Mother of Crow – 06 never fear for this has been known (First rewrite)

Reading Time: 15 minutes


Mother of Crow


By Jenny K. Brennan

This Sundered World - Book 2



A spirit-punk steam-punk tale we don't know where, maybe not even why, and most certainly not how.


Draft exclusive to House of Imp. Copyright 2017 Jenny K. Brennan - All rights reserved.


Chapter 6 – never fear for this has been known

Last updated: January 13, 2019 at 11:15 am

“Wait here.” Frederico whispered to John. “Remember what to do? Okay?” John opened his mouth. Frederico silenced John with a raised hand. “Push. That’s all you need to remember.”
John nodded carefully beneath his disguise. He whispered to Frederico’s feet, “Push. Fast.”
Frederico nodded and stepped back. “Be quiet, be still no matter what happens, and hurry when I say. Again, John, you can do it.” John squeezed his eyes shut. He was as ready as he would ever be. Frederico draped a piece of a torn undershirt over John’s head and stepped back. It would have to do. He opened the door wide, leaving the room exposed. John stood behind the door, for the occasional watcher perhaps resembling a vertical pile of laundry, broken broom handles and a coatrack covered in dust and grime. After one quick critical look, Frederico added the final touch on John’s disguise, a polishing rag infused with years of rubbing oils and dirt. The disguise wouldn’t fool a man, even the dullest of the dullest. And birds were smarter than some. The hope was not to hide, it was for no one to actually look. Could birds smell humans? Did they hear heartbeats? Well, if they did, They would be on Frederico within moments. Mother would have to do something. No prayer came to mind. mother of Crow would help them if she so wanted. But that, the monk conceded was a big fat if. he peered out in the dim corridor and listened to the approaching clatter. They had just run out of time. To the left, the passage lead to a narrow doorway, inside was a dark stairwell, and at the bottom, winding passages slowly opened up into the vast catacombs. The resting place for centuries of believers, sinners, and nobility with the money to pay their way to the heavenly realms of sky and all knowing. The space beneath the monastery stored Tens of thousands of bones mingled with treasures guaranteed to pave the way to bliss. The place gave Frederico the creeps. Even if it hadn’t, it was a dead end in every meaning of the words. There was no way in or out of the catacombs other than that door. But it could also be the perfect place for what Frederico wanted.
The corridor to the right lead after multiple turns and confusing passages to the kitchens, the sleeping areas, and the offices. Corridors branched off into various workshops, chapels and contemplation chambers. The butterfly breeding room, the catacomb door as well as one oddly placed metal shop turned storage room were on the far side of the cloister building, far from the contemplative silences that were the heart of the monastery, . where monks bustled and performed their duties, prayed and punished themselves in every thought for every thought they ever had. He didn’t stop to listen. Judging distance was near impossible in this stone monstrosity. With a final look at his butterfly sanctuary turned death trap, he .
rushed across the corridor and through the opposite door. He went from dim lamplit shadow to darkness. He stopped before venturing far inside the workshop. Inches and shelves to along the left wall, storage cubbies, malfunctioning machinery, and projects in progress littered the opposite wall. The back of the roughly rectangular room hid crates and boxes , stacked high . What Frederico wanted was back there, tucked behind a stack of illicit tomes, confiscated over an unknown number of years. Dusty tomes and and scrolls not suited for the faithful. Frederico knew the title of every book,, had read none. Frederico started through the narrow passage, rushing past tools piled on trays piled one atop the other and by some miracle retrieved the servant automaton without toppling everything around him to the floor. Frederico was responsible for cleaning and organizing the machines the cloister kept, even though they were never used. He kept the few items that were still working in good condition and despite strict rules against it, tested them every now and then. He placed it in the doorway where he had entered. The small rolling drinks table vibrated softly beneath his fingers when he positioned it just right. He left it there and hurried to the stairwell door that was slightly ajar. John had been the last person there. Oh, grace to you, Brother. for never remembering to close doors, putting away the brooms, sealing the water jars. As carefully as was humanly possible he pulled the door wide open, but it didn’t squeak, didn’t even creak. The heavy door opened with barely a whisper. This was too easy. Too, too easy. Since when did anyone tend to creaking doors? But Frederico had in fact oiled this door along with his own just days ago. He had no memory of doing it, and would never recall such a thing. And at this very moment,, even his noticing of something so unusual faded and disappeared completely in-between one beat of his heart and the next. He peered down in the dark stairwell, but there was nothing to see but dusty shadows draped thick over rough stone steps. A hundred of them. Frederico hadn’t counted but that was the word. A hundred short, steep, traitorous steps winding down in an uneven half circle. A hundred steps, a fair number of broken bones to be sure, and one suicidal machine. Frederico cringed when he rushed back to the metal shop door and his robot. He didn’t know if the machines in his care had a sense of self preservation or not. But it was too late to think about that now. it was far too late. The sound of rustling feathers, clicking scraping talons , and a constantly talking old abbot was clearly audible. He crouched next to the Madam and placed a hand on the polished flat top. He regretted what he would do to it. He spoke softly, “Wait, little one wait,” and waited. The sound of visitors grew louder and in another second they were there. They rounded the corner with the ticking of bird feet, a rustling of wings against stone floor, and the slow shuffling from human feet in sandals. The abbotT. Frederico inhaled and readied his command to the automaton standing ready beneath his trembling hand. They just had to get a little bit closer. Suddenly the abbot spoke. Hesitant but accommodating as ever. The old man had stopped at the corner and the guardians halted. “I must let you go on with your business, honoured guests. I shall wait in my quarters. The monk you wish to see is right over there. That open door. Brother Frederico will be pleased.” The old man nearly shouted those last words. Frederico frowned. The old abbot never raised his voice but Frederico had