The Dejected


A lonely tree in the dark,
is all that remains
of what I once was.

The white stem is lit up,
though I can’t see the light source
and everything else is covered in darkness. 

A lonely mountain lion screams in despair,
but in my mind it's the wail of a wraith.
It’s the sound of grief, 
and the echo of my darkest desires coming alive,
my sweltering passion becomes one
with the nature of everything around me.

Walking up to the tree is easy, 
but I dare not touch it. 
I see little of the colourful, majestic crown,
but each leave represents a dream that has been implemented,
filled with the hopes of the hopeless,
filled with the lust of the spiritless,
filled with the tears of those with stark desires, 
but with holes in their hearts. 

And I am the wraith. 

The mountain lion cries again,
the sound is hardly audible,
still it pushes the dim thoughts away
and they vanish into the surrounding darkness,
darkness that's all inside me,
and I brave the world and touch the stem of the tree.

I feel how my heart refills, 
with hopeless dreams and inexplicable joy,
I see your face before me,
I hear your voice in the cries of the mountain lion,
a soft calming whisper this time,
and you tell me that you were never out of reach,
never far away,
never gone,
but always right there in my heart,
slowly swaying to the music of my life,
to the melody of my sorrows and of my victories,
and now I have this tree to show for it,
a tree surrounded by the comforting darkness,
winter’s harness. 

I cry out like the mountain lion
when I feel your hand touching mine,
reaching out from inside the stem, 
pulling me close.

And I will never be liberated from this embrace,
nor do I yearn for freedom.
It’s energising, 
being caressed by my own forsaken ardor.

Spark by MichaelMarshall Smith

Spark by MichaelMarshall Smith

Copyright © Eyglo 2016

Killer's Sanctum

By Eyglo

Three years had gone by without an incident. Now I was there again.

The man by the counter was wearing his red, checkered shorts. The shorts looked like they were at least a size too small. It made him look strange, but otherwise he looked like you’d expect from someone who worked in that kind of establishment. He had long dark hair, wore a black t-shirt with some odd logo on it I didn’t recognize, and he had a tattoo of an anchor on his right upper arm.

I stopped in the doorway, not quite sure what to do with myself. There was a familiar looking woman sitting by the window, staring out over the sea. She looked a bit lost, but I’d been there often enough not to be surprised by that.

I walked up to the counter, ordered deep-fried shrimps with the special sauce and a beer. The guy nodded his head, threw a dishcloth over his shoulder and exited through a door behind him.

When he came out, just a few seconds later, he pointed towards the beer tab. I nodded and he picked a glass from a shelf beside him, filled it and placed it on a coaster in front of me.

I handed him a bill and he quickly pushed the sum of my order in the old fashioned cash register.

“It’ll be just a moment,” he said placing my exchange on the table beside my glass. I took a large sip of the beer and turned around in my chair. There was a man standing out on the patio in front of the place. He was watching the sea.

People watch the sea for different reasons, but most do it because they need to have a word with the universe and somehow it doesn’t seem to count properly if the ocean isn’t there to hear you out. You need not say a word for it to listen, of course, and afterwards you magically feel a little better.

That patio seemed ideal for that purpose, though I had always been a bit too preoccupied when I came here to notice. This time, however, I was calmer than before and was able to pay more attention to the details.

It didn’t take long before the shrimps appeared in front of me. I thought about moving seats, so that I could have a view of the ocean, but I wasn’t ready for that conversation yet.

Instead I sat there alone, munching on my food, one shrimp at a time, dipping in every bite. When I was finished I pushed my plate away and ordered another beer. The clerk tabbed me another and took my old glass.

“I’ve seen you here before,” he said simply.

“Twice,” I said. “You gave me a free drink the first time around. I was thankful for that.”

“Twice, huh? Do you want to talk?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders and turned in my chair again. Then I turned back and nodded my head towards her. “What’s her story?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “She hasn't said much”.

“First timer?” I asked.

“It’s complicated,” the man said.

I took my beer and moved to the counter by the window. I sat two chairs away from the woman, who was still staring at the sea and didn't seem to notice me. There was some sort of cocktail in front of her.

It looked untouched.

I watched her for a while. She had an off-white dress that looked like it was from the sixties. Her shoes matched perfectly and her hair was big in the back and she wore a ribbon, in the same material as her dress, to hold it up. For an instant the thought occurred to me that she had been sitting there since that look was in style. That she was waiting for someone who never showed up and her dress had been innocently white, once upon a time.

Now there was a big, brown stain on the hem of the skirt.

I shook my head to rid me off the macabre thoughts and I turned my attention to the sea. It was calm, a seagull was hovering over the patio, just above the man who was still standing out there. The man was wearing a striped suit, it was a lean fit.

I found myself staring at the woman who paid me no heed. I wanted to talk to her, but she seemed caught up in her own thoughts and I didn’t want to disturb her. So I started focusing on the sea and what was out there.

