shhhhhhhhhh she's sleeping

never not been the truest

as a child i had many, many dreams of a dark, dark place. It was thorny and painful and poisonous and soft sometimes too. It was like waking up at midnight inside a house you didn't know very well. It was like bonfires at night and grown-up parties when you're tired. I called it Night, or Nadir, the reversed reflection of the world-mountain called Zenith. mansion-cities on a burning, oil-slick sea. i wrote about it too, in the notes app of my moms first gen iphone, while vermont, new york, maryland, the carolinas, alabama, new orleans, texas, new mexico, arizona blurred by the window of the school bus we were living in.

now that i've begun to try to grow backwards towards that 9 year old girl-in-waiting, to salvage something from the confusion and horror that clouded her, I discover that Vulnavia, somehow, was already there, in that lovely darkness.  it's a strange thing to find something that someone made, fall in love with it, and then realize that it's where you come from.

and on and on and on

so here's some things that I had and lost and found again in Vulnavia's mirror. after I lost all my writing I went looking for it and found it, kept safe on that ancient iphone. the writing is a child's writing, precocious and over-precious. my too-early awareness of drugs, poverty. what was for who. all the stuff I picked up from my mom and her friends (clove cigarettes?). silly edges. the rhymes clunk together. but i think i'd like to leave it that way. there's a place for alchemy and there's a time just to hold things.

 Where It Started, I Think

shhhhh

There was a land where all was dark, black as ravens wing and soft and rich as a velvet scarf worn at midnight. No cheerful birdsong here, only the rustle and mutter of hiding things, and distant song, and fox bark. Gone was the sun's glaring light, which lays bare all secrets and exposes the mysteries of the world, while in its place the moon shone down its sly and wondrous glow, and the shadows held their dances and secret gatherings in its dappled pools. The cheerful babbling brooks of daytime here were dark and deep. They kept their own counsel, chuckling to themselves about each secret they held in their twisted nooks and pools, full of waters sweet and red as wine to drink. Goblins sold their wares in rhyme, crooked and wrinkled faces lit by glowworms, their ears shining with brassy hoops and claws, which tinkled together as they sold hours, love and skill. These were the lands of Night, were all was secret and dark and unknown and ancient. 

 
Poems and Shanties of the Sea of Pitch

now set this on fire

Pitchman's Shanty

 

Cross choppy sea we sail,
On waves as black as night,
Past islands of dark ebony, and sea-flames hellish light.
We spend our days on tides of tar,
Wandering without moon or star,
Shunning friend and foe the same,
Searching for glory, fortune, fame.
And though we may, forgotten, sink,
We’ll sail these waves as black as ink.

For far beyond the reach of day,
Far beyond the sun,
Where secrets dance and shadows play,
And light is scarce or none,
This is the place for me, my girl,
With a ship as black as coal,
And the waves we cross are blacker yet, and blacker still our souls!
Give me not the blazing skies, no Zenith day for me,
But the guttering glow of candlelight, and a treacherous, inky sea!

Ode to the Wind-Heart

beyond the crumbling clay and clutch
of mortal soil lies a heart that pumps
hollow bloodless thudding beats
pumping only freezing air through
empty valves and chambers so
large that forty men or more
could use them as a wind-wept drinking hall.

cold engines, crew! the sea’s alight
with racing flame across the waves
but still on shore the bells will chime, and dole
out to each their measure of the time, so up sail!
those who wind the clocks care little, if at all,
for smugglers and miscreants as we,
and so we throw ourselves at the
mercy of the heart that rules the sea.


A Song For Storms

The Heart sings a lovely storm this night

all below deck, shut off the pumps

And the hold is full of smuggled lights

next one to cry out or move gets a thump!

Orphan’s Harbor is across the sea

if that’s thunder I hear then the sea’s set aflame

No shelter then, for fools like we

and there’s nothing to do but push on all the same 

 

 

The Bone-Kite Bird

A single bird I saw aloft

the whitest thing on the sea

the oil clings to the wave and land,

to you, to the ship, and to me

fool, that’s naught but the bone-kite bird,
whose tail a fine lure makes
she makes her meal of foolish men
who take that shining bait.

 

 

The Captain's Answer

The captains blade is as quick as your question
and the answer is naught but steel in your leg
and you want to be screaming but you better keep silent
what the captain hates most is a sailor who begs.

