A Meeting Between

A Daughter of the Lilies and Children of Eldair

Crossover Fan-fiction

Thistle, Brent, Lyra, and Orrig belong to Meg Syverud of Daughter of the Lilies.
Embera, Koe, Iva, and Indri belong to Jemma M. Young of Children of Eldair.
The Bazaar Between and the Unnamed Bookshop Owner are stage dressing that went out of their way to unduly lengthen the story by trying really, really hard to become characters in their own right.  (Jury’s still out on whether they succeeded.  But waiting for a consensus would’ve lengthened the story even more.)

In a world that’s not a world,
There’s a space that’s not a space,
Where the meetings that could never be
Just happen to take place,
When the farthest-flung of fiction
Find they’ve stumbled on the scene
Of the twining, colored crossways
That form the Bazaar Between.

Along a bustling row of crowded booths and shops, four figures thread a throng ranging from the familiar to the utterly foreign.  Indeed, though displays of brilliantly colored, exotic wares line each side of the thoroughfare, they can hardly contend with the true riot of color that swirls down the street in the forms of dresses, robes, scarves, scales, skin, fur, hair, and wings. Continue reading

Little One

Surrender © 2012, Maria Elkins, All Rights Reserved, Used with Permission.

~For Amalya Nathaniel Conkel
And his parents, Bethany and Eric

Continue reading

Love Is

Love is plodding feet

Set fixedly to follow,

Whether dancing down a grassy slope

Or stumbling up steep, stony ways.

Love is vigilant sight –

Eyes ever pulled from wandering,

Whether held in helpless rapture

Or in staunch, determined gaze.

Love is chosen faithfulness,

A will renewing always,

Whether time brings tenderness

Or trouble-laden days.

Love transcends the moment

To pour out in self-surrender

That runs washing over feet

Whether feelings ebb or blaze.

Parable of Moon and Sun

A race raised in moonlight,

Eyes conformed to twilight,

Adrift through silver dimness

Convinced they clearly see.

They point to a pale moon

And praise the palisades of

Lunar beams that

Mark out every path

And all the proper ways.

But what? Now the sky turns gray,

And reds glow ‘cross their silver,

Splay a tarnish on its cleanness

To be scoured before it stains.

So grows a light that soon outshines

Their sight and all their guiding lines

‘Til blinded, they can’t see their moon

Bow white before the dazzling

Noontime Sun that walks the day.

To Heal Dry Ground

Ground too long left dry

Grows hard and brittle,

Shrinks and breaks,

And crumbles from the cracks

To dust that trembles at a breath

And when it’s in those fragments

Sometimes true and driving rain

Can only scar:

The rushing battery

Will drive the pieces, crushed, away.

But water that, in deluge,

Might sweep over broken ground

And leave it torn,

Scraped bare, still dry,

And yet more wounded in its wake

May hover in a mist,

Fall lightly, hover – slowly see

The clods grow dark,

The cracks grow close

With healing softening.

Even’s Swell

The ebbing light pools to aqua shallows in the west,

And casts the clouds through dusty lavenders to depths of gray,

But wispy-fingered mists still reach to grasp the glow and hold it,

Lighting briefly to a burnished shine

          ‘Fore cooling to a softened steel

                     As the fire slips past and flows away.

Then the smoldering brightness draws together

Sending forth its last farewell.

The chill of depths creeps in behind it

O’er-flowing it in even’s swell.

Making

Mommy had it out!  She had it out; it was time!  I jumped and clapped my hands and ran over to the couch where she had set out the fabric for my dress.  “You’re making it for me, Mommy?  You’re making my big four-year-old dress now?”  I grabbed for the fabric and pulled it down so that fell open and over to the floor.  All those little purple flowers would be on my dress!  As I looked at my fabric flowers hanging down to the floor, I wrapped the part at the top around my hands, because it felt nice and cool when it touched them.

“Now where did my sewing scissors go?  What do you think, Melody, did Daddy take them again?”  I looked up to see Mommy turning around from her cabinet.  “I’ll go see, and then we’ll get started, okay?” Continue reading

A Walk Through Reflections

It feels like there should be a story in all of this.

I walk along, looking down, thinking.  It’s wet today.  Bare tree branches and patches of mottled gray sky glimmer up at me from between grass blades and shine out of the pavement blackness.  They draw my eyes as though into another world – into the muted, fading new colors and the vast expanse of clouds.  And then- all of that crisp, clear existence cuts off abruptly against an edge, dissolving into submerged ice and green and long-dead leaves.  I somehow find myself surprised.

It’s that other world – that feeling of a story.  Except the story is missing: a story-feel without a story.  So what is the story to go with the feel? Continue reading

Searching for Marplies

It’s not often that you crawl back into that unused corner of the attic and find a civilization of marplies, or a kilargy kingdom, or a trivith triad.  And I can’t help but think that’s a pity, because there are times when I’d like to, especially on boring, rainy afternoons.  I know, of course, that it can’t be helped – if things don’t exist, I suppose there’s nothing they can do about it.  I can always wish they’d try, but I do understand.

If they will insist on not existing, though, it would be nice if they’d at least stop teasing me.

Like the time I was hunting in my closet for my other shoe (I usually am hunting somewhere for my other shoe).  Continue reading