It was she who initiated it. She leaned over and touched my arm and I instinctively withdrew hastily not expecting to be touched. “Excuse me,” she said, “you don’t happen to have the time?” she asked politely in a low voice. When she noticed she’d startled me she looked afraid for a moment. She touched her glass, but she didn’t drink from it. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

I gave her the time, having to fish my phone out of my pocket to find out for myself. I showed it to her and she looked puzzled for a while. Then she nodded her head and stirred her drink.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that this wasn’t the place for that.

She looked at me and for a second I thought I saw a glimmer of joy in her eyes.

“I am, and I’m not,” she said. “I made a deal with someone, he was supposed to be here today. I guess things never turn out the way we want them to, huh?”

“Is this your first time here?” I asked.

She nodded her head and sipped her drink carefully. Her hands were shaking. Then she added: “I think so, though it looks a bit familiar, doesn’t it? But some places just give you the deja-vous, you know?”

I nodded.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

“Twice,” I said.

She looked at me, nodded and for a moment I thought she was going to say something more but she just stared out at the ocean. When I’d finished my beer I reluctantly stood up, put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed a bit.

She threw her hand up to touch mine, in a small thank you gesture, and that was that.

I went to the counter again. The man was stacking clean glasses on the shelf. I took a matchbox out of a small basket on the counter and put some coins on the table.

“You said it was complicated?” I asked.

“She appears here every year around the same time,” he said and gestured towards her with the glass in his hand. “The man on the porch is always here too, though he never comes inside,” he sighed, “and then they vanish, each to their own I guess.”

I turned around swiftly, a bit startled. “Every year?”

“Every year, spooks, lonesomes, it’s what this place is,” he said.

I turned again and looked at him. He pointed again towards the window, towards the woman. I saw her old fashioned clothes. I saw her sitting there, looking at the sea, stirring her glass calmly.

“Some people have a way of punishing themselves, you know?” he said. I felt a surge of something come over me. It was a familiar feeling, but I pushed the fear back.

“They watch the same ocean every year,” he added, “and that has to mean something. Maybe one day she will manage to go out there, and notice him, maybe even talk to him?”

“I thought this was a one time deal,” I said, looking him in the eyes. They were steel grey and hard.

“Usually, not always, sometimes guilt is a factor,” he said.

I suddenly had the compulsion to look at my hands. Palms up, these were the hands of an old man, not the hands of a thirty year old soldier.

“Three times,” I echoed to myself.

“Every year,” the man standing behind the counter said.

I sighed and shook my head. I placed the matchbox in my pocket and walked out without further ado. I walked to the rail and I watched the ocean. The sun was setting, coloring the sky red and the sea teal and orange.

A small girl came skipping over the patio, impatiently she said: “Dad, lets go, we can’t wait anymore! Lets go!”.

And the man who had been staring over the rail all this time, watching the sun hover over the horizon turned around, smiled and nodded his head.

“I guess so,” he said, he took the girl by the hand and they walked away slowly, as if they had all the time in the world.

I looked inside the restaurant. She was still sitting inside, but for a moment I thought I saw her contours dissolve, as if she was vanishing into thin air. I looked away. Ignoring my thumping heart and the ache in my joints. I looked at the sign one last time, SEA FOOD AND COCKTAILS in such bright happy colors. It was such a magical place.

I thought I would never have to visit again.

Spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Killer's Sanctum © Eygló 2016

The Nameless Girl

By Eygló

She didn’t know what would greet her on the other side of the portal that she knew would be at the top of the stairs. 

She had the vague notion that she would be greeted by Gods that had been conjured into existence by the sheer will of people in dire need of something greater to believe in than themselves. If those Gods still existed. 
    The stairs were beautiful, sprouted in small colorful flowers, and it was obvious that the staircase hadn’t been used for a very long time. She suspected it was time out of mind, time so great that she wouldn’t be able to understand the concept of it, like she didn’t understand the concept of black holes or dark matter. 

She had performed an old Viking ritual. A ritual she had been forced to guess into being, because it was barely documented. From the fragments she had been able to gather, with ten years of research and with several educated guesses filling in the gaps, she had performed a ritual. She had shuddered at the thought of what she needed to do, but she had little choice. She needed to find the staircase and the portal, she needed her name back, and this was the only way. She had tried everything else.