 

Towns Behind the Sun

fuk me im twee

Silver Lick

Snowy, even though it’s the city right behind where the sun goes when it sets. Shantytown, think Alaska or Fargo. Mainly populated by Doctors, especially Surgeons, and Policemen The Policemen treat crime as a disease: diagnose criminals and cases, propose treatments, etc. Even those who aren’t policemen or doctors tend to think about things in terms of disease: money is a disease, spending is the cure

 

Phida

Once had the only train route to Nadir. The train still runs, but only carries junk now, no passengers. Mostly the town a junk shop now, lots of old computers and machines. Technicians and repairmen are very valuable. No apartments over 1 story, lots of warehouse apartments and depots though. Most buildings filled with junk: people loiters outside storefronts: they’ve got good street food here. It rains during the day and clears up at night, lots of people sleep in little parks

Vurly

Industrial processing town on the banks of an oily river that flows straight into Nadir. It's the only place where you can get a Nadir Work Visa. Lots of barges and barge workers. The air is acrid and thick, clings to the lungs and burns a bit. lot of people wear breathing masks, those that don’t have “engine lung” and spit oil a lot (On the plus side, you now have flammable spit. Nothing tastes good anymore though). 

 

Star-Maker Machinery

yall fuck with fuchs?

On the Farthest Shadow, highest peak of Night, the great stellar engine works ceaselessly, manned by thirteen ancient men. They have been running the engine since the beginning of time, and they will run it till the dome of the sky crumbles to dust. The engine is forged of nightsteel and shade, goblin wits and demon dance. A host of night-ghosts and shadow-sprites aid the thirteen men, dancing their flickering forms up and down the ladder to the sky, hanging stars in the heavens.

Glass Girls With Guns

god loves girls with guns

Someone handed her a flamer, she wasn't sure who. She looked it over, flicked the glass sphere that held the fire sprite. The little thing woke up, it's pointy face glaring at her. She ignored it, lining up the sights with the candle jack, now unconscious from the pain. The trigger clicks back, and the fire sprite gave a squeal of pain as the barb jabs it in the back. Seconds later, a gout of fire rockets into the night, just licking the hanging figure. The glass girl gave a grunt of irritation and pushed the trigger down harder, blocking out the protests from the tiny fae. This time, the stream of flame engulfs the candle-jack. She kept the trigger down, watching with satisfaction as the wax man melts, his liquefying flesh evaporating before it touched the ground. She made a slight adjustment, and now the fire licked the vine, the buds and creepers sizzling, blackening, then turning to ash, ash which blew into the ocean, stained the black waves blacker.

***

A swarm of Blood Bees streamed out one last time before she reached down the barrel of the gun and pulled out the hive, her already smooth fingers struggling to maintain a grip on the thing, slick with blood as it was. By now the constables had stopped someways into the tunnel, waiting while their Intelligent Uniforms set up defenses against the bees.

She could count the brass buttons on each coat, and somehow her detached mind did: six on each made forty-eight in all. The hive was riled up by now. The glass girl shook it once for good measure, then dug her fingers in and tore the top off of it, hurling the buzzing thing like a grenade, bees pouring out of it while it flew, making it appear to be a tiny cloud plunging earthwards. She didn't wait to see what happened, but raced off, turning down streets without seeing where she was going, clambering up towers and dropping into sewers, until she finally collapsed behind a pile of grandfather clocks in some alley in a part of town she didn't know. A great deal of water had spilled out of her, and she had been fleeing for so long that when she shut her eyes to rid herself of the vertigo she dreamed of running.

The Old Symphony

let her hear it for you, she'll sing it back

With a lack of light comes a lack of color. In Nadir, the ancient echoes of old names and magics and the subtle sounds too soft or strange for most to hear are more prominent than in other places. This collection of sounds is known as the Old Symphony, and those who can learn to recognize certain sounds within it can use that knowledge to their advantage. For example, a well versed assassin might well be familiar with Wekliin, Liklatop, and Tsall, perhaps even Yedar, if he worked with a tattooed partner, and an experienced thief might be able to recognize Kukiraset, Opedram, Cadro, and Jotmasus.

