accomplished exile

Micah Shipley. 31. Necromancer. Mentor. Medium. Sin-eater. Psychopomp. “He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.” -- Cormac McCarthy

[wynstxn-zxk]

We all have a l i t t l e darkness in us all...

[micah-shipley]

communion | {micah & boy}

[boyinthegarden-blog]

She hated mornings, but she adored sunrise. An oxymoron, as always. Living irony. Breathing contradiction. Boy thought her old English teacher would be proud for the terms; or at least her mother. Mothers were supposed to be proud, anyway. That’s what teachers taught her. The thought made her laugh with the bushes.

Business likely suffered at the Dew Drop for her spastic hours, this Boy was constantly told yet only mildly aware of, but when she wanted to sleep, she slept; when she walked, she traversed far and wide. The flowers were always there when she got back, she reasoned. There was rarely any emergency when it came to flowers.

Yet apparently, there was something critical in disturbing Micah Shipley amongst the wilderness.

"Are you asking the sun why it came up, the vines why they climb, or why I walk? Because you’ll get the same answer for just about all of those things; it’s just in nature."

[micah-shipley]

Micah's frustration didn't end there, but he tempered it back when he realized it wasn't at her that he was irritated. His mind had begun to feel overcrowded as of late; moments of quiet and communion were becoming rare for him. So often were the moments filled with the garish howl of a banshee or the belittling rant of a ghost. These were the hours he needed to rejuvenate, the hours the universe offered him. To be interrupted, well, that was like being torn from a womb too early. His skin felt chilled, his chest left open. 

"I was working," he explained, standing sentinel over his small, make-shift altar. The incense that burned rose up in the cool, morning air like a suggestion of jasmine, lost it was to the overwhelming scent of the nearby laurel bushes. "People don't usually pass through here this early." Still, there was a bite to his voice, but he could not be angry with her. She was just another facet of the wilds, as bright and featureless as the obliterating light of the sun.

[lupinxwaning]

Ian watched the man carefully up to the point at which he claimed the book that lay orphaned on the table nearby. He read the title swiftly when the man displayed it, the question in his mind arising once again ‘why the hell were people so preoccupied with witchcraft and magic in this fucking town?!’ 

The man was soon back at his table before Ian realised he was again rethinking his plan of moving here in the first place. There was a pregnant pause before Ian’s expression solidified into one of determination and he stalked over to the man surrounded by several other books that looked to be of the same bizarre genre. Ian set his palms flat on the table, leaning forward towards the other man, “I don’t understand. Why is magic and all of this -” he struggled to grasp an applicable word, “stuff so commonplace around here? Is witchcraft and voodoo part of your school curriculum?” he asked a little wildly, voice low but forceful enough to express his genuine concern and confusion around the subject.

[micah-shipley]

Micah slumped into his chair, opening the musty tome to review the script inside. Old, smudged calligraphy. Thin, breakable pages that fluttered in the drafty library. These were the books the necromancer loved. Outdated, full of lost wisdom. He hadn't been expecting the quiet moment to be interrupted by such a staunch demand. Eyes trailed from the stranger's hands, planted as they were on his desk's surface, up to his square shoulders, his clenched jaw and pinched expression. An eyebrow of Micah's lifted slowly in question.

Well, the medium wasn't going to outright tell the stranger that this was a town full of witch's, a safe-haven for the modern practitioners. But, as his eyes leveled upon the concerned expression offered him, there was a realization that this question wasn't asked in accusation, but general befuddlement.

"I'm a medium," he answered without inflection. He didn't respond to the emotions of others easily; no matter how high the spirits of others, Micah remained grounded. "I can't answer for anyone else." 

[moirapearce]

"Everything stays the same in the sense that nothing is forever. And even then there are still truths that withstand time."

[micah-shipley]

"Apparently not in Birchwood."

[lincolnclarke]

Kieren took comfort in the quiet presence of Micah. He would likely not voice such a thing. He wouldn’t even know what words to say. But as routine would have it, he was used to having the man in his library. Or sitting in the passenger seat of that beat up car of his in bad weather. Micah was the closest to a friend that he had. It sometimes made him wonder what friendship actually was. The question made him snort dismissively, a rare smile gracing his otherwise rugged features. “No. Jus’ curious, I suppose. Ya make ‘em t’ough, don’tcha?”