It had vanished one day, her name, almost as if she had lost her car keys or wallet. The difference was that the name she’d lost was irreplaceable, and that name seemed genuinely wiped from her mind. The doctors had called it a rare psychosis, but she knew better. It had been stolen from her and she was going to claim it back. 
    The portal of the Gods, that was the only way. 
    She had become an isolated maverick, because when you’re unable to react to people calling you, you become strange, and when people think you are strange… she shuddered at that thought too. 
    Now she did what she had to do. She would confront the jester who did this to her, she would reclaim her name, if it was the last thing she’d do. And if she had to defy a God that was, hopefully, already transparent at the edges because people didn’t believe in him anymore, then so be it.
    She started to climb the stairs. The backpack, that had followed her through the misty calm lands on her journey over the dark desert she had crossed to get to this spot, she left at the bottom of the stairs. There was nothing in it she would need after this. She would have to play it by ear from here, there were no documents, no tales, not the faintest trace of information about what she would actually face once she had climbed the stairs of the Gods. 
    The flowers were beautiful though, the tiny, lovely knobs, a perennial beauty that no one ever got to witness, except for her now. She started up the stairs, her white tennis shoes in strange contrast to the greenery and she felt she needed to carefully plot her way up the stairs as not to disturb the terrestrial beauty in this unearthly place. It took her a long time to climb and when she was high enough that she might start to see what was actually at the top of the stairs she focused on the flowers below her feet. Yellow, red, white and green in a transmutable visual song, song that could only be sung by artists in close touch with the other worldly. 

When the last step was in front of her she stubbornly stared down. Almost regretting her decision to come here, almost regretting the journey. But she faced the horrors that came with her namelessness, horrors that followed losing the identity within yourself so completely, and she saw no other means but death if she would fail. And she would be damned if she would die without trying everything else first. 

But now that she was at the end of the stairs, in the garden of the old Gods, she hesitated. Was it really so bad, being nameless? Was it so bad that she dared face whatever was behind whatever portal might be up there? 

She didn’t dare to answer the question. Instead she raised her head and took the last step up. Suddenly the sun was shining in her face. She was on a plain so green, she had never seen anything like it. The flowers were there too, small colorful knobs sprouting everywhere. It was such a beautiful sight that it took her breath away and all she could do was stand there and stare. The empty blue sky, a sky that had been dark, black as the night, on her way over the desert. For days she had seen nothing but the starless darkness. It made this sight even more spectacular. 
    Then she noticed the portal. It was an oval shape, a whirl of colors, something she imagined people only conjured up in a drugged haze. She walked towards it, the strange sound emanating from the portal reminded her of the sound the modems used to make, back in the days when she still had a name. 
    She lifted her hand, hesitated, but then pushed her forefinger into the whirlwind of colors. It felt cold, but not freezing. 

