A Scripta

Wombat threw the book across the room and a spirit caught it before it slammed into the wall. Ever since meeting that mysterious new alien last night, he had been obsessed. The spirits that followed him had no idea what was an “Arian, Aerian, Airian, Airien, Arien…” and all sorts of variations thereof. He compared angels located in his tomes. Going entirely by feel, he didn’t think it was the same thing.

He had been up all night, pouring through all of his book, binding spirits for discussion, and nothing, NOTHING. He sat down heavily in a huge winged-back chair and rubbed his face.

“Master,” whispered a spirit in an ancient language, “are there many Ahriens?”

Without thinking, he replied in the same language, because that particular spirit laid itself over him. “She kept telling me to talk to a Hope’s Fury, as if I know who or what that is. Wait.” He sat up. “She mentioned Masonry.” He went down and out of the apartment to the pay phone.


“This is a first, you wanting something from me.”

Wombat motioned to the picnic table. The big white haired man sat on the table top, while Wombat nestled on the bench. “Mas’nry,” he said, “ya got a girl in yer band, she’s got wings.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “StarWyng. So?”

“What is she?”

“Aerian.”

“Spell that.”

“A-E-R-I-A-N.”

He looked down then shook his head. “Never heard of ‘em.”

“Oh supposedly there was some sort of war and the Kheldians betrayed them and Aerians ‘eat’ the Kheldian that joins them. Something like that.”

Wombat looked contemplative. “How’r you an’ Lodestar workin’ out?”

“Fine,” he said with a snarl. “Why do you ask?”

“Would he know more about these Aerians?”

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“Mas’nry, I know y’ don’ trust me.”

“Nope. You’re going to take our blood. That’s what you want to do with her, too, isn’t it?”

“Mas’nry…

and the muse fell asleep.