Musings of a Nascent Poet

by Stephanie Barr

  But then heard tales of horror as to make the blood run cold:

  Of Krantz' evil magic and his ways of torture old.

  Dar cried out loud in fury, then swore curses on that name,

  While one small slipper struck Krantz hard as Lila did the same.

  She beat him and abused him, called him peasant, wretch and fool,

  And Krantz knew a hundred tortures underneath his captive's rule.

  Then, finally, he called "Enough!" and flashed his evil blade,

  Then threatened her with bloodbaths as he stirred her lemonade.

  "You've had a blade this hour that I've had this dangling thread?

  Give me that blade this instant!" And he did it, blushing red.

  She held the blade then 'neath his jaw and told him what to do.

  She tied the villain to a chair, then cut the thread in two.

  Dar found her so the next day as she ran to him in joy,

  And claimed poor Dar her savior, that heaven-blessed boy,

  While she, to him, was lovely, which he felt he must confess.

  She said, "Sweet Dar, you're gallant for you know I look a mess.

  Look, one shoe is missing and my hair has no more curl,

  And me? Without my make-up? Can you tell that I'm a girl?

  And I must smell atrocious for this gown is all I've got . . ."

  She said no more that morning, for he kissed her on the spot.

  The year passed in adventure that she treated all the same,

  As tiresome, inconvenient and quite irritating games.

  He'd save her, or she'd do it, but she'd show not e'en one fear

  Except that she looked wretched every time that he came near.

  She saved him once, picked up a sword and held the foe at bay,

  And he was pleased so very much they married the next day.

  He knew, then, she loved him so that all around him paled,

  For she had held him in relief—and with a broken nail!

  Their marriage was a happy one 'til each one aged and died,

  Ne'er once did Dar regret he took fair Lila as his bride,

  For she was always lovely and her face could draw him back . . .

  And she was always wondering why the mirror didn't crack.

  He loved her for herself now and loved to hear her say,

  "I think I'll wear a heavy veil for I'm so old and grey."

  He'd hold her and not let her, tell her it was all a lie,

  That she was still a beauty. "Please, dear, please, don't cry."

  The only explanation I have for the next one is that I'm twisted.

  The Wager

  He found the fine body alone in the marsh,

  Revealed in a long golden dress,

  And, as he stood watching, she opened her eyes

  To tell him her name was "Caress".

  "Int'resting name," said the man with a nod,

  Eyes drawn to that form, lush yet thin,

  A body so perfect, so utterly, well . . .

  But her face was as ugly as sin.

  Her hair, molten golden like that in her gown,

  Framed a face oh so pastily plain.

  With her small piggy eyes and her huge bulbous nose

  And six chins . . . it could drive one insane.

  "Caress", ah, indeed, with that smooth honeyed skin,

  So unlike the dull dough of her face,

  And one could be heartless and still fall in love

  If a nice paper bag were in place.

  "So tell me," she told him, "Am I your desire?

  If you want me, then kindly confess."

  He stuttered and stammered, 'til finally he asked,

  "Are you quite sure your name is Caress?"

  "Come find out, my handsome, if it's to be true

  Perhaps you will love me 'til death."

  He held that lush figure but thought with dismay,

  'She also has terrible breath!'

  "Come kiss me, my hero, and I'll be your slave.

  Come kiss me, and you'll be mine, too."

  He yearned for that body but still there are things

  Even desperate men cannot do.

  Her cracked puckered lips caused a cry of dismay

  As he rushed, all headlong, through the bog,

  And just to get nightmares from out of his mind,

  He dropped a chaste kiss on a frog.

  Caress stamped in fury, regarding the frog,

  Now a prince, thought quite muddily wet.

  She gave him a fifty, for he had been right.

  Damn witchcraft! A bet is a bet.

  And speaking of twisted, here's a corruption of "The Raven" I did during a back and forth on FB. If Poe didn't have a sense of humor, I'm sure he'd be spinning in his grave. Fortunately, he had one.

