Sometimes I truly wonder.

Always in the black of night

For she is ever my muse,

As I watch the sky, dark blue,

Stars and their endless yonder,

Wishing to be a brave knight

Not bearing any excuse.

What if I were brave enough?

Tell me, what would you do then?

What if I had the courage

To show, if push came to shove,

That I am not one to bluff

And to say, without the pen

– Far from its sure moorage -,

That you are the one I love?

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My grail

Posted on by under Poetry

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Life has been long though it feels short,

It’s been both empty and so full,

‘Till the end I shall hold the fort

Until th’trigger I cannot pull.

I know you think of me a fool

But I am a man of honor

So goodbye friend – Oh life is cruel! –

Now I shall wait in this manner

Until comes he, the destined knight,

The one to prevail in this fight,

No matter how long is the wait

This is my long-awaited fate.

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Endure

Posted on by under Poetry

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The monsters inside your head

Are but shadows of your dread,

Don’t fear the darkest of night

For it is then that comes light!

As the cold cloud lifts away

Freeing your soul from the grey

And your heart beats strong again,

And your eyes see yond the pain…

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“What does not kill us…”, as they say.

The vale

Posted on by under Poetry

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In the heavens, stars are hidden,

Far over the misty valley

Night has come ever so slowly,

Now they awaken, the seven.

Soulless red eyes, always watching,

None can escape their piercing gaze,

Trapping them all inside the maze

Of their own lives, their thoughts catching.

Only a god or a madman

Would dare defy the curator,

Would dare to meet their creator,

To go back where it all began.

At first it was the only way,

Whether or not it was correct,

To keep them safe and to protect,

To keep the other ones at bay,

But as time passed it never stopped,

Dark waves, one after the other,

From the belly of earth mother

Until every freedom was dropped…

And now the seven awaken,

As the black veil covers the sky,

Far over the clouds, where stars fly;

Who can reclaim what was taken?

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À toi.

Posted on by under Poetry

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J’ai toutes les merveilles du monde à mes pieds

Et sa magnificence s’étend sous mes yeux,

En cette froide nuit je me permet d’épier

L’univers qui m’entoure et tous ses oublieux.

Vagabondant les rues sous le vent froid du soir

A la mélodie d’une exaltante chanson

Je me laisse noyer dans ces couleurs et sons,

Pourtant en ce tableau rien ne semble me seoir,

Vivant et enchanteur, dont on peut célébrer

L’incroyable beauté; rien ne me fait vibrer.

Non pas que j’en sois las ou même qu’il m’écœure

Mais, plutôt que de l’admirer, je pense à toi,

– Éclipsant toute étoile qui là-haut chatoie –

Car c’est ta silhouette qui a pris mon cœur.

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Agony

Posted on by under Poetry

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There is this boy I like

Back home, in the country,

He is somewhat alike

A strong ancient oak tree:

So calm and collected

Yet fiery with passion,

His hair strangely ashen,

His smile long perfected.

I have sadly not seen

The object of my thoughts

For years but I have been

Since for him having hots.

I paint him in my sleep,

Sometimes his absence weep,

Has he wished my return

For as long, does he yearn?

Doubt is starting to grow

In my heart, somber throe,

But I cannot back out

Now it is far to late,

As I near the old gate

I must remain devout.

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Scribere

Posted on by under Poetry

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Écrire c’est souffler la vie

À une créature étrange

Magnifique et pure, tel un ange,

Et puis la contempler ravi.

Créateur, forgeur des éthers,

Dieu parmi hommes et mortels,

Qui, de son orgueil délétère,

Tous les esprits martèle.

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