Kali — Archangel Oracle ~ Divine Guidance

She has been viewed with fear because of what She represents and brings. These energies are necessary to clear away dead and limiting behaviours and mindsets. Change can be painful, especially if we’ve been procrastinating.

One wonders what She is bringing for many of us during these tumultuous times.

Daily Angel Oracle Card, from the Goddess Guidance Oracle Card deck, by Doreen Virtue, Ph.D: Kali ~ Endings And Beginnings Kali ~ Endings And Beginnings: “The old must be released so that the new can enter.” Message From Kali: “I sing praises to those whose hearts accept the Universal order, which only appears to be […]

via Kali — Archangel Oracle ~ Divine Guidance


The Cosmic Weavers – Thursday photo prompt: Turrets #writephoto


Image: Sue Vincent

It took me a while to get my offering together for Sue’s Thursday Prompt. A strange tale of Cosmic wars, of forces of Anti-Life and Life sparring for all eternity, and hidden truths.

The turrets of this Order of Light shine with a luminous glow, sending out a message to the rest of the cluster of planets in this sector. As long as the light is present all know they are safe. Cycles of cosmic battles have rendered numerous systems vulnerable, dead and dying, and billions weary and fearful of further war.

The inhabitants of this place hold knowledge that is sacrosanct and eagerly sought by many but never found. It is spoken of in hushed tones and desired by envious minds. This secretive order works for the most part in silence, for these Cosmic Weavers create the fabric of universes. They also cut the threads of their creations to start Life anew. This place is one of a vast number of way stations stretched across galaxies and unknown regions of space.

The One that is the Many created these sentinels before time existed and creation was enacted. They were to guard against the brooding multitudes that gazed across the Abyss and sought dominion over the living and awakened. Beings of Anti-Life seek Life, in order to dismember and scatter it across the heavens. Chaos is necessary to break down all that is unnecessary and past their life-cycle. When the equilibrium is unequal, Cosmic balance is shattered and the long Night overshadows all. The same applies to the concept of Order.

There is perfection in symmetry, for the art of the Cosmic Weavers is to create blueprints encapsulating harmony of number, geometry, sound and light waves. As for the Cosmic Weavers, they are beyond Light and Dark, Chaos and Order, Good and Evil. Their true essence is unknown and cannot be known. The words of their Order are emblazoned across the portal to the monastery and hints at what could be:

“I have seen the face of the One that is the Many and partaken of their Light. I am the Weaver of Life and its Executioner, I am the Truth hidden within the Lie, I am the Light hidden within Darkness, I am the Hope that flows unending, I am the Parent to the Child, and I AM all that is and will ever BE.”

The turrets are incandescent on this occasion, for the Light of one Order member has returned from a mission deep in the heart of the desert wastes to the south of the monastery.

“I have seen the face of the Sleepers arisen from the Abyss and the sum of their hatred and envy” so speaks the scout.

The gathered intelligence is scrutinised in minute detail, and appropriate action taken by the Council. The news is of a disturbing incursion into the star system next to theirs. The Sleepers in the Abyss had awakened and captured a planet, laying it to waste, all light had been consumed as well as sentient life. The planet now exists as something not of this reality. It whispers of a craving hunger that can never be satisfied. Light and Dark are not in themselves either good or evil, intent in their use is everything.

The ancient evil has arisen, vengeful in nature and cunning in operation. They feel its essence drip into a vast ocean of darkness that is not darkness. Some call it a black hole but that would be an incorrect description of what it constitutes. The Council makes the sign of protection and bars the image from all sight, then the Cosmic Weavers step forward and unravel the fabric of reality piece by piece. The Light of the turrets becomes brighter, expands outwards and engulfs everything in its path. The inhabitants of each planet in their star system and others hide within their homes, the cleansing is approaching and it would be fatal to get caught in its path.

The Light approaches the planet that is the stronghold of the Sleepers, and enfolds it in a net of infinite strength and power. It is done, the threads have been cut and the beings of Anti-Life are withdrawn from existence and memory. For now.

The one who is the scout opens their eyes and surveys the scene in the Mirror of Being. Their work is unfinished as vigilance must be maintained at all times. Some may wonder why this duality exists, Life and Anti-Life existing at opposite poles. Without this tension the multiverses would be barren receptacles, silent and forever clothed in blindness. They clear the visions in the Mirror and gaze into the heavens.

“I have seen the face of the One that is the Many and partaken of their Light. I am the Weaver of Life and its Executioner, I am the Truth hidden within the Lie, I am the Light hidden within Darkness, I am the Hope that flows unending, I am the Parent to the Child, and I AM all that is and will ever BE.”