but a fraction of a second to realize that the abbot was doing all he could to prepare Frederico for what was coming. Too little, too late, old man. The guardians didn’t wait for the human to finish talking before starting to move down the new corridor towards Frederico’s room. Ten steps, five. They moved faster than he expected and they were nearly at the open door before he removed his hand from the little servant automaton. It hummed quietly and rocked back and forth in its eagerness to obey. They would have to see how far that obedience would “go.” The robot took off in a straight line to the open catacomb stairwell. It’s sirens screamed at full volume as instructed. Frederico ducked back behind the wall and pressed his back against the stone. . The screaming robot shot along the corridor toward the open door at the end. Frederico held his breath and waited for the reaction. It came a second later when the guardians answered the shrill cry with their own. Three of the remade killers, each as big as a man and a half, shot past Frederico’s hiding place in per suit of the racing madam. Unable to take flight beneath the low ceiling, they rushed forward, half hopping, working their wings that hindered more than helped their progress. Despite that, they moved fast and a domestic servant drinks table was no match for them. Another ten paces further would have left the robot the loser. But before they reached her, the robot made it to the end of the track, the corridor, and the floor. The robot shot through the doorway and over the edge to the stairwell and into darkness. It was airborne for the briefest of moments until it hit the curved stone wall, the siren stuttered and died. The automaton dropped and hit the one stone step after another, going down into darkness. Delicate machinery torn loose and scattered along the way down the stairwell. The birds followed. In quick succession, the three guardians entered the narrow door and out of sight. They clattered and cried, each bird pushing to get ahead of the others, caught up in the hunt. The remade killer birds were still predators by nature and a chase for prey would win over logical thought every time. This was no exception. Screeching calls for death followed the birds down into darkness. Frederico let out his breath. The sound of the guardians grew distant and Frederico stepped away from the metal shop wall and turned to the open door and the corridor. He opened his mouth to shout for John. When he saw what was ahead of him he froze.
The fourth guardian, an obsidian beast roughly resembling a hawk but the size of a tree stood less than three steps away. Frederico pulled hard on air that wouldn’t come and felt every part of him radiating his presence to the killer in front of him. Unable to move, he stared at the beast that stood in the doorway to the butterfly sanctuary, extending a long neck past the doorway to look in. Its sleek head brushed the ceiling as it slowly moved it back and forth. Suddenly it leaned down and with its beak almost touching the floor, it tilted its head and peered under the tables and cabinets. It jerked upright and Frederico could do nothing but watch as the bird stepped into the room. Its restless wings merely a step from the open door. Feathers and razor sharp blades scraped against the stone floor as it shifted to inspect the inside of the big cage that stood empty and silent against the back wall. Click. Click. Metal scratched and talons scraped lightly against the floor as it sidestepped along the front of the cage. It thrust its head against the crisscrossed copper wires to the cage to look closer. A thin high pitched whine rose from the creature. Disappointed, the bird pulled its head back. To Frederico’s relief, the sound stopped. There was nothing to see in the cage Not anymore. Frederico, unable to close his eyes, found himself staring at the guardians wings as he waited to die. One sound, one wrong move, one random impulse to turn around and it would all be over. So he found himself fascinated by the re-makers artistry. Each feather seemed to have grown alongside a thin blade, serrated and polished to an obscene deep sheen. The dust stirred up didn’t stick to the metal even when the tips of the shiny black feathers were grey from dust. Strange, that, Frederico thought. Distant cries from the catacomb stairs drifted to Frederico. Were they coming back up? Did they find the robot and decided it wasn’t what they thought? He couldn’t tell from the fractured echoes if they were coming or going. The obsidian bird jerked its head around, tilted its head for a moment as if listening to the same sounds Frederico had. But something else caught its attention. It looked up with an inquisitive crooning. It was looking at the ceiling. Puzzled despite his dull horror, , Frederico followed the direction of its gaze and his breath caught. From the ceiling hung cocoons. Frederico had attached each one to the ceiling with string of braided silk and tar. There were two-hundred of them at last count, all of them Frederico’s failed attempts to breed a new butterfly. Frederico had done it to remind himself of his failures. But seeing the collection was a shock. He didn’t remember putting up so many of them. Three, maybe four, he could account for. But two hundred? And when had he counted them? He didn’t know.
The obsidian guardian crowed softly and plucked one dry husk from its string in a quick jerk. Carefully, it lowered the chrysalis to the floor and rolled it around with its beak. Finding nothing but a dry exhausted cocoon covered in dust. The guardian jerked upright and plucked another one from the ceiling. Dropped it on the floor and crushed it, again finding nothing but dust and fragile silk. Frustrated, it turned from the cocoons, toward the doorway. It stepped out of the room, swung its head quickly from side to side and started to turn toward Frederico. Just A few steps, away was death and Frederico knew it. It had all been for nothing. The darkness in the metal shop wouldn’t save him. He closed his eyes, damned the mother and hoped for forgiveness in one and the same thought.
Birds may be smart and ruthless. They certainly were clever and superior in many ways. With weaponry seemingly built in, they had no natural enemies that could take them on. On top of that, the phantomthergy which gave them mental and spiritual abilities beyond any humans, made them hard to hide from. But they were also single minded, their attention-span could be considered intense but short. So when a particularly loud screech followed by a sudden clamber arose from the stairwell to the catacombs, the obsidian guardian immediately lost interest in the corridor and the room it had just searched. It failed to see Frederico where he stood frozen. It turned to the open stairway door and the noise beyond. It made a mad rush through the opening and disappeared into the dark beyond.