She took a deep breath and then she walked through the portal. 
At first she thought she would die. The portal drew her in with such force and violence, she had never experienced anything like it. Then she circled through a never ending space, a whirl of colors and hues surrounding her and she never knew what was up or down. When the whirlwind spat her out on the other side of the portal she landed softly, but naked, in a field of green grass. There where mountains all around her, higher than she’d ever seen before. The snow in the peaks intrigued her. 
    What was this place? 
    She looked around, but there was nothing there. Nothing but the beauty of nature, the likes of which she had never seen before. Her nakedness bothered her for a while, but she wasn’t there to be taken a back by something as human and stupid as modesty. So for a while she stood still, trying to figure out what her next step was. She had only thought about getting to the portal, the gate was her final point, now she had no idea what to do.
    Then it came to her. She would call his name. What irony was bigger than to conjure up the jester by his name? She only wished she could do to him what he had done to her.
    So she stood there, arms in the air, moving in circles and she yelled his name from the top of her lungs. 
    “LOKI,” she yelled. 
    When nothing happened she sank down into the grass and cried. She had been so sure, now it looked like all the old Gods had vanished, ceased to exist since the people no longer believed in them. And then where did she stand? Maybe she was insane. Maybe it was all some strange psychosis she was going through and the ten year journey she was on was nothing but a fools errand. 
    But she’d seen the stairs with her own eyes, the steps that impossibly sprang out of the dark desert sand, flowers and all, and she had seen the colors in the portal, nothing could be as real as that portal.
    When she stood up she was determined, and it occurred to her only afterwards that it was that determination that conjured the jester into being. Suddenly he was standing before her, larger than life, beautiful in a special way and the grin on his face was impossible to resist.
    He cocked his head and laughed. 
    “So, you did manage,” he said after a while. “I didn’t think you would, they never do these days, it’s so much harder now I guess”. 
    She was speechless. There he was, the conjurer, the jester, the wicked one and she had no idea what to say to him. 
    “You’re naked,” he said when the silence had become unbearable and she smiled. It was a smile that melted her innards and she was able to move again. 
    She was still dumbfounded though, “you’re not transparent at the edges,” she whispered. She looked at him. “You know what, I don’t care,” she said. “I’m here to confront you, either you give back what belongs to me or you strike me down right here,” she blurted out. 
    “My, my,” he said and walked in a circle around her. “Aren’t we a hot-head. You know you look much better than the vixen I had my three bastards with, I should have done like the others and gone down there instead of seeking out the Giants of my kind,” he laughed a little half heartedly. 
    “I want my name back, Loki,” she said, making a point of saying his name. 
    “I know you do, …” she was sure he said her name, who would know that name better than the one who stole it from her. He made a gesture with his hand and suddenly he was carrying a heavy fur coat, without a word he handed it to her and she swept it around herself. She wasn’t cold, but at least she wouldn’t have to stand there and confront him in her nakedness anymore. 
    “You know, …” and again she was sure he said her name, though she couldn’t hear it, always as if the word didn’t register in her mind. As if the world was censoring her name away, making sure she didn’t quite exist. “We are fading into non-existence, there is little left of us but the occasional sneeze,” he said. “Our world is crumbling down and all that remains is the occasional remnant,” he put his finger underneath her chin, she noticed that his fingernails were long and clean. “All we have left are a few people like you, desperate enough to seek consolation in us. We are your last straw.” 
    “No,” she said sternly, “You were the culprit, the only one I could possibly blame,” her words ebbed out.
    “And how could you possibly know that?” he asked, grinning.
    “I do, because I heard the words when you took my name, I heard the words…” she swallowed hard. 
    “Delicate creature you are,” he said, “very well, you want it back? I’ll give it back to you. I guess my goal is reached anyway.”
    “Why?” she asked, “why me?” 
    “Because while other people might blame their weak minds, or psychological traumas, you were strong enough to seek the truth, in the face of the greatest obstacle there is.”
    “And what’s that?” 
    “Forgetfulness,” he whispered the word, as if it was a curse word and he didn’t want to be caught saying it. He swept his long blond hair away from his eyes and turned around. He walked a few steps and then he faced her again.
    “We are Gods without followers, and Gods without followers vanish into thin air, their greatness, whatever it was, becomes nothing more than a funny story people tell their kids as a joke. Our power came from the belief, from the hopes and wishes of those who sought our guidance, now we are nothing more than a side story and soon we’ll be gone.”
    “And so you steal people’s names? What? To get revenge on those who don’t believe anymore?” 
    “Quite the contrary, my dear,” he said smiling. “I do it because in facing me, you will have little choice but to believe in me.”
    “I will never worship someone like you,” she said quickly. 
    “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek softly. “You are a true valkyrja,” he said. “An energetic woman, a true viking, if I ever met one.”
    “I will never worship you,” she said again.
    “It doesn’t matter, because you will speak of me. And you will share your story, however absurd it may sound to the modern man, and a few will listen and even if you will never worship then at least the word will get around. Or that’s the theory. You aren’t the first one, but you are the first who managed to find me and face me.” 
    He took her face with both his hands and looked into her eyes. 
    “I return what I have stolen, Saga,” he said. “May you remember it, and use it well”. 
 It was like having a stone removed from her chest, hearing her name. It was as if the wind suddenly caressed her cheeks and her eyes suddenly saw a world full of life and magic. It was like regaining a soul, after having sold it to the devil. 

He left her with a soft kiss on her lips. A stolen kiss, but what he had returned was ever so valuable and in returning it he had given her a gift as well. 
    She could see the worlds that belonged to him and his fellows. She could see the world that would vanish if those Gods did and she could hear the promises given, not only by him, but by his kin. They were bold promises, but she was just one woman.
    And suddenly she was at the top of the stairs again. Staring down the flowery path, overlooking the hazardous dark desert she would now have to cross again. She saw her backpack lying on the ground and knew that she had brought no provisions for the journey home. 
    But she had what she came for and she had something else too, a promise of a lifetime of remembrance, to be greatly rewarded. All ideas of revenge had vanished from her mind. 
    “My name is Saga,” she tested and when she heard herself say the word she fell to the ground and cried. “I am with name,” she whispered, “And I will remember you Loki, though I will never worship you.” 
    And she thought she felt a warm breeze playing with her cheek, and maybe she heard the echoes of laughter as she descended the stairs, ever so carefully not to disturb the flowers. 

Spark by mms

Copyright © Eygló 2015

The Road

by Eygló

The mountains are dark,
the peaks smooth and impossible,

They surround me on my journey,
I see rivers, 
and floods,
and the waves of an ocean crashing violently on the shore,
colliding with the rocks
and my conscious mind.

The desert is dark,
the sand smooth and warm and black.
I watch the icebergs floating in the lake,
small flowers in the myst. 

And I see you suddenly,
standing on the other side of the lake,
you smile,
forever that smile. 

The howls come from all around us,
these unknown screams
of monsters prowling the earth,
or just birds in distress. 

I look away,
I can see your agony,
but there is no way to cross this body of water
and now I can’t remember why I stopped.

I should be on my way,
I should be on the road. 