The words vanish into infinity and the Cosmic Weavers return to their silent work.


Fan – Twittering Tales #84 – 15 May 2018


photo by malmanxg at unsplash

Kat has provided another marvellous Twittering Tales  challenge for us. I could have written at great length on this encounter in the cinema, but this will have to do for now.

“I’m such a big fan of yours”

“Pleased to hear that. You want me to sign that?”

“Thank you. I loved you in The Seventh Seal

“Nice to hear”

” If you don’t mind me asking, what’s it like being, Death?”

“Great. Flexible hours and good pension. Here’s my card, see me tomorrow.”


(279 characters)



Each Tuesday Kat Myrman will provide a photo prompt. Your mission, if you choose to accept the challenge, is to tell a story in 280 characters or less. When you write your tale, be sure to let her know in the comments with a link to your tale.

A final note: if you need help tracking the number of characters in your story, there is a nifty online tool that will count for you at charactercountonline.com.

Finally, have fun!

And REMEMBER…you have 280 characters (spaces and punctuation included), to tell your tale…and a week to do it.

Song of Passing – Fallen #writephoto


Image: Sue Vincent

A short offering from me for Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt.

It has to be short because the words are running round in my head and need to exit in the right way for maximum impact. Ah, the joys of creative writing!

I sing for you a song of passing, one that speaks eloquently and without reason. For they are opposite poles of existence, of a life lived to the fullest capacity.

We mourn one that has passed from this world, fallen shattered, dashed on earth and stone. They were both divine and yet to become human, one changing to the other. For what is perception but a change of perspective?

The world turns on its axis, shouts in exhilaration, but all is silent now, all is darkened. For the stars have been dimmed, their voices hushed in respect for the passing of one of their kind.

O beautiful and incandescent Light, we grieve deeply, mourn your essence and wisdom! Yet, all is not lost. We gather your stardust flung across the heavens, and sprinkled upon the Earth. Thus is your sacrifice sanctified.

I sing for you a song of passing, one that speaks eloquently and without reason. For they are opposite poles of existence, of a life lived to the fullest capacity.

The Doors – Twittering Tales #82 – 1 May 2018



My restrained offering for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales: 

“Choose two doors, but be very sure of your decision.” His voice was soft.

She felt it cut her soul, quick, with no hesitation.

“One leads to immortality, the other to total annihilation, as if you never existed.” He sighed.

Memory and Forgetfulness. What a choice!

Azrael smiled.

(279 characters)



Jewels in the Claw (i) — Sun in Gemini

An intimation of the events of the April workshop by the author of this mystical drama. Steve Tanham is also one of the directors of the Silent Eye Mystery School.

There is a moment when he stops, puts down his packing box, and looks at what remains of the Court Floor. It is the last vestige of a creative journey of twelve months, of twenty souls intent on giving their all to the rather unusual script, and of a Silent Eye spring weekend at […]

via Jewels in the Claw (i) — Sun in Gemini

Shadow: Exploits of the Guild of Dishevelled Assassins – Part 2

Image: Splashi, Pixabay

It’s been a while since we visited the shadowy world of the Guild of Dishevelled Assassins. Last time a tricky situation was “managed” confidentially and unpalatable truths uncovered. To recap, embezzlement and “accounting errors” initiated a major investigation. The matter threw the higher echelon of this venerable institution into a frenzy of recrimination and soul-searching. One of their own was stealing from them and senior members were also implicated. It was the kind of issue that soiled one’s soul, and many of the Guild took the insult personally.

The perpetrator was apprehended and put into protective custody. He was eventually moved to an unknown location in a cold climate, a fitting punishment in view of his fear of snow. Meanwhile, the Guild’s best specialist was asked to investigate the “sordid business” as one elderly member commented through gritted teeth. She was unorthodox in her methods, combining the best of ancient and modern techniques. Poisons and necromancy were her weapons of choice. The woman was a mere youngster (2008 on her last birthday), with many Guild specialists averaging 7000 years. Regardless, she carried wisdom and knowledge that was worthy of a senior Guild Assassin.


ThomasWolter, Pixabay

The Guild was established to act as a sentinel, Watchers as they were known in certain quarters. They were Overseers of balance in this world, for the Universe was a place filled with all manner of shadowy entities crawling out from the Abyss. The morality of their work was debatable to some, but someone had to clean up the detritus proliferating in the corners and behind wardrobes. Metaphorically speaking of course. Although one specialist unit operated as a cleaning service, they gained entry to many places without raising any suspicion.