[micah-shipley]

"I dabble," he answered truthfully. His experience with such was very elementary, but if it was to be explored, to be learned, Micah Shipley was on the case. There was hardly anything left in the world which held his fascination that he hadn't picked apart or broken down into terms he could understand. He worked continuously and he worked alone. It was his way. "Jack of all trades, master of none," he said with a very dry and uncertain humour. It was a phrase he'd heard applied to him by others, namely Josephine. He knew what it meant, sure, and it seemed to get a laugh when he said it. 

[aidasamuel]

"And you’re acting like it’s all there is," she speaks with a sense of finality. To Aida, life is a vast expanse. It will end — no doubt — but she cannot wrap her mind around that fact. She is too old to think that she could be immortal, and yet she does. Perhaps it is the fire in her soul, the phoenix within her. If she falls, she will rise. Or so she hopes, so she dreams. 

Death wouldn’t suit her, not ever. Her skin was too warm, her soul too hot. She was sunlight, he was the glow of the moon. They would never understand the beauty of the other, one would always come after. The circle would continue until there was nothing left to do. Nothing left to say. Nothing left. 

She opened her fingers, two flames danced in the palm of her hands as she held them out towards him. “This is temporary too, but without it there’d be no human history. No Micah Shipley who could live just to die.” She closed her fingers and the flames died out — but not before they licked across her wrists. A flame would always fight to survive. 

"You have to invest in this shit, otherwise who’s gonna remember you? Who’s gonna love you? Not a goddamned one."

[micah-shipley]

Micah watched her with all of the reverence he might watch a dying sun. How unlikely it seemed that such a tyrant would fall, but it did so, reliably, a bow of the head to the moon. A quiet dance of balance. A constant tale, untold yet, because it persisted without end. In the end, there would be no differentiation. The sun gave the moon its glow. Life made death important and vice versa.

She was fire, she was life. He was cold and he was death.

There was no sense in arguing. They represented a continuity that was important, that gave the world balance. There was not one without the other and, for that reason, he bowed his head to her in surrender.

"You're projecting, Aida," he said simply. "Just because you want to be remembered, to be loved—that doesn't mean everyone else does." They were notions that the medium could respect, but ones he could not understand. If he ceased today, he would not fight. There were dimensions he'd yet to explore; death was not the final door. 

[micah-shipley]

What is the best compliment you have ever received?

It’s a compliment to know I’ve helped someone with my mediumship. They don’t have to say ‘thank you.’ I can usually tell if what I’ve done has served them.

[micah-shipley]

What is the ultimate gesture of total trust?

I don’t believe in total trust. It’s foolish.

Maybe that’s what loving someone is. Either way, I don’t understand it.

[micah-shipley]

What is something you have changed your mind about?

Maybe there are things worth sticking around for.

No.

[micah-shipley]

What is something you’ve never changed your mind about?

Raising the dead is something I will never abide.

[micah-shipley]

If offered irreversible immortality, would you take it?

No. I’ve already learned what I need to here in this lifetime. Why stay?

[micah-shipley]

If you found out that your life was a book, and you met your author, what would you say to them?

This seems incredibly improbable.

[micah-shipley]

What is one of the best pieces of advice you have ever received?

You may never be truly wary of the flame until you have been burned by it.

But advice is never pertinent until it’s too late.

[micah-shipley]

What is your favorite time of day?

The morning. The spirits are quieter then. I can be alone with my thoughts.

[micah-shipley]

What is a goal that you recently met?

I think I got through to Thomas.

Finished the research required for my ritual.

[micah-shipley]

communion | {open}

The energy poured over him like a wave lapping upon a parched shore; it was palpable, like so many arms embracing him. He could feel the cool slope of a palm grace his cheek, then a gentle wordless breath stir the hair at the back of his neck. The hillside was quiet, despite the flourish of energy he’d conjured. At this hour, teetering on the welcome lavender of dusk, Micah sat alone. Communing. Invoking. Welcoming the spirits of the mountainside to pass through him as if he himself were a threshold. That was when he heard the snap of a dry twig. It may as well have been gunfire. The sanctity in his mind shattered painfully and all that once was inviting and warm power turned cold and sour and was jerked from the gaping channels in his body. His eyes snapped open and his glare was thrown like a dagger to the source of disruption.

He stood slowly, ire in his voice. "What are you doing out here?"

[moirapearce]

"You leave for a few months and come back to find everything’s changed."

[micah-shipley]

"Nothing ever stays the same."