Music spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Seafood and Cocktails

by Eygló

He was wearing checkered shorts when I saw him. They were a bit small and the color red was dominant. He looked uncomfortable in them and despite my state of mind my first thought was: what on earth is the man wearing? He had a long, dark thatch for hair and penetrating, grey eyes. 
    I just wanted to find a place where I could get a stiff drink and some calm. I ordered a Negroni and the man in the checkered shorts raised an eyebrow.     
    I sat by the window and watched the people walk by on the pier and I watched the way the streetlights reflected in the water. 
    I was in a state of shock. Firing a gun can do that to the best of us, and I guess I looked worn down and pathetic, because when I had finished my drink, he came to me wearing his flashy shorts, holding a very bright looking cocktail. He handed me the drink, cocked his head a little to the right, his long hair falling a little over to the side, and he told me it was on the house. 
    I looked at him and I guess the shocked expression amused him, because a soft smile broke out on his face. 
    It was like someone lit a light in a ghost house and suddenly I saw him differently. He was not the strange, hostile old geezer I had initially taken him for, but a rather good looking guy. Perspective is a beautiful thing. 
    I thanked him for the drink and asked if he wanted to join me. He nodded his head, went back behind the counter, shouted something to someone in the back and then came and sat down beside me with a beer in his hand. 
    I sipped the cocktail. It tasted of happiness and colorful adventures. He pulled at the leg of his shorts so they wouldn’t ride his crouch and adjusted himself in the chair. 
    It was a bit comical. I asked him what the cocktail was called and he smiled, showing glimmering white teeth, and he said it was his speciality, that he made it only once in a blue moon, and that he called it The Trouble Breaker. 
    “It’s not going to get you so drunk that you lose control,” he told me. “It will however take away your troubles, and you look like you need it”.
    I didn’t tell him my troubles. I didn’t tell him that I had just shot a gun for the first time in my life, and that the bullet that flew out of the gun had hit someone. I didn’t tell him that moments before that happened, the man had been raping me. I didn’t tell him, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to do so without crying. 
    And I didn’t want to cry. Because I didn’t know if the man I shot was dead or alive. I didn’t tell him because I could still feel the man’s filthy hands on my breasts, on my thighs and I could still feel his body on top of mine, in mine. 
    I didn’t tell him because I could still hear the thud as the man hit the floor. 
    I didn’t tell him because I feared that the incident had made me a killer, and that wasn't something I was prepared to be. 
    “Do you come here often?” he asked. 
    I just shook my head. 
    “No,” he said, “you don’t look it”. 
    I took another sip of the drink and felt it warm my innards. It was a nice feeling.
    “Have you worked here long?” I asked him in turn. I wanted to talk about something normal, something you would do any day, at the pub, after work. 
    He nodded. “I own the joint. It’s my own private hell,” he said. 
    “It seems like a nice place,” I said. 
    “It serves its purpose,” he grinned. 
I remember wondering why there weren’t more people in there. It was a nice place by the pier, the service was good and the prices weren’t too steep. It made little sense, but I figured it was just one of those days.
    “Are you going to visit again?” 
I noticed he had a serene expression on his face when he asked this. I didn’t want to tell him that I probably wouldn’t, that it would only remind me of the horrible things that had happened that night, things I really didn’t want to be reminded of.
    I just shrugged and told him I was just passing by. It was as neutral an answer as I could give, but it seemed to sooth him. He patted my shoulder and started talking. 
    He told me that he had been a sailor, and that he therefore liked to have a view over the sea. He told me that he had a kid in Singapore, with a woman who never wanted to speak to him again, and a sister in Italy who thought he was dead. 
    “She may be right too,” he said, grinning. 
    I listened to him talk, not offering much information about myself, and he noticed because when he had spoken for a while, he went quiet and then he asked me what had happened to me, in a hushed voice. 
    I turned towards him and got a little lost in his dark eyes. I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly I leaned over and I kissed him. 
It was a soft, slow kiss, nothing extravagant or passionate, but it was quiet and it was nice. Perhaps the nicest kiss I’ve ever had. He tasted of seafood.
    And he did kiss me back.
    When I withdrew he asked why I had done that. I shrugged and told him I did it because I wanted to and because he let me. He seemed to buy that. He nodded his head slowly and tasted his beer. 
    And it was the truth. I just didn’t add that knowing that the other man had been the last one to kiss me would eventually kill me, and so inadvertently the man in the checkered shorts saved my life.
    “Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked.
    I didn’t look at him this time. I just shook my head.
    I could see his image reflecting in the window and the sign above the bar. There was something wicked in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. 
    “Are you sure you’re not coming back?”
    “Does it matter?” 
    “Well,” he said and leaned back a little on his stool, folding his arms. Then he pulled at his shorts, the best he could, and cleared his throat. “It’s not that business is dying down or anything,” he said, “most people come in a bit later in the evening,” he grinned. 
    “I can see why one would come here often,” I told him. 
    He grunted, but he said nothing. 
    When I had finished my drink I stood up. I asked if I shouldn’t pay for the cocktail but he shook his head. 
    “First timers get one for free, and all your troubles go away,” he smiled. “The second time won’t be that easy,” he added.
    I left there feeling better than when I came in. I gave him a glance as I stood by the door. He was cleaning the counter with a red rag. I told him I might be back someday. 
    He just nodded and continued doing his job. 
    He was different when I left. He had put his hair in a pony tail in the back which made him look a bit like a muffled biker. I almost expected the shorts to have magically transformed into jeans, although I’m sure they hadn’t.
    He looked my way and smiled and for a moment I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He just waved a hand and went on with his business, and I went on with mine. 
    For what it’s worth my troubles didn’t all go away. Life doesn’t work like that, but the repercussions from what happened that day were a lot less shattering that I had expected. 
    It’s almost as if I got a get out of jail free card. 

Spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Eygló was born and bred in Kópavogur, Iceland. She studied literary theory at the University of Iceland before moving to the south of Sweden where she is playing house, taking pictures, writing, reading, running and living, when there is time. She never grew up enough to start drinking coffee, but she does know how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull and how to do a fishtail braid. Instagram and Site.

SEAFOOD AND COCKTAILS is copyright © Eygló 2015

The Bridge

by Eygló

“I’ll be forty-two tomorrow” she told herself out loud and sighed, “again”. It felt daunting, like walking through a dark forest all alone at night without a flashlight or the moon to guide her. She took a sip of her tea, it was bitter and she didn’t like it, but it was one of her new habits, a thing she’d taken up during one of her health initiatives. That too felt daunting, and the initiatives rarely stuck, but the tea had. She had a small, rose patterned cup and a small silver spoon she’d inherited from her grandmother and although she didn’t like the tea she liked what it reminded her of. 

Old times and things past, things future, the bridge and the eventual changes she’d manage to conjure up. 

She sighed again and stirred, then she lay the silver spoon on the saucer, took another sip and then gave up on it. The memories haunted her, childhood laughters, her grandmother’s warning words and the loving gaze of someone long lost. The memories were so far away now that it felt almost like they didn’t belong to her at all anymore, were just lurking in her brain like that scene from a movie she saw long time ago and liked.

She put the cup, half full, in the sink, put on her shoes and a jacket, then she headed out the door with her phone in one pocket and the keys in the other and said goodbye to no one in particular. Hoping today would be the day. 

She headed into the park, walking slow steps towards the duckpond which was surrounded by a cluster of big pines, the cones were hanging high above, big and spectacular and she found herself wondering what it would be like to get one of those cones in the head as it fell towards the ground. They were as big as her fist.

When she came to the clearing she noticed. The duckpond was small, as always, but now there was a bridge crossing over to the shadier side, where there had been none before. It looked old, made of stacked stones and dirt. Something was different. She couldn’t quite place what it was, but there was a feeling of quiet calm surrounding the place. The last time it had bridged a small creek a long way from where she was now. There was no doubt in her mind that it was the same bridge though, she recognised the stones and the bowline structure. She recognised the sizzling sound surrounding it, and the ancient quality. 

She walked up to the bridge, but hesitated. Did she dare to cross it one more time? Was the risk worth the eventual payoff? She might be lonely now, but there were worse things.

She touched the rough stone of the heavy rock railing and felt a surge of strangeness go through her, as if she was standing in a timeless void and was suddenly more than she had been before, more than the sum of all her previous choices. She felt she had become the potential of everything she could ever have been. She threw her head backwards and laughed, the joy enveloped her completely and overshadowed the anxious whispers deep inside her. 

She started walking over the bridge, ever so slowly she put one foot in front of the other and when she was halfway over she stopped and watched the ducks for a while. She came to think of Robert and how he had asked her to go with him. His kind smile and the roughness of his hands. She hadn’t thought of him much in over fifteen years, it was as if the memory of him had faded, only to come back with the heaviness of something you once lost. How would her life have turned out if she had said yes, married him and moved  away with him? What would she be like? Would she like herself more? 

When she got over to the other side she looked back. Something was lying on the ground beside the stones. At first it looked like a skull, the skull of the woman she had been a moment ago, she thought, but it was just a tree stump and an overgrown stone. 

She felt lighter on her feet as she headed home. Something was different although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Perhaps it was the weather, the clouds were traveling the sky, making it dark and bright in turn and the memory of the bridge faded quickly, but didn’t quite vanish. 


He woke her up with scones, a single red rose in a small vase, a small present wrapped in pretty blue paper and a card. She smiled at him, kissed him lightly on the mouth, the smell of him felt a bit strange today, as if it was unfamiliar and yet she’d been smelling this man every single day for over fifteen years, hadn’t she? A memory came over her, a feeling of solidarity that she had longed for once upon a time, but that had turned into a dark, anxious pit in her mind. 

“We’re going to the park.” he said, “You can paint something, if you feel like it,” he told her. “Open the present.”