  The Ramen

  As I wandered, nearly stumbling, to the kitchen, tummy grumbling,

  To find a dearth of foodage, fridge and cupboard, bare and bleak

  Suddenly, I sensed a crinkle, as pasta dust began to sprinkle

  And my forehead grew a wrinkle as I tried my best to peek

  At that high shelf for some culinary treasure I could seek

  And pray the treasure didn't reek.

  All at once, my fingers caught it. Hastily, I strove to pot it.

  Trying not to care the date was one from years long past.

  Minutes ticked and still no boiling, with my stomach loudly roiling,

  And the "flavor" packet foil in fingers trembling with my fast . . .

  Should I get my blowtorch and give the damn thing a blast?

  I feared the fate of my repast.

  When at last the water bubbled, my anticipation doubled

  And I dropped the noodles in the steaming boiling drink

  Time slowed into endless ages and my hunger pain enrages

  Waiting 'til the softened stages sent my sanity to the brink

  As I prayed the age-old powder I was sprinkling didn't stink

  Ah, my ramen! Why's it pink?

  About the author

  Stephanie Barr is a part time novelist, full time rocket scientist, mother of three children and slave to three cats. She has three blogs, which are sporadically updated: Rocket Scientist, Rockets and Dragons, and The Unlikely Otaku. Anything else even vaguely interesting about her can be found in her writing since she puts a little bit of herself in everything she writes . . . just not the same piece.

  Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing

  Tarot Queen

  Beast Within (First of the Bete Novels)

  Nine Lives (Second of the Bete Novels)

  Saving Tessa

  Coming Soon

  And now, ironically, the first novel I actually completed is finally coming out early next year.

  Curse of the Jenri

  Song of the Jenri

  I sing the magic incarnate.

  I call the earth to my will.

  I harness senses insensate,

  Powers that murder or heal.

  I dance the swordwielder's ballet,

  A courtship of crystal and steel.

  I strum the song of the archer,

  A demon in gemstones and teal.

  I am the mist of the shadows,

  Invisibly, silently screened.

  Mine is the bite of the viper

  Unnoticed, unheard and unseen.

  I am the sword, the Avenger,

  Known by my title: Jenri.

  Mine is the role of Protector,

  Defending the right to be free.

  One should never make an enemy for gold. Gold will eventually disappear, but an enemy can be forever.

  Chapter 1 - Introductions

  "Watcha lookin' at, Melded?"

  Melded spun around, the spear he'd been leaning on instantly at his assailant's throat. Years of experience held back Melded's hand before he actually killed Timon. "What in the name of Bastor's black heart are you doin' sneakin'
up on me? Y'wanna get yourself killed? And it's Captain Melded to you."

  "Ah, Melded, don't be sore. You've been standin' out here for more than an hour. Me and the boys just wanna know what you're lookin' for."

  Melded paused, considering several rude and vicious responses including a well-deserved buffet on the head. Instead, he shrugged. Timon was his recently killed brother's only boy and, if he hadn't the smarts of your local fern, he was skilled with a dagger. Melded turned his eyes back outward, through the iron gate. He searched the outlying wooded areas again, his ears straining for the sound of an errant footfall, his nose breathing in as much as he could to detect an odd scent. All he smelled, of course, was his unwashed nephew's stench. He sighed. "I'm lookin' for her."

  Timon peered between the bars to look at the green blur of forest beyond, empty of everything but trees. Given Timon's eyesight, he might not see the bars. "Who?"

  Melded clouted him on the back of the head with his fist. "Timon, why're we here?"

  "Raylee paid us."

  Melded shook his head. "No, stupid. Do you remember us snatchin' that big hulkin' son of a bitch and bringin' him here?"

  "That bastard! I wish Raylee'd let me kill him."

  "Well, yes, you saw how easily he killed four of us," Melded reproved. And that was after Merlo had all but knocked him out with a spell that killed Krikee just standing next to him. And the man was drunk off his gourd at the time!

  "It was damn dumb luck, that's all. He killed my pa with a dirty blow. He cheated."

