Yesteryear Fiction

Host of Angels
By John Ogden


Laithara was no ordinary woman, she was the daughter of a lord, the high magus master of the floating city of K'yaan. Listen to the whispers traded in the darkened corners of cities not so lofty as her father's that trail in her high-stepped gait. She is a warrior. She is noble-born. She is the pilot of the ship of lights that descends each night from the brilliant plains of the moon to the squat darkness of the Earth. Some say she is not human, that she is elven or fae, but I have met her face to face. I have spoken with her, and in the easy talk that comes from a shared bottle, I have learned the truth.

She is a distant relative of our children. She is from a time that has not yet come to pass, and her father leads the expedition that watches over us like a host of guardian angels.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

SWALLOWING HELL
By John Ogden


The living will of spirit in that place is strong. I bind myself with runes. The living will of spirit in that place burns with the power of a bound, chained soul. I bind myself with the language of the ancient gods. My name is written on the tablet, inscribed in faceless stone. bind myself with the lines of the bound and unseeing eye.

And in so doing, I unbind it.

The eye is opened, the soul unchained

The eye, once blind

Now sees.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Life of the Soil
By John Ogden


The ring on his finger controls the fate of our time.
The soul of that ring is a fragment of our god.
The god of the people cries the tears of a life unlived.
And the lives of our people bring life to the soil.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Quickening
By John Ogden


We drink the black blood of the quickening tree.
With the quickening, the mind lifts
The teeth are stained
As the soul is stained
With awareness
With early-gathered knowledge.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Like A Fantasy
By John Ogden


Hand in hand, we followed the opening in the brush to a labyrinth of trees and sand. We joked about how cinematic the whole thing was, how much crossing into the misty depths of that impossible Findhorn in the middle of California echoed of the moment in a movie where things get weird and a world like wonderland just opens up, sucking in unwary travelers quick as a wink.

What we found wasn’t a wonderland, a surreal world of movie-grade possibility. What we found was a waterfall, and a little bench on which we left our offering.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Somewhere in Jalisco
By John Ogden


When the wind howls and the man of ears walks forth into the fields, hands full of the lush harvest of the grape orchards where his grandfather’s ashes cycle from house to house on winds of love, the sound of a gunshot can be heard, echoes through the light-lit smoke house windows to the death of another man who has yet to rise from the ashes of his own grandfather. There is no sound now, no life in the vibration to accompany the passing of ghosts. They are the ones who move in the spaces between matter, fill the void with their thoughts, their needs, the whispering touches of found objects, pots and pans cracked out of coal deposits and cities silently sleeping where ten thousand years ago there was land.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

The Beard of Von Horowictz
By John Ogden


“Blitz!” Screams the baker, but the candlemaker doesn’t hear her, doesn’t understand the words that flow from her babbering mouth like so much chopped salad. Babies in their cribs at night carve labyrinths of dark smudge and greasepaint into the sloping ceilings of their minds, explode new buildings meant to be toppled in the growth that comes with each shallow, ocean-surf breath. In the night, they dream of the beard of Von Horowictz, gentle eyes following the list and sway of his graying tips like succored flies. The old man doesn’t speak; his mouth is a mask of leather and crime, stitched through and sealed as much by age as tears. When he looks into their eyes, he sees into the slipstream of fate and time, weaves destinies for each and each alone with the greasepaint labyrinth stirrings of his own babbering mind.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

A Future of Memories
By John Ogden


When I stand at the edge of reality and stare down into the abyss that lurks ever on before, I lament the fact that not even magic can hold back these moments. I lament the fact that, for every smiling moment of golden spill sweetness and light, there will be a pining future where the shreds of memory smiles are all that remain to be grasped. I run headlong into each moment of bliss, hold it, taste it, do everything to feel it just a little bit longer, but in the end I am always here, looking back.

Missing you.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Memories
By John Ogden


When the sun rose, I felt compelled to walk east.

By mid day, my hands grasped rough stone, and as I stood, let the breath of cedar and pine drop over and through me, I felt the first tear cross my cheek.

Soon after, there were too many to wipe away. I couldn’t stop them. I only stood there, let the memories of another time, another life

Overtake me.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

The Darkness
By John Ogden


In the castle of the abyss, something stirs, wakens. Men greet it with the hack-slash of shining swords, pour forth their passions, their fury, their anger at children lost, families slaughtered– but still it does not die. It cannot die. It is eternal, and though the men know this, still they throw themselves at it, die smiling as they fall one by one, souls torn from bodies granted rest eternal. For the beast, this is merely duty, a pattern in men that must be fulfilled whenever the passions of the soul run too high and blood must be spilled, like steam released from a tired valve.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Waiting
By John Ogden


When the sun hangs heavy in the sky,
Dark and rich over hills and spires,
I watch its glittering face in the loch
And think of her.

For ten years I have waited,
Waited and prayed, fought with myself
Shed silent tears, hiding them away
With a wipe of my sleeve.

The other villagers look down on me with sad eyes.
“She isn’t coming back” they say.
But I don’t believe them. Can’t.
And so, everyday, I return to the lake.
I return to the lake, and I wait.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Waiting For That Strong Woman
By John Ogden


Calidae, sweet Calidae
I have built us a home.
The meal is cooked and warm yet,
The wood is cut, the hearth hot,
The fire built, stoked.

Put down your hammer, sweet Calidae
Set aside your swords, your armor
Just for a moment, just long enough
For me to kiss you,
To show the woman I love
Just how much
She and her trade mean
To me.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Oaths Out of Darkness
By John Ogden


Thin and wispy, with a form and frame so tall yet light that she appeared almost emaciated, with soft, silky and unblemished skin that was a shade away from pale and contrasted sharply with her short, midnight-black hair. She stood in the hallway, two others behind her and on either side, impartial and with eyes fixed absently ahead, stared at me, deep and beautiful dark eyes full of sadness.