Image: ThomasWolter, Pixabay

The trail had left north London and made its way to a remote village in the Languedoc, France. Meanwhile, the specialist, let’s call her Ms M, made her base in a property owned by the Guild in north Wales. It was used by all operatives who worked on cases that were considered a little “unusual” by the Guild’s standards. Which meant high level misdemeanours. Ms M kept to herself, the story being she was renting a cousin’s cottage for several years. It would take that long to investigate every minute detail of evidence. Her cover regarding work was an administrative job in the nearest English city, Chester. It was a mundane existence on the whole but nameless things were stirring beneath the surface.

Ms M was liaising with a number of contacts nationwide in the course of her investigations, fellow guardians of portals forbidden to all but the “prepared.” Their work involved clearing the immense levels of toxicity generated by humankind. Unnamed entities fed on this negative energy and milked their human victims, thus ensuring a limitless supply of food. It was a task that had continued for thousands of years, and likely to continue for several more. Her work occasionally impinged upon theirs. Suffice to say these collaborations were difficult at times, especially in relation to this investigation.

Ms M’s sources in the Languedoc reported back, events were taking a strange turn. The Guild operatives on site were managing to contain the situation, and the clean-up process was swift, seamless even. All the individuals brought in for questioning had mysteriously died, and not in a particularly clean way. Meanwhile in the UK, Ms M was preparing to appraise this case with a different approach. Communications had stalled and it was frustrating her. She finished encrypting her email, hoping it would reach its destination. The late afternoon sun streaming through the window made no difference to her mood. What would the next day bring?

Here endeth the second chapter in the story of the Guild’s investigatory and “cleaning” activities.

Oracle of Blood, Bone and Spirit



I return once again to the saga of Seraph, an angelic visitor to the earthly realm. This may be Seraph’s final outing. It’s hard to say what he’ll decide to do after meeting with the Oracle of Bone, Blood and Spirit. That is to say, it’s hard for me to decide what to do. Seraph’s presence in this world has a purpose, to gain greater understanding of the human condition. An ambitious endeavour on my part to glean insights from the experiences of such an exalted being. It’s a “two-way street”.

I long to understand the plan behind humanity’s creation and evolution, but hesitate to attach a label to the Greater Consciousness who created the blueprint of this Universe. My spirit baulks at naming this consciousness as I believe words can’t describe the totality of this being. The reality is that I’ve named Deity according to the spiritual tradition being followed.

I’m in a number of mystical orders that draw their membership from many faiths. We work together in the spirit of fraternity to work for the betterment of our fellow human beings and the societies they live in. This is in accordance with the laws of those societies of course. Why reveal this information now? It may give an insight into the motivations of some of my characters, including The Alchemist, Amunet, Anubis and Seraph. This blog is called “occasional musings of a wandering mystic” for a reason.

Anyway, the purpose of Seraph’s meeting with the Oracle is to” tie up loose ends”. He travels to a place in an unnamed location where the Oracle waits for him. There are others present, including Amunet, Anubis, Thoth and Sekhmet. They’re silent bystanders to a ritual of sorts, perhaps it’s a test. A dialogue ensues between the two, as well as an examination of the essence of the entity called Seraph. He’s the Oracle Bone from which the Oracle will divine the outcome of his questions. Many cultures around the world, past and present, have used the bones of animals to divine answers, usually through heating with fire and interpreting the cracks produced. The answers are then inscribed on the bones.

This story has been waiting to be written since the end of last year:


The way is hard and long, seems this has always been the case. The end is near, I can feel it. The images of life flow past my eyes, dripping in a life force so potent that my DNA is dissembling atom by atom. I’m being reshaped, trying to hold it back but the tide is too strong. There’s a light in the distance, not too far now. The forest appears to have no end, it holds old magic, and memories of times before speech shattered the Great Silence. So this is the place of my Unbecoming.

(He stands expressionless, then moves forward).

A woman stands at the end of the path, staring sightlessly at the approaching figure. Her face is calm, embodying the clarity of a pure pool of water. She can sense his vibrations, so different from all other humans. His atoms yearn to be free, they call to her insistently. “Soon, soon” she tells them. “Such a beautiful spirit” she thinks. The Oracle stands in the centre of a large circle illuminated by the light of several large braziers heavy with the scent of incense.


(Stands outside of the circle).

