Tag: Writer

Where the Gods Weep

On By xunholyanubisxIn Liminal, writing1 Comment

They say—so the elders whisper in the stoa when the oil burns low—that beyond the thinning groves of Attica there lies a place no hymn reaches. A place where even the names of the deathless grow thin, like smoke unraveling in the wind.

It was not meant for mortal feet.

Yet Philokleia, daughter of Mnesarchos, walked there beneath a swollen moon.

She had quarreled with the living and grown weary of their small certainties. So she walked past the last olive tree, past the shrines where offerings had long since turned to dust, and into a silence so complete it seemed the world itself had drawn a breath—and forgotten to release it.

Before her rose the ruin.

A temple—not of any god she knew, nor any named in the verses of Homer or the teachings of the philosophers. Its columns leaned like old men abandoned by time, and its stones bore no inscription, as though even language had refused to touch it.

And there—O dreadful sight!—set into its very heart, was a face vast as a titan’s dream.

Not carved.

Imprisoned.

The lips were parted in some unspoken lament, and from the eyes flowed blackened streams, as though grief itself had turned to pitch and marked the god for all eternity.

Philokleia covered her mouth.

“By Athena Polias…” she breathed. “What forgotten daimon is this?”

Then came a voice—not carried by air, nor borne upon the wind, but placed within her mind as a hand might set a cup upon a table.

“Mortal… thou speakest as though names yet hold power.”

Philokleia turned sharply. “Who addresses me? Show thyself! I am no trembling child to be toyed with.”

“Boldness,” the voice murmured, low and ancient. “A fragile shield.”

Her gaze returned, unwillingly, to the face.

The eyes opened.

They were not of stone.

They were deep, measureless voids, within which something vast turned slowly, like the unseen workings of the cosmos before the birth of light.

Philokleia staggered. “A god…”

“Once,” it replied.

The word fell like a ruin collapsing inward.

“I am Agnostos Theos—the Unnamed, the Unremembered. We who were cast beyond memory when the tongues of men grew silent.”

“We?” Philokleia whispered.

The temple groaned.

Columns trembled. Dust fell like pale rain. And from the darkness behind the great face came a sound—soft at first, then rising.

Whispers.

Not one voice.

Many.

Layered. Overlapping. Pleading.

“We are here… we are still… speak us… remember—”

Philokleia clutched her head. “Silence! Silence, I command it!”

But the voices only grew.

“You walk where memory ends,” said Agnostos. “Where the gods go when they are no longer feared.”

Philokleia forced herself upright, though her limbs trembled. “Then let me depart, dread one. I have no wish to linger among shades.”

“Depart?” The god’s tone shifted—almost amused. “Turn, then.”

She turned.

The path was gone.

In its place stretched a blackness so complete it devoured even the moonlight. No stars. No horizon. No world.

Her breath came sharp. “What trickery is this?”

“No trick,” the god said. “Only truth. Thou hast crossed the boundary, Philokleia. The realm of the remembered lies behind thee no longer.”

“How knowest thou my name?” she demanded.

“Because thou art forgetting it.”

The words struck her like a blow.

“No,” she said quickly. “I am Philokleia, daughter of—”

Her tongue faltered.

Of whom?

The name slipped.

Gone.

“No…” Her voice shrank. “No, this is madness—”

“Not madness,” whispered the many voices now swelling within the temple. “Hunger.”

The ground shifted beneath her feet—softening, as though the stone had become flesh long dead yet not at rest. She stumbled, looking down.

The floor moved.

Not like earth.

Like something breathing.

A wet, slow inhalation beneath the marble skin.

Philokleia recoiled, horror rising like bile. “What place is this?!”

“A tomb,” said Agnostos. “And a womb.”

The tears upon the god’s face thickened—no longer mere streaks, but flowing rivulets of black ichor that pooled at the base of the temple.

And then—

Something burst forth.

With a sound like stone splitting under unbearable pressure, the ground before her split open. Not cleanly—but jagged, tearing, as if reality itself had been ripped apart.

From the darkness beneath, a hand clawed upward.

Not human.

Too long.

Too many joints.

Its surface was not flesh, nor stone, but something in between—cracked, weeping, whispering.

Then another.

And another.

They dragged themselves free—figures half-formed, faces stretched and wrong, mouths opening not to scream but to speak names that no longer existed.

“Thessara—Klymenos—Aithon—”

Their voices overlapped, building into a shriek that was not sound but memory forced into form.

Philokleia tried to run.

