Here is the second short story that I am uploading; it's short enough so it doesn't need description beyond it's title, The Brass Prison.

The brass giant stood in the center of a vast ocean, taller than any mountain, but noticed by none. The water lapped against his thighs but he remained motionless. His face was set, staring into the distant horizon; his eyes were unblinking. A woman sat in his closed fist which was kept still at the end of his extended arm. She held a young child to her bosom, its pale-skinned head nestled in her red hair. She wept softly, slowly adding drops to the ocean that her tears had begun to form eons ago. She wished to leave her prison, but she knew it was impossible. She had been trapped there since the new order of higher powers was established; long before the birth of her son; long before recorded memory. But her child was young and she knew he would escape when he grew older. Then he would return and rescue her as well. She would finally be free and there would be none who would not feel her terrible anger and her great despair. The woman knew for it had been foretold to her, and though the prophet’s power had been broken and the prophet had been killed long ago, the prophecy still remained.

***

“Your fate was. Your fate is. Your fate will be,” the prophet intoned in the traditionally solemn tones and enigmatic diction of her kind as her blind eyes gazed across the long extent of her red-haired patron’s future, “Despair. Loneliness. Hatred. Violence. Love. Tenderness. Hope.”
The fortune teller’s patron crinkled her brow in annoyance—could this witch be toying with her? If the blind woman was, then she would be destroyed, power broken, will overcome, and body shattered. But then the young red-haired woman frowned. No mortal would even attempt to fool a god; they all knew what would come of that. Yet as the Red-Haired Goddess came to that conclusion, as she realized that the fortune teller only spoke the truth of her future gazing, her expression changed to one of disguised terror. What could possibly cause the wretchedness that the blind woman foretold?
As the Red-Haired Goddess’s thoughts converged on that question, the fortune teller took a breath and resumed her gazing. “Yet amidst your pain. Your suffering. Your sorrow. You will have a son, if you follow the path upon which this prophet gazes. He will take you from your infallible prison. Your unwavering prison guard. Your impenetrable cage of brass fingers. Your ocean of grief. He will save you. He will love you as a son should love a mother. He will be your world. He will restore your hope.”
Upon ‘hope’ the blind woman’s head flopped down to her heavily decorated bosom, blind eyes further leaving the light as their lids came down. The red-haired goddess looked down at the old fortune teller, eyes filled with an overwhelming mixture of fear, disgust, and hatred that she nonetheless held back. Then she spoke the traditional thanks to the gazer of a desolate sight.
“My thanks to you, seer of woeful times ahead; though your message is bleak and your tidings ill, I wish you peace. The messenger must not be blamed for the message that she bears.”

***

And so the woman trapped in her cage of brass fingers remembered. And so the goddess’s hate grew. Hate for those who had imprisoned her; hate the destiny that bound her; and hate for those who forgot her. But there was one she did not hate, one she could never hate just as he was prophesized to only ever feel love for her.
She held her child close to her heart and wept for their imprisonment and inevitably shared hatred. She held him close to her heart knowing he would soon grow to save her. She held her child close to her heart and smiled through her tears.

Imperfect World

Finally, I am posting on this blog that I started a little while ago. Originally, I started it to help to basically force me to write everyday...but it hasn't really helped too much. But, anyway I'm going to start now (better late than never, right?), so here is my first piece for this blog; Imperfect World (this piece is also going to be published in the Bellevue College Teen Anthology if I am not mistaken).