You called and I came Oracle. I’ve so many questions but on one level don’t want to hear the answers. The change has started and refuses to slow down. My mind is so clear now, returning to its former self, but once that happens all these memories will disappear. Seraph will cease to be and my journey back to the stars, home, will be a certainty.

(Pauses as he stares at her startling and haunting blind eyes).


Come forward my fallen star. I’ve watched you for so long that it feels like you’re my own kin. So many questions in those dark, dark eyes. Truly you’ve brought a piece of the starry firmament to Earth. I feel your song and weep at its beauty. Home, how poignant your voice sounds. Yet, you have no sense of what you were before. That’s changed, your moment has come my fallen star. The question is, are you ready? Where’s your tongue?


(Laughs and smiles back).

Here I am, doesn’t that confirm my willingness?


(Stares at him, eyes blazing with humour and wickedness).

Is that what you think? I hope you’re ready for what’s coming, for it will tear you apart, throw your flesh and limbs to the ground, and drink your blood till its thirst is quenched. Come forward, closer.

Seraph reaches her at the centre of the circle, then seven figures come forward to take their designated places. There are three white robed figures and the other four, well, faces that are deeply imprinted upon our psyche. Amunet, Anubis, Thoth and Sekhmet. So begins Seraph’s trial in this consecrated place. The Oracle places her hands on his face and sends her consciousness within his body. He feels it gently flow through him, seeking something. Two minds meet at a point which is neither present nor future, as for the past, it’s dissolved into the Great Ocean of life.

Too soon he feels a fire spreading through his veins, it scorches everything in its path. That is until his shoulders are reached. Then the flames sink deeply into bone and blood, and drag him into a sea of acute sensation. He asks and she waits to see what unfolds, what she can divine, what she can foretell. Cracks feather throughout his shoulder bones, they provide answers to questions that have lain unspoken for eons.

Serpents glide across his vision, devoid of flesh now, remnants of cultures and old gods steeped in wisdom almost forgotten. The beast has fallen far, trampled upon in ignorance, tainted with the crime of bringing insight and self-knowledge. How little humanity knows of the truth hidden behind the familiar dogma. Visions rise behind his eyelids, dripping with emotive scenes of lives wasted in fruitless ventures, of loss, resolution and yearning. Love and joy have also played their part in shaping his persona and spirit, given meaning to lives spent grounded in physicality. Has he learned well of what it means to be human then?

The Oracle hears all and keeps her own counsel. She intently watches the feathering of his bones, listens to their voices, heeds their advice. The Seven remain silent, witnessing the unfolding of Seraph’s destiny, and containing the pulsating power within the circle. She finally sees what needs to be revealed, the Bone Oracle has spoken and the time of Unbecoming approaches. Bit by bit his DNA fractures, dropping its atoms into the Void. Seraph’s humanity unravels, the Fates take back what is theirs and give back what is his, his divinity and omniscience.


Does Seraph grieve for all being lost? His questions have been answered, his journey and purpose fulfilled. More than anyone can hope for. The Oracle withdraws her consciousness and prepares his departure from this earthly realm. Seraph gazes for an eternity at his friend and companion Amunet – the “Hidden One” and the Walker Between the Worlds, Anubis. What is now left but a memory of who he was, meditating before the Great Ocean of Creation? Fall into matter is death to worlds beyond comprehension and pure energy, death from the material plane is return to pure energy and a higher state of consciousness. What is there to mourn?

The Seven contemplate this act of transfiguration and step back into the shadows. As for the blind Oracle, her gazes slices through the layers of matter to finally look into the heart of the formless realms beyond the Crown. It is done.


Another intriguing blog that caught my attention. This post raised a smile. You may think me strange, human nature can be at times.

Death sighed sadly to herself, she exited her battered old VW beetle. Secateurs in hand, she strolled through Maggie’s ward unseen by all. Mr. D’arcy trotted at her heel, a large doggy smile on his face. Maggies ethereal form stood beside the corpse of Maggie Trout. Wild and terrified was her expression; her […]

via The end. — therebemonstershere.com

Meeting at the Crossroads

JanBaby, Pixabay

A crossroad beckons on the horizon once more, and my feet are approaching it at a leisurely pace. So unlike me it has to be said. Evidently I’m mellowing in middle age.

Change is a coming and I’m not sure how to face it. Much like my reaction to prevailing weather conditions. It’s been cold, windy and rainy for weeks, and I haven’t even ventured into the garden to say hello to its inhabitants. My usual seat at the kitchen table has remained empty, which is a shame as it’s an important part of my writing and dreaming. It’s window facing and provides a lovely view of life unfolding through the seasons. It also gives me space to go inwards and sense the emotion of my inner landscape. One might say being a spectator has its uses, but disengaging from participating in life’s dramas makes Jan a dullard indeed.