Frederico opened his eyes. He breathed. The corridor was silent and empty. He damned the trembling in his legs and thanked the mother all in one thought as he rushed forward. “John” he wheezed and rushed around the open door. “John, time to go!”

John didn’t move. He trembled and wouldn’t respond. He stood as he had moments ago. “John, come, push!” Frederico wheezed in his impatience. He pulled the rags off of John’s head. “Now, John. Now.”

John stared dully at him. “Now?”

Frederico forced himself to be calm and put his hands on John’s shoulders, “Yes, now.”

“Bird.” John said quietly and glanced around the room. “Bird? Bad bird?”
Frederico nodded and tried to pull John out of his stone posture. “They’re gone, Brother. “ John was nearly as movable as a brick wall and shook his head. “Birds gone? Are you sure?”
Frederico shut his eyes and thought desperately. John could stand there for hours. He spoke through clenched teeth, “Gone, John, gone. But if you don’t move. Guess what. They will be back. And they will find you. And they will kill us both.”
“I’ll hide.”
Frederico lost his patience. He glared at John and raised his hand. If there was one thing John didn’t like it was pain. And with few other places on a metal armoured man to inflict pain upon, he poked John in the eye.
The big man jerked back with a squeak and covered his face.
Frederico pointed at him, “So now you can move. A poke in the eye is all it takes? Is it? Well, do you want another one?”
John stared at Frederico in shock. And then he snapped out of it. “Move, push, poke bird in the eye.”
“No, John, just push.”
He kept staring distrustful at Frederico as he shook off most of his attire. “Now?”

“Now!”

John rushed out of the room and stomped his way through the corridor. Astonished, Frederico watched the slow minded giant slam the door to the catacombs. He even drew out his key from a pocket Frederico didn’t know about, and locked it. Then with considerable determination and a hellish noise, John put his shoulder to the stone statue that had lived in the corner for over a century. Mainly because it was too heavy to get rid of. The figure depicted three-headed, absurdly muscular dog. It had its spiked tail wrapped tightly around several smaller winged characters, all with their backs twisted in unnatural angles and heads turned backwards. . The statue had always made Frederico shudder but now. It would finally do some good to make up for being created in the first place. Grunting and breathing hard, sweating, John pushed the statue in front of the door. He turned to Frederico and grinned.
Stunned, Frederico gaped at John, looked at the monstrous statue, looked at John. Until that very moment he hadn’t truly believed that John could do it. He opened his mouth but nothing came out of it. Instead he looked along the corridor which was their way out. Maybe they could bring the others with them. Get out and be gone. There had to be a way out somewhere, where they could hide. Or run. Or… he hesitated when the implication of what he had done hit him. There was nowhere to go. If there had been, they would have gone long ago.
“Fred, don’t just dream. Go.”
John stood beside him and pointed at the corner of the corridor. He had shed most of his disguise in his rush to block the catacomb door and he plucked a few more items off his metal suit while Frederico tried to interpret the dusty darkness ahead. Flickering light cast uneasy shadows on the stone and the various idols adorning the walls. Hanging haphazardly on the walls were carvings of faces. The two monks passed a morose row of long dead holy figureheads, now they spent their time impassively watching the last humans to ever walk their floors pass them by.