The ground seized her ankles.

The hands.

They were everywhere now—bursting from the temple floor, from the columns, from the very air itself, clutching, grasping, desperate.

“Remember us!” they wailed. “Give us voice! Give us form!”

One seized her arm.

Its grip was ice and fire together.

Another took her face, forcing her gaze upward—toward the god.

The eyes of Agnostos burned now with a terrible clarity.

“Thou shalt not leave,” it said. “For thou hast seen. And what is seen must be remembered.”

Philokleia screamed—but the sound twisted as it left her throat.

Changed.

Multiplied.

Her voice fractured into many, speaking words she did not know, names she had never learned yet now could not forget.

Her skin began to harden.

Crack.

Black lines traced down her cheeks, mirroring the god’s endless tears.

“No—no, I beg thee—!”

“Too late,” whispered the god. “Thou art becoming.”

The hands pulled her downward.

Not into the earth—

Into the temple.

Her body stretched, fused, reshaped. Her face pressed against cold stone that yielded like flesh, drinking her in. Her thoughts splintered, scattering into the endless chorus.

And as her final shred of self dissolved, one last truth struck her with merciless clarity:

The tears were not of sorrow.

They were of hunger.

Above, beneath the watching moon, the temple stood silent once more.

But now—

There were two faces weeping in the dark.

April’s Gloom

On By xunholyanubisxIn Poetry, SonnetLeave a comment

When April weeps with slow and silver rain,
And skies wear gray like mourning for the sun,
The blossoms shiver on the windowpane,
Their fragile joy cut short before begun.


The meadow’s green, but bruised beneath the cloud,
The birdsong comes in half-remembered phrases,
And every breeze, once gentle, now too loud—
A damp that clings and darkens as it grazes.


Yet in this gloom, the hidden roots drink deep,
And something soft prepares to break the ground;
The heart, though tired, learns what it cannot keep—
That light must lose to find where it is found.


So let the cold spring drag its heavy hours;
The dimmest day still feeds the coming flowers.

Where Silver Silence Sings

On By xunholyanubisxIn Poetry, SonnetLeave a comment

When twilight folds the daylight into blue,

And hushes earth with cool, untroubled grace,

The moon ascends with ancient, tender hue,

A lantern lifted in the darkened space.

She wears the borrowed fire of distant suns,

Yet makes it hers with quiet, patient glow;

Around her scattered light in fragments runs—

A thousand stars in trembling aftershow.

They pierce the velvet canopy of night,

Small prophets burning through the endless deep,

Each one a vow of unextinguished light

That guards the dreams the weary world would keep.

O moon and stars, in silent choir above,

You write in fire the hidden script of love.

The Flame That Heals

On By xunholyanubisxIn Liminal, writingLeave a comment

The air in the Hall of Mirrors is not air, but the memory of a cleansing fire. It is the space between the rage that burns and the calm that heals, the breath held after a fever breaks. The walls are not stone but polished alabaster, and they do not reflect your face, but the person you could be when the poison is gone. Here, the silence is not a void, but a resonant chord of peace, a frequency that soothes the fractured edges of the soul.

She is here. Not as the lioness of slaughter, not as the blood-soaked destroyer of mortals, but as the power that follows the purge. Sekhmet. The Lady of the Flame. The Healer of Wounds. She moves with a purpose that is not predatory, but restorative. Her form is that of a woman, strong and radiant, but her skin has the warm glow of a hearth, and her eyes—her eyes are the most beautiful sight. They are pools of liquid gold, filled with a fierce, unwavering compassion that promises not destruction, but transformation. She is the surgeon’s knife before the cut, the antiseptic fire that cauterizes the infection.

She doesn’t speak. She hums. It’s a low, resonant vibration that harmonizes with the very core of your being. It is the song of a body healing itself, the melody of a fever breaking, the rhythm of a heart finding its true beat. It feels like strength, the memory of it, a phantom limb of vitality that aches with a warmth that mends what was broken.

I see her approach a lost soul, a shade flickering with the dim light of a life consumed by its own anger. It is a man who was a tyrant, perhaps, or just a man who let bitterness curdle in his heart, turning his spirit into a weapon against himself. The shade is wary of the hum, of the promise of a peace it no longer recognizes.