  Melded stared at Timon, dumbfounded. True, Melded was a mercenary, but he could not see how their victim could have "cheated" by defending himself when he'd been blindsided by magic and set upon by more than twenty rogues. It was too much like thievery or something equally dishonest for Melded's tastes, but you can't eat if you don't get paid. And Raylee paid pretty well. "My point is that bastard can fight like ten regular men, if not more."

  "So?"

  "So, he ain't alone. He's married—married to a Jenri. Raylee don't think she'll come to get him, but me, I know she will."

  "So what? You ain't afeard of no female, are ya?"

  "Like Nether, I'm not! If you had any brains in your head at all, you'd be scared shitless yourself. Didn't you hear me, idget? She's a Jenri. You saw how he can fight and you can bet his wife fights just as well, if not better."

  "In a pig's eye."

  Melded shook his head and resisted the urge to clout him again. No sense in shaking up his miniature brain any more than strictly necessary. "Timon, don't you know nothin' about the Jenri?"

  "Them old wives' tales . . ."

  "Do I look like an old wife t'ya? Let me tell ya, they fight worse than demons and they sling spells like sorcerers. They can come up behind ya, soft as smoke, and loose five arrows afore the first strikes, and not miss w'one of 'em."

  "Ya may not look like an old wife, Melded, but ya sure sound like one," chortled Timon, only to have his laughter cut off with Melded's blow. Perhaps, sloshing that puny brain might be of some use.

  "You really don't know nothin', do ya?" Melded asked, shaking his head. "When I was young an' stupid, though pro'bly not as stupid as you, I saw four Jenri come to th'fair. At first, I didn't see nothin' but their lean bodies and short tunics, just like all t'other young fools. But, they didn't have t'fight no crowds to reach no vendor an' the mos' hardened huckster slashed his prices without haggling.

  "I thought I knew everythin', that all those stories were hogwash. Some say th'Jeni'd know a lie when they heard it. Some say they'd kill a man for pleasure. Some say their souls were sold to the dark forces an' that's why they was cursed with no sons for a hunerd generations. Some say their souls were sold for coin alone, assassins for whoever parted with silver. I scoffed at mos' of 'em. Then I saw them fight in exhibition for gold, Jenri against Jenri, their blades flashing like fireflies too fast to see, women in blue-green leather, their jewelry glowing as they danced with steel in the sun . . ."

  Melded halted his reverie and noticed he had finally gotten Timon's attention. "I didn't know what's true, what ain't. Still don't. But I knew I didn't want no Jenri for an enemy."

  Timon furrowed his low brow in monumental concentration. "And now ya got one?"

  "You think I don't know that, ya dip? Why in Nether do you think I'm out here, peerin' out into nothin', hopin' to get some inklin' of whether or not that Nethercat is comin' to cut my balls off?"

  Timon seemed taken aback by that. "They cut your balls off?"

  "Oh, for Bastor's sake, will you get back inside? You're making my head swim with your foolishness and I have to have a clear head."

  "Alright, Melded, alright," Timon demurred, backing off. "But, mark my words, there ain't a bitch born yet that I'm afeard of."

  As Timon's footsteps faded away on the uneven cobbles, Melded sighed and shook his head. "Idget. We're screwed if she comes alone. Bastor himself couldn't save us if she brings other Jenri to help her."

  Once more, Melded scanned the landscape, hoping for a sign that she was there, that she watched. But there was nothing, so he turned and stomped back to the barracks. She—they— would come.

  Beyond the gate, dappled with sifted sunlight, there was only the unbroken sea of green, just ferns, trees . . . and Layla.

  Silent sueded boots, of signature Jenri blue-green, shifted in the underbrush without disturbing the delicate froth of ferns. Layla crouched, an integral part of the landscape, indivisible and unseen, though in full view. Her senses fully alert, she waited motionless, her whole attention on the tall iron gate thirty or so meters before her, her eyes following the old soldier as he turned from it.

