Stories from RhyDin & The Rings

Charlie's thumb drags across the flier.

His skin fills the spaces where the paper's creased; his eye rewrites the words the coffee painted over. There's a P gilded in calligraphy, P looping into O before ending with an E, coffee puddled where the word should be. The waitress smiles and lays a hand on his. Charlie turns and keeps his face away from what the light inflicts.

She says, oh darlin'. Y'all thinkin' about goin' to that old thing?

His hand withdraws, a turtle back inside its shell of fraying cotton. Her fingers skim his sleeve then land noisy on the counter. Nails too long, hibiscus lacquered on the red. Charlie watches her through the mirror the napkin dispenser makes: one brow starts to rise, the latitudes interrupted on her forehead.

Bless your heart, she says out loud, then lays a palm upon her chest. Carpetbagger, when she turns her back to him.

No one else in the diner other than him. The smell of old grease trapped under the laminate. Stuffing poked through the vinyl stools. Charlie sits and listens to the silence longer than the silence likes. And then his eye shuts for the briefest of moments to allow him a dream.

He dreams of a face made whole. He dreams there's a man who looks like him. Hair bleached to some kind of sunlit-ethereal, some kind of tattoo drawing an orbit over an eye, eyes like tiny stars burning towards him from some kind of --

Honey, the waitress turns shrill. You only paid for one coffee.

Charlie opens his mouth. His beard tickles his clavicle.

Yes, he says, yes, and pulls the strings until the hoodie puckers on his head.

The waitress watches him leave. He takes the flier along. A mailbox offers itself as a table. On the back of the flier, he remembers a poem.

How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?

Where the flier leads turns to more people and more noise. A crowd of noise. And through the door, he sees the facsimile. Braided golden hair. Golden eyes. Charlie wonders if it's his brain that stutters, or if it's --

Sirens too close. His head turns down the block. His head turns the other direction. People too close.

His fist balls the flier. Charlie stops a bouncer outside and burdens him with words, first his own and then the ones he had borrowed.

I need you to pass this along, he says. The bouncer opens his palm. Charlie covers it with a five dollar bill. Please, he says.

The sirens are closer. He leaves before they arrive.

Who are you?
It is a mystery to me.
Just give a clue.
For me to see.

Are you tall and fair?
Do you shuffle or strut?
Maybe, you hide in a deep and dark lair.
Or live in the forest in some tiny hut.

Do you like peaches and cream?
What about high noon and tea?
Perhaps, we can talk over candy and a jelly bean.
Do you walk among the bourgeois? (It’s okay if you do.)

Would I know you if I saw you on the street?
Probably not, the puzzle unfinished.
Pieces scattered much like soldiers in retreat.
And my hopes for dinner slowly diminish.

Everyone keeps eating the cake.
And drinking the drinks.
I don’t know how much more I can take.
Dear Charlie, who are you. I am thinking the thinks.

This is absurd.
You’re a ghost..
I will be undeterred.
And now everyone is engrossed. (Because who are you?)

A mystery to me.
A mystery to us.
A mystery.

Dear Charlie, who are you?
Do you like gummy bears?

You can find me me later and tell me!

Rekah’s Ode to Charlie, a ghost

In the end, Conner settled on a free verse poem for Max:

A light out of the darkness
She will guide you through the stars
Daughter of the cosmic dust
Heavenly bodies
Named to life
By the sweetness of her touch

All through the night
She weaves her celestial seduction
Hazel eyes alight
Heavenly body?
Oh yes
Max Lager, goddess starlight

Max's Ode to Rekah Illyriana

She’s magic and sweetness, a lollipop queen,
Everything she touches turns into a surreal dream,
There’s a turquoise shine to her hair, with eyes split between one blue and one green,
Whether she’s coming or going remains to be seen.

Because aren’t we all lucky to see her around,
Even if by chance we should see her frown.
What could it mean, that sparkle to her skin?
Is it magic, a glamor, a trick to reel one in?

If you ask, will you get a straight answer?
Or is it true that she’s more manic than a cancer?
I only want pleasant highs and joys for this sugar coated dancer
So I’ve left strict instructions for the next friendly financer.

Best to sit back and watch, but don’t let her crash.
This magic on two legs doesn’t belong in the trash.
She needs to be out in the open, wild and free,
But perhaps take a chance and invite her to tea.

Don’t corner her, or chase her,
She’ll be gone in a flash
But offer her kindness, compassion,
And don’t be so brash.

Someday I’ll be brave,
I’ll tell her she’s so admired,
And that the greatest gift she’d ever gave
Is that she left me so inspired.

Saila's most epic Ode to a Stranger She Met Ten Minutes Ago, aka Conner Reid:

Ode to That Hot Guy Over There

Hey, Hot Guy over There!
You look good in that suit
And I like the broody look on your face--
It's all dark and mysterious:
People dig that.
Apparently I'm supposed to use a bunch of adjectives, so here goes:
Your eyes are dark like chocolate, which I hear is something people really like a lot
Your hair is black like things that are black, which is rad 'cause that's my favorite color
Your mustache is very imposing like ... a thing that is imposing, but like, not in a bad way
And you have a beard, and that's important because a lot of people really really like beards.
Let's see, what else. Oh! Things about you. I got this.
I'm pretty sure you live in my old neighborhood
--Not that I'm a stalker or anything---
I mean, okay, sure, I know that your favorite drink is whiskey
(Also my favorite, by the way)
And that you like to read a lot
And that you're pretty good at fighting
But I mean, you definitely, *definitely* don't have to stalk somebody
To know those things. Right? Right.
So anyway -- yeah, you're pretty great.
I mean I don't actually know you?
But you've got a good laugh, and
You call your friends 'mate'
--Which is hella confusing if you were raised by werewolves, by the way--
So maybe don't say that if you meet any werewolves
Unless you actually want to be a mate to a werewolf.
Also, maybe don't ask me how I know this stuff since you didn't tell me when we were talking.
Still not a stalker. Honest.
Um... what else.
Oh, the internet says I'm supposed to repeat lines, so...
Did I mention that you look good in that suit?
And I see that you like whiskey, I also like whiskey too.
So let's drink some whiskey together,
And also be awesome friends,
Because you look like you would be an awesome friend
And that's pretty cool.
Also, you're hot.
The end.

Mist was given Saila's name for an ode, but he ended up writing a sonnet. His common wasn't so good that he could easily write such a thing, and was glad to find a rhyming dictionary.

Do you dance in the springtime
when the wildings howl your name
Are you singing in the summertime
Song so bright with passion aflame

When the leaves are falling
Are you spritely across the stage
Do you always hear them calling
And laughing turn another page

Stronger than you believe
Sweeter than the dawn
Look back at all you achieve
Pretty Purple Swan.

When Charlie's poem was read, Mist was frankly astonished. There were few indeed who knew that he had been created, that the runes cut into his skin were not there by his choice. However, he wouldn't let such a strange thing re-define him, he lifted his head and spoke:
"All that I am now I have chosen to be."