Sekhmet reaches out, her fingers strong and warm like sun-baked clay. She places her palm on the shade’s chest, a gesture of infinite power and infinite gentleness. And as she touches it, the shade does not brighten, but clarifies. Its murky, chaotic form begins to settle, the jagged edges of its rage smoothing out. The memories it clings to—the slights, the betrayals, the injustices that fueled its fury—are not amplified, but understood. She shows them to him, not as wounds to be nursed, but as lessons to be learned. The fire of her touch doesn’t destroy his anger; it refines it, burning away the dross of self-pity and leaving behind the pure, focused core of his own strength.

The shade stops flickering. It solidifies, its form now clear and steady, no longer a chaotic storm of emotion but a calm, focused beam of light. It is not the joy of a thousand feasts, but the profound, quiet satisfaction of a body finally free from disease. It is the peace that comes after the battle, the stillness that follows the storm.

Sekhmet turns her golden eyes to me. There is no judgment in her, only the profound, empowering presence of a force that can both destroy and heal. She is the goddess of the necessary fire, the surgeon’s flame that cuts away the rot so that new life can grow. She offers you not an escape from your pain, but the strength to face it, to burn it away, and to emerge from the ashes not as a victim, but as a survivor. And in her eyes, I see the reflection of my own scars, and I feel the reassuring, empowering warmth that tells me I am strong enough to heal.

The Forging of Devotion

On By xunholyanubisxIn Liminal, writingLeave a comment

The air in the Vestibule of Conquest is thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the cloying sweetness of forgotten perfume. It is the space between the treaty signed and the first treacherous arrow loosed, the breath held before the blade falls. The architecture here is impossible—staircases that lead back to their own beginning, archways that open onto the same starless sky, and floors tiled with the shattered faces of conquered statues. This is the antechamber of desire, where ambition curdles into dread.

She is here. Astarte. Not the maiden of the dawn, not the divine lover, but the moment love turns to hunger. She is the goddess of the threshold between adoration and ownership, between passion and destruction. Her beauty is a weapon, honed to a terrifying edge. Her skin gleams like polished bronze under a dead light, and her eyes burn with the cold fire of a star just before it goes supernova. She wears a helmet of wrought iron, but it is pushed back, revealing a face that is both a promise and a threat. She is the perfect general, the perfect predator, and she is bored.

I watch her as she surveys the shades that wander this in-between place. They are the souls of the obsessed, the fanatics, the lovers whose devotion became a cage. They are drawn to her, moths to a flame that promises not warmth, but incineration.

She approaches one, a man whose form shimmers with the intensity of his convictions. He was a prophet, perhaps, or a king, or merely a man who loved a woman so fiercely he sought to possess her very soul. He sees Astarte and his shade brightens with recognition, with desperate, pathetic hope.

She does not speak. She simply extends her hand, an invitation that is not a choice but a command. When the shade takes it, the transfer is absolute. I feel it from across the chamber—the violent, ecstatic rush. His fervor, his faith, his unshakeable belief, his very life force, is siphoned from him in a torrent. It is not a gentle taking; it is a raid. His form dims, collapsing in on itself like a burning house, while Astarte seems to swell, to grow more substantial, her bronze skin glowing with the stolen energy. She consumes his devotion as fuel for her own endless war.

The man is not destroyed. He is repurposed. His empty, flickering husk is reshaped, molded by her will into a new form—a spear point, a shield boss, the standard on a banner. His consciousness is gone, but his essence, his rigid, unwavering nature, remains, forged into an instrument of her will. He is now, and forever, a tool in a war he no longer understands.

Astarte hefts the newly-forged spear, testing its balance. There is no triumph in her expression, only the grim satisfaction of a craftsman. She is the goddess of the sacred transaction, the divine deal where you trade your soul for a cause, and discover too late the cause was only ever her. She turns her burning eyes to me, and in them, I see not a person, but a resource. A potential weapon. A conquest waiting to happen. And the most terrifying part is the primal, treacherous part of me that wants to be conquered.

The Unmoved Mover

On By xunholyanubisxIn Liminal, writingLeave a comment

The sculptor’s hands have stilled at last.
No mallet sound, no chisel rings,
The temple shadows hold him fast,
The god who fashions all-made things.

Between the held breath and the beat,
The world awaits, undone, unwrought.
A universe lies incomplete,
A single, potent, silent thought.

The first dawn hesitates to start.
The last dream lingers, undefined.
He stands, the unmoved mover’s heart,
With all creation in his mind.