  Brushing back the strange Jenri streak of red hair from her eyes, she knelt soundlessly to wait for dark, the hem of her soft leather tunic just touching the ground. The tunic was deep amethyst, but it was crossed and belted with the same Jenri color as her boots. Silver glistened in the rune-worked shaft of her sword, the grips of her throwing knives and dagger. Even the length of her bow writhed with silver symbols. Her silver headband was studded with aquamarines and disappeared into her thick brown hair. More aquamarines hung at her throat, now as always, the sign of her Clan. Silver and aqua proclaimed what she was; she wore amethyst for what she loved: purple was her husband's color.

  It was for him that she came.

  As the shadows lengthened, she became a shadow herself, another purple shape in the underbrush. In the lee of a tower, she scaled the crumbling wall of the castle unnoticed, unheard. She came up just below where guards kept watch in the turret, sliding beneath them on the battlements, in the shadows, and slipping soundlessly into the keep itself.

  As she descended toward the dungeons, she heard the snores of the guard before she was close enough to silence him with a quick twist of his neck. The body slid noiselessly to the ground, neck broken. There was no blood on the floor around it, no blood on her.

  She trusted her nose to bring her to wherever they had taken Tander. There would be a smell of old smoke and past burnt flesh, urine and feces from those forced to remain trapped or tortured into a loss of control. She knew that the smell would most likely be part of the dungeon proper, not that of her husband specifically—at least she hoped so—but that would be where she would find Tander.

  Her nose led her true. She found Tander at the end of the torture hall, bathed in the red glow of a smoke-blackened fireplace. There was no need for a cell. Thick chains were attached to manacles on his wrists, his ankles and the crude collar around his neck. They had taken no chances with a man who left five bodies in his wake. And, it was well known that only a man who could best a Jenri in some test could be her mate. That made him doubly dangerous.

  "Tander . . ." Her whispered word was barely louder than a breath, lost in the soft clinking of his chains, the tired creaking of the staples straining against his gentle movements. There was no indication he'd heard her. He did not lift his head.

  She moved forward, distresse
d to see her proud, invincible mate listless, defeated. His long black locks hung, unwashed and greasy, over his face. They had stripped him of all but his loincloth, and she could see the lash marks on his back and shoulders. Blood seeped in thin rivulets to show where he had struggled against his chains. But, he was not struggling now.

  "Tander . . . ," she whispered again, reaching a hand to lift his face to her hungry eyes, but was forestalled with the sound of a rattling snore. She could not help but smile. Only Tander could sleep in a position like that. She reached out and touched his cheek. "My proud warrior, what have they done to you?"

  "Layla—?" The word was a question from his cracked lips, but, when he opened his eyes, they widened in surprise. The shocking blue eyes glared at her for only a moment before he grinned, "What took you so long? Where are Riko and Kena?"

  "Probably where I left them, in Arkona."

  "You came here alone? Layla, are you daft? These people are dangerous."

  Layla stiffened. "Aye, and your point would be what? I am dangerous myself."

  He turned the full force of his startling blue eyes on Layla and even she flinched at their intensity. "'Tisn't funny, Layla! These men have no honor. They are scum and they were able to take me. They have resources, magic and weapon. Leave and return with help."

  "And leave you in this discomfort while I scamper back two days there and two days return? Aside from the exhaustion we will all feel? I think not."

  "Layla, you can't take on a castle of mercenaries and magic-wielders alone!"

  Layla smiled. "Can't I?"

  Tander pressed his lips together, but was forced to smile at her determination. "Bastor damn me to Nether, Layla, but you're stubborn."

  "Aye, I know that as well. It is not as though I make a secret of it." A smile touched her chiseled features, a smile only he could bring. "Tander, don't fret. I am well able to handle all that I might come across here, never fear. You were drunk and set upon when you weren't looking—I assume anyway. I knew exactly what I was getting into."

  "Did you? They wanted me, but I fear for what men like this will do to you if you are captured. Do you think I want to be your downfall? That I want you hurt in your attempts to rescue me? Go back and get help, Layla. I'll figure a way out of here." He pulled on the chains to demonstrate his intentions, but winced as they rubbed raw flesh.