Inside was a small silver necklace, a simple infinity symbol. He helped her put it on and she knew he recognised the joy in her smile. They drank tea in her rose cups as they ate the scones and she stirred with her silver spoon and thought of how she used to walk alone through the forest to her grandmother and how her grandmother always told her not to cross the old stone bridge. She had always been fond of that bridge. And she didn’t regret crossing it that time. 

They walked to the park, so she could paint and he could read underneath a tree. The perfect Sunday outing, she thought.  

“Did you really like your present, no faking?” he asked her. She nodded her head, put the brush down and lay down beside him. 

“I loved it, no faking,” she said, and it was the truth. 

She painted the bridge that day and found herself wondering if she would ever walk it again. Doubtful, she thought. It was time to settle, and she was terrified that next time the bridge would reject her somehow, she wasn’t afraid the stones were going to crumble underneath her feet, but worried that everything else around her might. She also feared that the old feeling would return, the feeling of restlessness, discontent. She would have to fight it with everything she had. 

“Is the book any good?” she asked and picked the brush up again.

“It’s not bad” he said, “not life-changing though”.

“Those come by so rarely,” she whispered. 

“What did you say?” he asked, turning a page. 

“Nothing.” she smiled. “Let’s have salmon for dinner, shall we?”

He didn’t answer, was deep in his book and she didn’t mind, she needed to capture the bridge perfectly. She didn’t know quite why, but she felt it was essential, like painting the picture would freeze the moment and let her be happy forever. 

But of course forever is a very long time and the magic of her brush was small in comparison with the eternity she faced, and all the versions of the bridge she would have to walk in the future. Hopefully the magic of her brush would prolong the moment somewhat, let her linger where she wasn’t lonely.  

Spark by Bryan DeLae

Spark by Bryan DeLae

Eygló was born and bred in Kópavogur, Iceland. She studied literary theory at the University of Iceland before moving to the south of Sweden where she is playing house, taking pictures, writing, reading, running and living, when there is time. She never grew up enough to start drinking coffee, but she does know how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull and how to do a fishtail braid. Instagram and Site.

THE BRIDGE is copyright © Eygló 2015

The Salesman

by Eygló

I am looking out the window, from my apartment in Dis, down towards The Darkest Sin, where the highest of the low live. I see that the light is on in one of his majesty’s suites and I stand and wonder what he does in there. 

And that’s when I realise it. It just hits me.

I am happy here.

It’s the uncensored, bloody truth and it hits me like an avalanche of hot, sulphur-stinking lava. Sure, it has its downsides being here, but have you ever been anywhere that the description didn't fit? 

I don’t know exactly what it was that landed me here, but I don’t resent the fact that this is where I ended up. I guess I deserved it too. 

I don’t know much about the place. I don’t know if it was designed to just bring like-minded souls together or if it was actually meant to punish those who did wrong in their lives. That's what we believe hell is for, right? 

The fire pits, the flaying and the torture is no picnic, obviously, but we all go home at the end of a long day, just like we used to — and to be honest, this is easier. All you have to do is show up for work. The demons handle the rest and there is room for advancement. You get Tuesdays off and if you endure the punishment that’s been picked out for you personally, you get to be the one dealing out the blows in the future. There is also administration, bureaucracy, not to mention the entertainment industry or marketing. And if you’re talented you might get the chance to excel, to design and built a house like The Darkest Sin, or paint something to decorate the walls of his majesty’s suites. There are opportunities here, and shrinks for those who can’t handle the pressure.

Of course, it isn’t all hunky-dory. I won’t lie to you. If you’re still up there, enjoying the sun and somehow reading this, then I won’t claim it’s all good. This place isn’t for everybody, but neither is Iceland, New York, Sydney or Bora Bora for that matter. You do what you have to, you endure, not always happily — but life still happens. 

Even down here, it does, and this time you come back again and again, like Odin’s einherjar on the field of Valhalla, who all woke up from the dead, ate a giant meal and drank beer after the battle was won or lost. What a life! Or death, whichever you prefer.  

When I opened my eyes for the first time down here and saw a demon wearing two horns, a tail and a rather pathetic-looking snout welcoming me to hell in a hoarse voice, I really thought that I would be miserable. I must admit I was a bit surprised too, it’s not something you expect even when you’ve done the things I did.

I guess you could compare it to being sent to prison. I was fucked. I was sentenced for shifts in the fire pits but later I got promoted into the river of boiling blood. We call it River Sanguinem, or Seq for short. I spend my days there. An average working day is about ten to twelve hours. Afterwards I go to the local pub and take a drink, both souls and demons alike do that. After hours we’re all equal, more or less. 