• Wekliin: the sound of a knife drawn behind you
• Jotamsus: the sound of the party downstairs
• Didlamlac: the sound of your name being called faintly
• Liklatop: the sound of a glove being put on
• Yedar: the sound of a tattooed shoulder brushing a doorframe.
• Rorgatom: the sound of an engine underwater
• Tsall: the sound of a needle being withdrawn from skin
• Cadro: the sound of a coin against a table
• Neddershins: the sound of teeth against the rim of a wineglass
• Zamraostahb: the sound of last years scandal
• Wistob: the sound of an unmarked jar being opened
• Opedram: the sound of a hole opening in a bag of goods
• Kukiraset: the sound of paper being snatched away
• Hezdroben: the sound of a dead fly falling to the windowsill
• Alsoce: the sound of ink spreading across skin
• Gommadin: the sound of a hand gripping a hammer
• Nizbrius: the sound of a flame dying out
• Fandazop: the sound of baked bread
• Almoctus: The sound of flesh stiffening

Orphan's Harbor

im saying Yaroslav Gerzhedovich in my sleep nobody knows how im doing it

the floodlights sending their beams into the storm, yellow paths that, now and then, a ship would struggle along, tiny on the waves, tracing the light back to the sanctuary of cement and stone its crew knew waited for them, hard and solid in a world where even the air seemed as if it could drown you, so hard was it raining.

Down the sloping flanks of the sea, down and down and down the black wave, down until the depth seemed to mock by displaying lightless waters to you now, now that there is no hope of preserving their image, for the wave trembles forward and all around you are the walls of the sea, endlessly thick, and the roar of the storm above is lost, and replaced by a quiet more horrible than that of a vacuum where sound is impossible, for here, your pleading goes on for miles, but for every mile the waters stretch a hundred more, until your noise fades and is lost without ever reaching anything.

Floating in Death

death is full of little lights

She dropped at last from the madness of living to the slow draining of death. She had on occasion died for a purpose, come to death to find a memory, or to relay a message, but now she was content to float. She lay belly down on the waves, staring through the sea, grey as dishwater, to the leviathan that must lie at the bottom. Too huge for the mind to understand anything of it but the jaw unhinged to swallow the tides that poured into it for all of time, a canyon so unchangeable that light did not dare sully the furthest corner of its rotted teeth, and the body lay beyond all vision. 

 

A Girl Shaped Bottle in the Rain

i'll get up soon i swear

The rain began again, drops spattering into the glass girls open head. Her cork lay on the ground beside her. Far below, the ships flames still danced merrily on the tar. From there, her path had lead off the beach and across the jagged rock (too many questions in the thieves' tunnels) to the base of the cliff she now sat on, now scattered with shards and splinters of her feet. The delicate green glass was chipped off by the harsh stone, her path marked by pieces of finger and foot. The whispers of the past faded in her ears as the rain poured down harder, the thousand droplets further muddling her thoughts. Now all she could hear was the endless rush of water as her hollow body was filled like a pitcher, brimming, then overflowing so that the water poured out of her eyes. If bottle-girls could weep, she would have, but the endless flow of water would have to do.

Antiquity

i miss being in health food stores and smaller than the shortest shelf

 

 

 

As the saying goes, "all things find a way to Antiquity." A few minutes ago, a glass girl found her way there. She entered by one of the lesser known entrances, a path which led into the mouth of a huge idol, dedicated to some reptilian god long since forgotten. From there, the path wound downwards, the way gorging itself on the paths that joined it, becoming dim, lit only by fireflies and stolen sunlight, the dusty smell of dry rot and stone filling the air, until it reached the Emporium, where the scent mingled with that of gold and spice, bone and blood and sweat, fish and pastries.

The air rang with the clatter of a thousand markets as they navigated around each other on clockwork legs or treads, some with wings, some pulled by doves or lions, the more aggressive ones snatching passers by into their stalls. Screams of loss, and shouts of gain echoed from a thousand throats.
If it could be bought, you could find it in the emporium of the goblins, and if it could be sold, you could find a buyer. The law was relaxed here, and the somber and watchful ravens of the arbitrators and constables were fat and slow, whirling around the impossibly high vaulted roof in sleepy circles.

Chambers of the Publishing House Mansion-City

dreaming of the house again

Pithead
Overview
A claustrophobic neighborhood, exposed pipe and brick, the occasional flame of some chemical fire visible through a dirty, broken window.