The spectres of inertia and frustration are ever-present in our lives, beasts that are unwilling to loosen their grip. They gnaw at our innards and inject soporific poisons into our veins. We need all our courage and survival instincts to break free and run. That is until we get to a place of safety and gather our resources, summon our magician’s powers and bind the damned creatures. I’m talking more Gandalf than Harry Potter.

“More Gandalf than Harry Potter?” a voice queries from behind me.

That voice, with deep threads of mystery and dark wickedness running through it. His Nibs. I’ve neglected him for a while, just as well. No disrespect mighty one, the work we will be undertaking will require all of my strength and resilience, as well as hope. The path I’ve chosen to walk isn’t easy, more fool me! When you ask to enter into the service of Anubis, you need to carefully consider the implications of your decision. He’ll test your substance and spirit to almost breaking point.

He mutters with indignation, “that sounds a little harsh, you’ll scare them off.”

“Sorry, but it’s the truth. No point in sugar-coating what’s essentially a season ticket to the Underworld and Duat, ferrying the dead, lost, guiding initiates, breaking through fear, glimpsing awe-filled mysteries. I could go on.”

“Fine, things have been a little difficult for you lately, that’ll die away. Sorry, occupational hazard.” His voice trails off at the withering look on my face.


View from kitchen window, Jan Malique

Human existence appears to be experienced in cycles and tantalising episodes in a rite of passage drama. Rites of passage seem to be barely celebrated in modern societies; almost becoming relics from a past that’s viewed with curiosity and nostalgia. That’s my opinion. Commercialism and materialism have taken over, retailers dictate when and what we should be celebrating. We’re urged to empty our wallets and spend rashly on the old plastic in order to show our affection and commiseration on specified dates. Why? Can’t we be trusted with showing care at any point in the calendar year?

“I like seeing you like this, a good rant releases useful chemicals in the brain. Go for it my little friend.” Says an ancient Egyptian God wearing a hoodie.

He then flashes the Ace of Spades in my face. I look at it and wonder why he’s showing me the card.

The Jackal God watches closely, absorbing every detail of my expression.

“The Ace of Spades is traditionally considered the Death card, but not always with physical death. It’s associated with personal transformation, changes, endings and beginnings. Such things are sometimes viewed with fear and troubled minds. Yet, there’s no rebirth without the ending of our old selves. New growth can’t flourish without removal of all that’s dead. This card symbolises ancient mysteries and hidden truths. See it and drink in its message.”

I understand and tell him “Death has appeared many times when I’ve consulted the oracle.”

“Who’s the oracle? Anyone we know?” he asks quietly.

I answer equally quietly “The Magician’s Tarot by Quareia.”

Pexels, Pixabay

I can see the readings vividly in my mind, beautiful but disquieting images. Portents of seemingly dire events and possible futures, of messages from powers beyond this plane, of restriction, illness and healing. The Abyss and Underworld showed their faces. There was more but I’m not jumping to any conclusions. He knows all this but isn’t saying anything. Our meeting at the Crossroads heralds a time of reassessment, doesn’t it always!

“How may I serve?” I ask again, for it’s a question that needs to be articulated, with confidence and without fear. I’ve searched for him for so long, entered into the womb of the Underworld and returned changed, not always prepared for what’s unfolded. In hindsight it’s helped in the process of shattering a restrictive carapace and unhealthy conditioning.

I look at the hoodie wearing God of the Dead and Transformations and call his name, ask for guidance and clarification. I ask to learn the songs of grief and unchaining as my journey progresses, I ask for the wisdom to recognise and acknowledge the lessons being bestowed, for myself and others. He takes me to the Saqqara, the necropolis of ancient Memphis in Egypt, a place he’s walked again and again in long distant times. The sun bleached sand and stone of its landscape still holds a sleeping power, resonating with echoes of the dead and curiosity of throngs of the living.

We watch the two worlds intermingle, their inhabitants pass by each other, sometimes catching glimpses of things that puzzle and induce longing. The centuries roll by before us, he’s seen it all. Time falls like a huge waterfall, drenching us in its spray. There’s only silence flowing around us, gleaming like water illuminated by the Sun. It stretches beyond the horizon. It’s the Silence of Knowing. A tool to break our shackles.

NeuPaddy, Pixabay