I Am a Hopeless Romantic

On By xunholyanubisxIn Story Time, writing1 Comment

A Reflection of my Heart

There are days when my journey feels like walking a vast, unforgiving road, where loss rises around me like a storm and my emotions spin wild and fierce, as if caught inside a tornado I cannot escape. Everything feels scattered, uncertain, and overwhelming. Yet somehow, step by step, I keep moving forward. Even when the wind pushes hard against me, something inside refuses to stop. I find a way through the wreckage, learning to stand again, learning to rebuild.

Being devoted to my craft is not always easy. It demands vulnerability, patience, and the courage to face emotions I sometimes wish I could silence. But it is also my refuge. When spoken language fails me, when feelings grow too heavy or complex to explain, my craft becomes the voice I cannot otherwise find. Through it, I release what weighs on my heart, shaping storms into something others can feel and understand.

There are emotions within me that no language — ancient or modern — seems capable of capturing. The monsoon inside my mind and heart crashes and pours in ways words alone cannot contain. Yet still, I try, because love, in all its idealism and mystery, keeps guiding me forward. It pushes me to create, to reach out, to leave something meaningful behind — a footprint on shifting sands, a small mark on someone’s day, a reminder that they are seen and not alone.

If my words, my art, or my expressions can bring even a moment of light to someone’s heart, if they can place a smile where there was once heaviness, then I feel deeply grateful. To touch lives, even briefly, feels like a quiet blessing.

And still, I carry the heart of a hopeless romantic — chasing the idea of love even when it feels distant or unfamiliar, like something from another world. Yet I continue to believe in it, to write toward it, to hope for it. Because even when love feels foreign, it remains the compass guiding me down this mighty road, urging me to keep going, to keep creating, and to keep leaving traces of warmth wherever my journey leads.

When Morning Finds Its Wings

On By xunholyanubisxIn Poetry, Sonnet1 Comment

Beneath the woven reach of winter’s lace,

A tiny pulse of life adorns the morn;

Soft sunlight slips across the open space,

And paints the quiet hour newly born.

You rest where brittle branches meet the blue,

A spark suspended in the cooling air,

As though the sky itself has summoned you

To show how grace can settle anywhere.

No trumpet marks the wonder of your flight,

No crowd attends the miracle you bring;

Yet still the day grows warmer in your sight,

Awakened by the whisper of your wing.

So may my heart learn stillness from your art—

To pause, and let small beauties shape the heart.

A Male Downy Woodpecker I took a photo of this morning.

The Ghost of Bronze and Scarlet

On By xunholyanubisxIn My Philosphy & Studies, writingLeave a comment

If the ghosts of ancient Sparta were to walk among us today, I don’t think they would be found on a movie set, muscles glistening under fake oil. I think they would be utterly horrified. Their entire identity was forged in the crucible of a single, brutal idea: total dedication to the state. To transplant that soul into the body of the 21st century would be to watch it convulse and wither.

First, you have to understand what made a Spartan. It wasn’t just the fighting; it was the absence of everything else. A Spartan citizen wasn’t a blacksmith, a poet, or a merchant. He was a soldier. Period. His wealth was provided by the labor of a vast, enslaved population, the helots, freeing him for a lifetime of military training. His world was one of perfect, terrifying simplicity: be strong, be obedient, be ready to die for Sparta.

Now, drop that man into our world. The sheer noise of modern life would be the first assault. The constant hum of traffic, the blare of advertisements, the infinite scroll of opinions on a glowing rectangle – it would be a chaotic, dishonorable din. He would see a society drowning in softness. The pursuit of comfort, of individual expression, of personal happiness above all else – these would be signs of a catastrophic moral decay. A man choosing a career in graphic design? A woman posting selfies on a beach? Children arguing with their parents? All of it would be alien, and deeply offensive.

Politically, the Spartan would be aghast. Our endless debates, our focus on individual rights and freedoms, our messy, transparent democracies – it would look like a mob of children squabbling over toys while the house burned down. He would yearn for a single, clear, iron will. He would see our diverse, multicultural societies not as a strength, but as a weakness, a dilution of purpose that would make us easy prey for a more focused enemy.

Yet, there are corners of the modern world where the Spartan spirit might flicker. Elite military units, like the Navy SEALs or the SAS, would earn his grudging respect. He would see in their training and sacrifice a pale reflection of the agoge, his own brutal upbringing. He might also recognize a kindred, if twisted, spirit in the world of high-stakes athletics, particularly in the all-consuming dedication of an Olympic gymnast or a professional fighter. The single-minded focus, the willingness to endure pain for victory, the life of extreme discipline – these are the modern echoes of the Spartan ideal.