People
Many of the disgruntled lawyers and businessmen of Law Street live here in filthy, cramped apartments. The rest of Pithead is mostly given over to the making and distributing of coal-black meth. And now, revolution. The arrival of the radicals in the Samizdat and the resulting police activity is bad for the meth buisiness, and unease is spreading quickly

Details
Filthy bodegas, nervous businessmen in grey suits getting late night cups of coffee
the smell of burning chemicals, acrid smoke
trash blowing across the street
grimy yellow light of a dented streetlamp
a gunshot from a few streets over

Pithead Landmarks
Hariri’s Cafe
Overview
Up a dark, narrow, dingy flight of stairs, a grocery/general store/cafe, Hariri’s is cluttered with fruits, vegetables, household goods and antique furniture and knickknacks.
Hariri, the sole owner and staff member, is a bent, energetic old woman who dresses in brightly colored silks. By turns manic and still, Hariri is erratic in her motions, moving with astonishing speed for someone so hold and frail, only to fall asleep in the middle of her action. her ideas and fancies possess a similar mania; currently, she has taken to building puppets out of whatever she can scrounge up, and will perform complex marionette dramas to entertain her customers

Details

• The smell of overripe fruit, dust, and coffee
• A mirror balanced precariously, threatens to fall whenever anyone open the door
• Warm light, reflected off of dozens of mirrors
• The swish and clatter of hanging beads

The News Wall
Overview
An abandoned bookstore, the front of which is daily papered over with a massive collage displaying the news of the Chamber, the Mansion at large, and sometimes even people’s personal lives. Nobody knows who creates the collage every day; they’ve never been seen, though often looked for, as they have an uncanny knowledge of things they should not know. Sometimes, only rarely, the Newsman, as the figure is referred to, will write in their own hand on the collage; such messages are often cryptic, but not to be taken lightly

Details

• a woman beating a man with a shoe, his infidelity revealed on the wall
• a pigeon ripping a scrap of paper off the wall and flying off, pursued by frantic onlookers

The Old Print Museum
Overview
The shell of a library-turned museum, abandoned for years but for Mr. Flambers, a man with a pufferfish throat who has lived in the ruin for years, obsessively maintaining what little order he can. The Museum is more commonly used as a neutral ground between gangs, a meeting place, or a party venue, much to Mr. Flambers distress. People can commonly be found taking drugs, playing music, and otherwise engaging in what little recreation Pithead offers. Others can be found squeezing between the bars on the broken windows to torment Flambers or try to find something of value to sell to the Librarian, who have a strange fixation on the old Print Museum, and have been trying to get it from Flambers for years.

Details

• the sounds of badly played guitar
• kids laughing
• a quiet huddle suddenly bursting into a fight, sides chosen quickly
• someone idly ripping pages out of a book, a stack of books piled text to them
• the shadows of two massive stone tigers, which flank the entrance. Though chipped and graffitied, they retain a certain elegance

The Drunken God

Overview
A small shrine in the doorway of a rotted out apartment building. A fat, golden Buddha with a clock on its belly, hands perpetually pointing to 4:20. Smiling face tilted back, mouth agape, hands outstretched. Place any intoxicating substance in its hands and it will lift them to its mouth, and swallow whatever gift it was given. After a moment, a little scrap of paper will slide out of its mouth, bearing some useless, humorous, or occasionally insightful phrase. The people of Pithead tend to view the Drunken God as something between a useless construct and a genuine deity. Most people scoff at it in public, but still, the line to receive your fortune for the day tends to be long.

Details

• Someone bumps into you, asks if you have a hit of meth to spare for the Drunken God, not for them, they promise they promise
• Someone carefully sweeping around the base of the statue, polishing its bald head
• A rat, sleeping in the statue’s lap, an argument about what that signifies.

Law Street
Overview
A wide, mostly flooded thoroughfare that runs through the once-vaunted law offices and courthouses of the Old Printing Press, now crumbling, rotting hulks.

People
The few remaining lawyers in the Old Printing Press are the most common pedestrians here, wading through the murky water in dirty, threadbare suits, arms full of salvaged, water stained documents. Some obsessively flip through their latest find, others shred useless documents in a bitter fury. Most are paranoid, jumpy, constantly afraid their rivals are breathing down their necks. Almost any document you need can be found somewhere in the Printing Press, if you’re foolish enough to look for it. These lawyers are fools to a man. They’ll pay good money if you find what they’re looking for.

