Sunday, June 16, 2024

Latticework: 14 excerpts!

A space lattice, in the three dimensions, is any of fourteen possible geometric arrangements of points, at which, at the very least, the components of crystals may form.

 

A space lattice, in the realm of sorcery, is all of fourteen possible and impossible arrangements in the geotic fields, and includes the laws of necromancy and the location of high magnetic energy points of sacred sites.

 

A space lattice, in the fourth dimension and those beyond, is the fourteen impossible arrangements of will and thought, where the continuum is temporal and spacial simultaneously, at which point space-time unfolds and space-folds are beyond measurable time.

 

In this lattice lie all possibilities, where not even imagination has ever been.

 

Watch yourself, friend.

(Quoted from the LORE Series)




14 excerpts from the 14 stories - enjoy!


THE PILLAR FELT rough and pitted under Callie’s fingers. She knew it as rock, although she could not see anything in the blackness. She also knew the feel of this particular standing stone; it was akin to a friend, a haven, a beacon in the dark. There were no night noises, not even the resident frog to confirm where she was. She always listened for him when she came here in summer.

She had been here before. She was not lost.

Biting the inside of her cheek to contain hysterical sounds, Callie put her fingers to work. They were her eyes now and she could trust them. They reached up, sensing, exploring, and, yes, there it was. The small voice of doubt was stilled.


SEVEN YEARS AGO I was thirty-eight and considered young among those who walked the corridors of power and felt young and empowered, all-powerful. You may laugh, but let me tell you politics and deals can make one old long before due time, while imparting a sense of omnipotence.

I was also foolish, very ambitious, without scruples and morals, and utterly selfish. I looked out for number one only. Hard lessons had to be learned; I understand that now.


SHE LEANS ON her elbow, chin in hand, and stares out over the bay. The sun is bright on the water and the sun worshippers are out in full force on the narrow strip of beach, their colourful umbrellas and sunshades drawing the eye.

Bronzed bodies languish amid reddening skins. She, however, is uninterested in people silly enough to burn to crisps in such heat; she watches the water intently, staring through the hot silver stripes upon the waves.


LISTEN UP. Stop a moment for this.

There is a place I used to pass on my way home every day in another country, another time. For whatever reason - no place to pull over, I am not the one driving, time is of the essence - I never stopped. This place is nothing special in the grand design of nature and yet I found myself preparing to really look every time I approached, and did.

Every time. I wish I followed an initial instinct to begin a photographic record to capture the moods and seasons day by day, but … ah, well.


SHE IS THE silent watcher. She has no name, and is without feature and visible form. Her task is to watch and to know.

Why?

The simple answer is that someone has to. We require a witness, always. This is the nature of sentience.


SHADOWS SHUTTER LEAF behind frond until sight is hallucination. A forest in sunlight during a windstorm deludes the senses. What should be ordinary leaps into something else entirely.

Scarlet is not fooled. Sharp blue eyes pierce the veils of shadow and light. Hearing is impaired in the sliding, grating, rustling dryness of a forest in movement, but sight never fails her. And neither does taste.


THERE IS A small glade in a forgotten forest and in its centre there is a tree so ancient it no longer resembles a tree. Where this is, is unimportant. For this is not about place; it is not even about time. It is about worship, and it is also about remembering.

A long, long time ago, a lone wolf, starving and desperate, slaughtered an innocent boy out walking the countryside. The boy was loved well by his parents and they planted a tree in the place where his blood was spilled, a memorial to stand the test of time.


“BACK IN VALARIS’ beginning, once it became a habitable world, there was no sentient life. The humans of today did not evolve here; they came from faraway worlds, much the same as happened elsewhere. One starship came and saw it was good, and then there was another and another, a familiar tale. This was, and is, a paradise world and the humans who settled were happy, but, being human, being sentient, they were selfish also - another familiar tale - and denied entry to other races.

“Now, around the time that selfish mind-set began to take root, a space warp materialised in the heavens above, which made it impossible to travel the stars again, the same warp still in position today. It also, of course, denied entry to other settlers, and permanently put an end to other races interfering with the humans already here. Thus, without any great effort, the humans got their wish, and the Valarians were born as a people apart.


MIRRORS MAKE ME.

And mirrors break me.

Shards of shiny glass, reflection pond, polished metal, ornately framed, it is of no import.

As you read this and I play the role of storyteller, a new looking glass rises from the mercury I wade through. I have not seen one like it before and momentarily its existence stumps me. Only momentarily, for a mirror is a mirror and here, now, another lesson awaits.


HERE WAS A man who had just lost the woman he loved and he was now either suicidal or hyper aggressive. This man was a king, although uncrowned. This man was a sorcerer, although unwilling in the talent. This man was of another race, although he passed for human with his fair hair and grey eyes.

This man sought distraction. Now.

He went to Lax, that underbelly world of crime and corruption, and the one who nominated himself as this man’s personal guard accompanied him. The companion appeared less human, for his eyes were tawny.


HALLOWEEN. All Hallows Eve.

Some call it a pagan festival. Others know it as an evil feast. Time and technology has not yet forced it into the recesses of memory and myth. Some see it as a carnival of fun. Others regard it as the worst manipulation humankind has confronted, and continues to face. Relegate it to the past, bury it in layers of legend and let us be done, they say … and are ignored.

This is the greatest night of all dark nights for the dead.


WHEN HUMANKIND tore through the fabric of space they came in vast numbers on ships the size of cities.

This was a one way journey, for they left behind a planet ruined by war, pollution and over-population. Perhaps those abandoned would discover the courage to find solutions for Earth’s varied problems, but those that left travelled too far to make their way back. The ships were indefinitely self-sustaining, but man needed solid ground beneath his feet and a friendly sun on his face. His mission always was to find a land to plant and root and grow and prosper and conquer.


MERRY HEFTED the rucksack by jerking at the shoulder straps. The weight pulled at her neck muscles and she swore under her breath.

A whack on her upper arm nearly paralysed that side of her body from head to toe. She glared at the woman a step behind her, to see the offensive cane complete its downward arc.

“Ladies do not cuss, Merry.”


IT SMELLS OF INK and parchment, and ancient dust. The corners furl inward as if once someone rubbed it repeatedly between a sweaty thumb and forefinger. I know this, because I have the same habit.

Look over there at my shelf, pull that book to you and note the thumbed edges. I know, wrong of me, so sue me. Of course, mine isn’t always clean sweat; probably a few jam rubs, possible biscuit crumbs …

Sigh, I am off subject.




A latticework creates a mesmerising pattern, to please the eye and draw the onlooker closer. Emotional lattices connect strands to amplify the human experience; our melancholy, our mistakes, and our residual power.

Fourteen lattices by a diverse author makes Latticework an occult treat, worthy of fans who dip into the disturbing and diabolical. This collection of soulful tales embodies the macabre and the metaphysical, with insights so serrated it cuts to the marrow.

Fallen from the Sky

Confession

 African Moon

Stop!

 Sentinels

 Fox Tale

Awareness

 Well of Crystal Sound

 The Mighty Mirror

 Gordon Grey

 Feast Night

Repeating History

 The Hole

 Quill



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