Dis is a dark city. Above there is nothing but darkness, and the lights emanating from the houses and the streets seem somehow to get gulped up by it. As I stand watching it buzz with life, I revel in the drunkenness I feel from the beers I drank earlier and I revel in the love I have for this city. Especially though, I revel in the love I have for the harpy who feeds upon the rooted souls. Her name is Elá and she gets mad if you pronounce her name wrong. The rooted souls are stuck in the sand all day long, and they are fed upon by the harpies. Elá has a beautiful dark hair, glaring eyes and a bosom so big on her dark, feathered body. That was the first thing that struck me about her. She folds her wings when she enters the bar and she only spreads them out when I ask her very nicely. I long to become one of rooted souls. 

I felt the passion towards her right away. What I didn’t expect was that I would find a soulmate in the midst of the fires of hell, deep in the city of Dis, where the sun never shines and all you can see in the sky is the occasional demon on his way home from work. 

I watch The Darkest Sin and I hope one day to be a resident there. I do. I hope that my talents will come to use, that I will be recognised and offered a place there, among the masters, maybe I’ll even meet the mayor himself one day. 

I never expected to be happy in hell. At first I wallowed in the sickness that comes from the stench of the pits and the agony that daily life brings, but the realisation has made me a new man, a happy man. 

I have hope, and even in hell hope is an ally.  

Spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Eygló was born and bred in Kópavogur, Iceland. She studied literary theory at the University of Iceland before moving to the south of Sweden where she is playing house, taking pictures, writing, reading, running and living, when there is time. She never grew up enough to start drinking coffee, but she does know how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull and how to do a fishtail braid. Instagram and Site.

The Salesman is copyright © Eygló 2015

Where Dreams Hide

by Eygló

There is something growing on the trees. It’s alive. I noticed the first time I got here, but I still don’t know what it is. It looks as much alive as the trees it lives on. 

I can’t remember what I was doing here the first time I came, or how I got here, and I don’t much care. I remember I just wanted to sneak a peek. I knew it was magical and that I wasn’t supposed to be here. It was dark and the darkness made everything look grey and mystical. I was so excited, this was my Narnia, a dark and frightening one.

I walk along the fence, among the trees. They look so old, as if they are antediluvian — and maybe they are? What do I know about this place? What do I know of its history? Of its life before me? Nothing. Or not much. I just know that I found it, and that when I come here to walk among the trees the fog thickens and the wind chimes in the distance sound low and muffled, but can still, always, be heard. 

When I get to the trees with the silver leaves, I always stay and just watch for a while. I can almost see the sensibility, feelings, dreams radiating a slight aura around them. The beings on the bark seem to thrive there especially. I always take a long time walking underneath those trees, hoping I can find a leaf that has fallen to the ground. 

When I do, I pick it up carefully and go to sit down by the fence. I lean towards it, but it isn’t very comfortable, the wood is old and it needs to be repainted, it’s easy to get splinters if you’re not careful. But it is better than sitting by the trees. They don’t give much support and always seem to squirm away, like a fidgety child that doesn’t like you very much but is too polite, or too shy, to say it. 

The silvery leaves that fall to the ground are filled with dreams that aren’t mine. It’s quite wonderful. I sit with the leaf in my hand, feeling the heaviness of it and the rough texture between my fingers and the way it emanates the strongest of emotions. Emotions I have never even felt before come to me, and in my mind's eye I see things, wilderness, landscapes so fantastic that I doubt anything like it has ever existed in the whole wide world. I see wonderful people, evil doers, monsters, men and women who lived long ago, or who never lived at all. I see tales, long and short, told like they are playing right here within me, like they belong to me, like they are my own memories. And they become a part of me. I hide them within me.

I never pick the leaves that haven’t fallen. They aren’t ripe and I know that plucking them, before they are ready, leads to nothing but madness and death. I was warned by someone who used to wander the garden, if a garden is what you can call this place: a garden is kept but this place keeps you, like a rose in the shade. She was an old woman, smaller than a mouse with grey wavy hair and cold eyes. She whispered the secret to the leaves, said that the leafs would claim me if I broke the rules. Then she walked into the garden, plucked a big leaf of one of the silvery maples, sat down by the picked fence and just vanished. 

I saw it all, in my mind's eye, from one of the leaves, and I don’t know if she is me or I am her. But I know the same thing will happen to me one day. I don’t fear it. I don’t dread it. I will become a memory here myself, a dream, and I will hide in the garden until I am ready to fall and if I’m lucky someone will pick up that particular leaf, feel the smooth texture underneath her fingers and be overwhelmed by the stories, by the notion that I’ve stored. 

And I will always belong to this place, because I am your wildest dream and this is where dreams come to hide. 

Spark by Michael Marshall Smith

Eygló was born and bred in Kópavogur, Iceland. She studied literary theory at the University of Iceland before moving to the south of Sweden where she is playing house, taking pictures, writing, reading, running and living, when there is time. She never grew up enough to start drinking coffee, but she does know how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull and how to do a fishtail braid. Instagram and Site.

Where Dreams Hide is copyright © Eygló 2015