Details

• Huge candelabras illuminate the street, held in the massive stone arms of the statues that adorn the once-regal offices and courthouses.
• Massive water spiders skim across the water, leaving spreading rings in their wake
• The whispered arguments of lawyers echo between the tall apartments
• The smell of mold and dirty water is thick here
• A few benches just out of the water, lawyers perched like birds on their backs, stuffing old sandwiches in their mouths during their lunch hour

Lower Beaumaude

Overview
Home to the bookshops, salons, cafes, restaurants, and bars beloved by the poets, musicians, and bohemians of the Old Printing Press, as well as a few of the remaining grand old apartments of the Chamber.
Low apartments, most of them embellished or decorated with art that ranges from jaw dropping to tasteless.

Once home to the Musical Repository, where each piece of music written in the Publishing House was stored for posterity. Stacks of literature, sheet music, and poetry obscure the streets, some of it trash, some of it the priceless life’s work of some obscure writer or another. It’s impossible to tell which is which

People
Artists, would-be artists, and bohemians of all sorts make their homes here, many of them from other Mansion-Cities, simply spending a season or two in the Publishing House to see if poverty sparks their inspiration. Writers, poets and musicians wander about, talkative, dreamy, and often in the way.
Mostly Human, with some Snakes, some of them the outcast child of one Librarian family or another.

Details

• The sound of cheerful voices, drunken laughter
• The low buzz of electric street lamps, one of the few places in the Chamber they work
• The smell of cheap wine, steak cooking in someone’s garden, clove cigarettes
• Bizarre fashion is a dime a dozen here, as are underground fashion shows held in the few abandoned mansions
• Candles melted to the back of the head with a mess of wax
• Skin dripping with thick veins of resinous sap, beetles, spiders, dragonflies visible imprisoned within
• Cocoons attached the clothes with small golden hooks, constantly hatching huge luna moths
• Walking three small, black dogs with porcelain masks, each trembling with barely restrained rage

Upper Beaumaude
Overview
a stark, horribly chic neighborhood of vaulted, austere apartments.
The last stronghold of the Beaumaude family, a long line of writers, and one of the first and only noble families to stake a claim in the Publishing House before its collapse. Their symbol, a skeleton dipping a quill into an inkwell, is everywhere.

People
The only people who live in Upper Beaumaude are the very successful sort. Lawyers, accountants, and businesspeople can be found here, along with the rare artists, composers, and writers who have attained true wealth and respectability. Most of the people here are fashionable, professional, and carry an affect of wistful melancholy, as though in perpetual mourning for someone they never knew. Everyone is very busy, and secretive about their business. Shadows are everywhere in the Upper Beaumaude, as are the strange children of Shadow-Human couples. The Beaumaudes have long been associated with the Periscian family, a wealthy dynasty of Shadows who made their fortune as information brokers, spies, and diplomats.

Details

• A breeze carrying the smell of whitewash and perfume
• Tall, grey carriages roll quietly through gently sloping streets
• The sound of polite laughter from a elegant looking lounge
• A silk suit brushing against your side as someone more important than you passes by

Ceraunic Park
Overview
A dingy, mostly empty neighborhood surrounding the Chamber’s power plant. Shotgun shacks, old maintenance sheds and a few boarded up shops promising to sell you all the wonders of the electric age.

People
Not many people hold a steady residence in Ceraunic Park, but it’s frequented by vagrants, travelers, punks, and others who simply need a roof over their head for the night with no questions asked. Conniving, confused, ragged old folks, and surly, resentful, standoffish youths. Everyone used to be someone in the park, and they've got a get-rich-quick scheme that’ll get them out of here, just as soon as they can be bothered to go through with it. A few of them have a bit more drive, and the truly unscrupulous can find work here if they ask around.

Details

• A swinging lightbulb on a dingy porch
• A sudden crack and a spray of sparks from the power plant. The lights flicker, go out, then hum back to life
• Cigarettes burning in the gloom
• The air is hot, stifling and dry
• The sound of a quiet argument exploding into a shouting match, then dying down again
  
  
  

  

  good night <3