But here is the deepest irony: a true Spartan, with his uncompromising rigidity, would be a terrible soldier in a modern war. His courage would be immense, but his ability to adapt, to think independently, to question orders when a drone feed shows a school where intel said there was a bunker – that would be missing. The modern battlefield requires a different kind of mind, one that can process information, not just endure pain. He was built for a shield wall, not a cyberwarfare command center.

Ultimately, the Spartans would not conquer our world. They would be crushed by it. Not by our armies, but by our complexity, our individualism, and our relentless pursuit of a comfortable life. They would stand in the middle of a shopping mall, a ghost in bronze and scarlet, surrounded by a thousand choices they were never trained to make, utterly lost. They were masters of a very small, very sharp piece of reality. In our sprawling, messy, multifaceted world, they would be the sharpest, most useless tool in the shed.

Book Cover to Crimson Sands: Blood of the Nile

Crimson Sands: Blood of the Nile Part 30

On By xunholyanubisxIn Chapter Five, Crimson Sands, My Novels1 Comment

The adjustment did not go unnoticed.

The city-heart pulsed again—twice this time—low and deliberate, like a knock answered from inside the night rather than beyond it. Bianca stiffened, not in alarm, but recognition of something approaching that did not need permission.

Amenmose felt it immediately. “She’s close,” he said. “And she isn’t hiding.”

Seraphel’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “Of course she isn’t.”

The shadows along the far wall thickened, deepening into a darkness that did not belong to the sanctum’s wards. It moved with purpose, silk-smooth and predatory, peeling itself free of the concrete until it resolved into a woman stepping forward as if she’d always been there.

Black hair fell in a heavy cascade down her back, glossy as spilled ink. Her eyes—dark, piercing, sharp enough to pin a god in place—swept the room with veteran confidence. She was built like war remembered pleasure: thick, powerful curves shaped by survival, not softness; strength carried with unapologetic sensuality. Every movement spoke of countless battles won and never forgotten.

She smiled slowly.

“Well,” she said, voice low, warm, and edged with danger, “looks like the night finally chose a crown worth answering.”

Bianca met her gaze without blinking.

Recognition sparked between them—predator to predator, queen to queen.

“Nia,” Bianca said. “The Blackwidow.”

Nia dipped her head just enough to be respectful, not submissive. “Vampire Queen of the Widow’s Embrace Coven,” she replied. “And apparently late to the party.” Her eyes flicked to Amenmose, assessing, amused. “Didn’t expect the sun to be standing this close to the throne.”

Amenmose inclined his head, golden light restrained but present. “You carry yourself like someone who doesn’t kneel easily.”

Nia laughed softly. “I don’t kneel at all.” Then her gaze returned to Bianca, sharper now. “But I recognize power when it doesn’t flinch.”

Seraphel folded her arms, clearly enjoying herself. “She’s been holding territory the old way—blood, loyalty, consequences. Every faction that tried to absorb her coven quietly stopped existing.”

Khepri bowed deeply, reverence unmistakable. “The house has records,” he said. “Widow’s Embrace has never broken a pact. Never lost a queen.”

Nia’s smile turned feral. “Because I don’t gamble with my people.”

Bianca stepped closer, their shadows overlapping, responding to each other like old rivals circling a shared truth. “Then why come now?” Bianca asked. “You’ve survived without my banner.”

Nia’s expression sobered—not weakened, but sharpened into intent. “Because the old sovereign stirred,” she said. “Because hunters are whispering your name like a curse.” Her eyes burned. “And because my coven felt the city choose you.”

The city-heart pulsed once in agreement.

“I won’t be ruled,” Nia continued. “Not by you. Not by anyone.”

Bianca smiled—slow, approving. “Good,” she said. “Neither will I.”

Silence stretched—heavy, electric.

Then Nia extended her hand, palm up, scars faint but deliberate across her skin. “But queens who respect each other don’t hunt alone,” she said. “And Widow’s Embrace doesn’t abandon a night that fights back.”

Bianca took her hand.

The contact sent a ripple through the sanctum—crimson and shadow interlocking, ancient bloodlines recognizing shared sovereignty without dominance.

Amenmose felt it and smiled. Seraphel let out a low whistle. Khepri bowed his head as if witnessing history.

Two vampire queens stood beneath the city—one crowned by inevitability, the other by survival.

And the night, pleased with its growing strength, stretched wider.

Somewhere far away, the jealous ancient sovereign felt it too.

And for the first time in centuries…

It hesitated.