Imperfect World

The First Formation. A glass orb sat alone in the middle of the emptiness. It shone with a surreal radiance, blinding when looked upon; but it was looked upon by none. Despite the orb’s unbearable light, the blackness around it persisted, seeming to absorb anything that would disturb it. Inside the orb white clouds swirled. The clouds obscured the center of the orb from view. There was, of course, nothing to be seen within, but the clouds obscured it nonetheless as they constantly, forever, swirled within the orb.
A smooth, white-skinned hand reached out from the darkness to touch the orb. The hand was attached to an equally exquisite individual dressed in white robe. The robe along with its hood made the figure’s gender indistinguishable. Snowy wings spread out from the figure’s back, each feather beautiful and unruffled. The angel touched the orb and the clouds inside it convulsed, spun faster and faster, then suddenly stopped and cleared. The angel watched as a small world formed within the orb. Mountains rose, oceans filled, rivers rolled across the land like spider webs.
Then people appeared and soon conquered the new world at the first light of dawn.
The angel watched unmoving as they roamed around their new habitat; hunting, gathering, and praising gods who did not exist for life that they did not create. The angel watched unmoving as the villages turned into cities with tall spires atop churches dedicated to those imaginary gods. The angel watched unmoving as corrupt emperors and kings took control of the cities and waged war with each other for land and power. The angel watched unmoving as a crusade swept across the land to cleanse those who were not worthy in the eyes of the imaginary gods. Only then did the angel move, when the world was filled with cruelty, malice, and pain in the name of righteousness, only then was there intervention and the world ended with the tortured scream of an innocent.
In an instant the angel pulled back its hand then brought it down on the orb, shattering it into a multitude of jagged shards. A spray of deep red splashed onto the dead world as the shards sliced open the angel’s hands. The angel grimly pushed away the refuse with a mangled hand. The emptiness was no longer perfect.
The Second Formation. The angel cupped its hands. Then, even though nothing could be seen, there was a sense of motion and a new, considerably larger orb formed over the angel’s hands. Clouds swarmed within this orb too, obscuring the center. Unlike the original orb, these clouds were deep black and radiated foreboding; the world created here would not be friendly. But the angel did not seem disturbed by the orb’s sinister appearance and once again touched the orb. Just as before, the clouds convulsed within, but unlike before, they contracted and expanded with violent flashes of light before finally coming to a stop. When the clouds cleared a new world was revealed.
Volcanoes erupted from the world’s surface and dark rivers twisted across the land, weeping willows rising along dim banks. Humans appeared too, the flames in the centers of their small villages keeping back the darkness. This time they were not alone: ferocious creatures, demons of equal intelligence, though greater strength, fought the humans for dominance over the world. Finally, a demon with immeasurable power appeared and conquered the world, snuffing out all other life in an instant. He then turned skyward looking to the angel; he wished to rule the emptiness as well. With a guttural laugh, he sprang into the sky and spread his wings. The angel brought its hand down once more on a world of its creation, shattering it and the rising demon into countless splinters.
The demon’s soul had not completely gone. With a final act of vengeance against his superior, he directed the glass shards towards the angel and let loose a final howl of rage. The angel did nothing as the daggers struck it, shearing through its flesh, wings, and robes, and blowing back its hood. With the hood removed the angel was shown to be male, new scars decorating his perfect face, his white robe now red. Even as his body was mutilated his face remained emotionless.
By the time the shards stopped their deadly dance the angel’s robes were nothing but tatters, just clinging to his shoulders by small strands of cloth. His hair and eyes were both pitch black with no whites or discernable pupils. His wings, too, which had before been brilliantly white now were as black as his eyes, but his skin remained white, though scarred.
The Third Formation. The angel attempted to move his arms but for all his efforts they remained limp at his sides. He only smiled at this, a sad gleam in his eyes. He parted his lips and sang. The song had no words, only notes to fill the silence. Once again an orb formed, dwarfing the others in comparison. This orb had no clouds and was just as empty inside as the space around it, but nonetheless it glowed with a gentle radiance. The angel’s arms still refused to move to touch the orb. The sad look returned to his eyes; then he leaned forward and kissed the orb softly.
The orb flashed brighter then dimmer and a world formed. It would be the last. The angel had no strength for another. Once again, land appeared and people spread to cover the world. This time there were no demons, persecutions, or crusades. The people lived in peace. Then, somehow, a piece of the dark world that had been created before this perfect world broke through the glass surrounding the globe and fell to the ground with a flash of red that illuminated the skies. People soon surrounded the alien substance and from it they learned of dark powers. They learned of malice, spite, pain, cruelty, and all other evils. Soon the dark corruption spread across the world, encircling it with the demon’s dying hate. It seemed none could resist its pull.
The angel looked on with despair. Tears of black blood rolled down his cheeks as he summoned all the strength he possessed and slowly raised his arm over his head. He knew he had failed; he had not been able to bring forth and preserve a perfect world. And so he wept as he brought his hand down on the world. With a tremor his hand hit the glass. It did not break but cracked from where his hand struck, and life on the world within trembled but obstinately continued. And so his silent weeping persisted as his heart took its last beats. He had done worse than fail: he had let an imperfect world endure.
And so our world was created.
--Myth of the Creation of the World