“But I am one of you!” I yelled, more at the two shadowy figures behind her than at her. “I’ve proved that already! The only difference is my loyalty to the light!”The sadness of her expression intensified slightly.

“Do you feel it?” she asked, almost forcing the words out through the pain. God I loved her, and it took every ounce of strength to keep myself from running to her and pulling her into a tight embrace. I wanted her, again. I wanted what we had shared, and I wanted it now. To make sweet love, to taste her soft skin, and run my tongue along the nape of her neck... again, just before that gentle nip, where incisors gently and lovingly pierced the skin and slowly siphoned off a stream of the sweet blood beneath.

“A slight tingling in your throat?” She continued, shaking me from my thoughts. “The barest traces of a headache?”

Worried, though I tried to hide it, I nodded. I was feeling these things, and it had gotten worse.
I could see her eyes moisten slightly as she swallowed and continued, slowly turning over her left arm and gently pushing it into my view. A large, lightly stained conglomeration of gauss and bandages sat snugly on her wrist. The need to hold her intensified as I realized... She had tried to cut herself.

“I... I was injected with a poison, a blood-borne toxin that stays strong in the veins of a person for nearly a week. It has no effect on my kind, on vampires, but humans...” She choked back her tears and gently touched the bandages. “When I found out I had poisoned you, with my own blood, I tried to empty myself, to end my life by draining every last ounce of blood from my body, but...”
She looked to the floor for a moment, then her dark eyes fastened on mine again.

“Tsara?” I asked. “Is there an antidote?”

When her eyes met mine, they were red and moist -gentle tracks of tears traced their way down her cheeks, and it was a moment before she responded.

“Only one.” She spoke quietly. “And it hurts me to think of it.”

“Tsara, please-“

She looked away.

“I must...” her eyes swung back to mine. “The kiss... it is the only way. You must swear to serve the shadow here and now, and I will share the gift of undeath with you.” she looked away again. “I’m sorry, it is the only way.”

God I wanted to hold her, and yet, I wanted so much more.

“Tsara, come with me.”

That surprised her. She fixed me with a gaze that spoke of intensity, of that strong soul within her that I had loved since the moment I had first spoken to her.

“What... What do you mean?”

I made a quick gesture with my hand.

“Forsake your oaths to the shadow, Tsara!” my hand went forward, ready to receive her soft, cool-to-the-touch palms. “We can still be together, forever, without serving the shadow.”

She looked longingly at my hand, then allowed her gaze to meet mine again.

“I wish... I wish it were possible,” She looked away again. “A thousand innocents will die every day for as long as we are gone if we try.” She closed her eyes tightly, and another tear ran down her face. “A thousand more when we are finally caught.”

The tingling and the headache had gotten worse, and it was everything I could do to keep from shaking, much less running to Tsara, even though I knew I’d likely be struck dead before I had reached her.

I wanted to decline, god I wanted to decline, but I loved her, and the last thing I wanted to do was to hurt her. I wanted to spend an eternity with her, and I was willing to give up my humanity, my very mortality for it, but the oaths to the shadow were not meaningless, they were binding, and crippled those who went against them. But Tsara was good-hearted. She had managed to work within the boundaries of the oaths without succumbing to evil, and it was this that decided me.

“Tsara...” Our eyes met, and it was if our souls touched for a moment. She already knew, inside, what I had chosen. We both knew that I was too much of a romanticist and too stubborn to give up the love of my life when there was still a way, no matter how detestable or vile, to stay with her.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Dragon Sunday
By John Ogden


Like soldiers
Of scales and heat
Sinuous snakes of wing and fire,
They march on, fly on,
Swarm through the countryside
Along their age-worn dragon-paths.

Every fifteen full season-arcs of the sun, they say,
The dragons of every land make their way
Pass in rivers to form a sea of scales
Toward the stone cathedral of the ancients
To make three rounds about the grounds
And cast three tears into the soil
For ages gone, ages yet to come
And in honor of the sacrifices that were made
Long ago
On Dragon Sunday.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Chickens in the Mist
By John Ogden


Dapple brawn and redwash glimmer
Rooster’s crow, a hen clucking
I look out beyond, into the mist
Red orange ring looks back, a crow
Scratching feet, broken earth
Feather Dragon
Clawing.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Mancala Magic
By John Ogden


I’ve seen the way Kaity plays mancala. She cheats, but its amazing, because she uses magic to do it. The illusions she spins into the little stones mesmerize, fill the mind with visions of things and places that are not, that do not exist. They say that a strong mind can overcome it, but I think that the truth is that it’s not a weak mind that succumbs, but a trusting mind. Kaity is so small, so sweet and innocent looking that one would never guess from looking at her the true enormity of the intellect, the experience and cunning that lurks within. Every move she makes is calculated, powerful, unshakable, and in the end, even a game like mancala is won so utterly, so completely that she always ends it with all the pieces on her side.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

Magickless
By John Ogden


I am not like them
When I speak the words,
Thrust hands into the night
Stir the energies of rituals
Whip the heavens into a fervor,
There is nothing
Nothing.


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

The Fall of Kinsmen
By John Ogden


When I see that place,
That broken field,
Those craggy battlements,
I see the throes of the dying,
I see the final breaths of my kin
Oh great sage of ages
Old crone of fate!
Why must events unfold this way?
Why must cruel fate
Cruel will of the gods
Lead my clan into the fiery maw
Of oblivion, eternity.

To me, the sage, she whispers:
“We all must make sacrifices
To keep the light at bay.”


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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.