John and Frederico made it as far as around the corner. A feeble voice spoke to them. “Frederico. John. Best you not go that way, Friends.”
John shrieked and stopped suddenly ahead of Frederico who ran into him. “Father?” Frederico peeked out from behind the mountain of John. When he saw the Abbot standing in the middle of the corridor, smiling at them, he hurried to greet the abbot in a proper manner, “Father, may the Mother be with you.” He stumbled over his words and glanced back to where they had come from. The screeching and scratching told him that the guardians had discovered the trap and worked to break out. “Father, we don’t have time..”
The abbot raised one hand and spoke quietly, “I know, my son. But this is not the way. Our..” The old man grimaced at the word he was about to utter, “benefactors are at the front gate. And every other entrance to our house. We are not meant to leave this place.” He raised a barely visible eyebrow toward Frederico, “I presume that this means your communicator failed to take to the spirits?”
Frederico nodded, with his ears focusing on the birds beyond the catacomb door. How long would it last?
The abbots smile was one of sadness, but also obvious knowing. Frederico fixed him with a questioning stare, “You knew.”
“I have known for many years, Frederico. It would never work. Within these walls,” he made a gesture to encompass the entire monastery, or perhaps the entirety of the world outside. He said, “It held them at bay for longer than I had ever hoped. The original communicator transformed by the mother herself. Before she faded into her oblivion.” He nodded at Frederico’s stunned silence, “She created a ward to keep an eye on those left. A creature that could relay to her how things progressed without her. Well, we know how that turned out. She made a mistake. The communicator fell ill quickly after that. And it suffered the influences of many.” A loud crack echoed in the corridor and the Frederico whirled around, ready to see death come around the corner. But the door held.
“Father, we have to leave. All of us.”
The abbot shook his head, “None of us will leave this place, Frederico my son.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a key of rings. He gave it to Frederico. “No one except for you two. And you need that to do it.” Another loud crack from splintering wood made John jump. Fred?”
The abbot pulled a small pouch tide with a s=drawstring and placed it in one of John’s hands. He looked the big monk in the eyes for a brief moment and nodded. “You will need this, my son.” Come now,” He walked past them, back toward the corridor. He stopped in sight of the catacomb door. Birds scraped and tore at the wood from the inside. Several cracks had formed between the boards. The abbot ignored the birds. But he held out a hand to make them stop at the corner, out of sight. He turned to them and dug at the collar of his robe. A small vial hung around his neck from a silver chain. He smiled again. He indicated something on the wall opposite Fred and John. A small door. Frederico immediately knew what the abbot was intending. The back gardens. There was another way out.
“Come with us!” He desperately urged the ancient monk who just shook his head. “I will not suffer. None of us will.” He caught Frederico’s expression and crinkled his eyes in amusement, “Come no, we are not as ignorant as all that, Frederico my son. Trust me, Frederico, I’m done on this world. If there is something other than this, then I will know.” He grasped the small vial as a life line – a line to an easier death – and looked at the two monks in turn. Finally he nodded one last time and said, “Severin will know what to do. He is back there in his hideaway.” One more crease appeared among the many already on the abbots wrinkled face, “if he is still alive.”
“Severin?Frederico must have heard wrong. Severin was a tale, a story.
The abbot didn’t reply. His watery blue eyes focused on the closed door at the end of the corridor. “That abomination can’t hold them there for long.” He drew a whistling raspy inhale and quickly formed the sign of the Mother and smiled at something taking shape in within his mind. “It is my time.” he whispered, almost whist-fully. “It has been my time for a long time. may the Mother be gentle with us. As and afterthought he said to a spot between John and Frederico, “May she protect all of you on your way to find her.” With that, he started walking toward the failing catacomb door. To Frederico, the man seemed suddenly larger than life, step by step shedding his age, straightening his bowed spine, broadening his form. He took up more space striding down the corridor than was possible. John pulled Frederico’s arm and pulled his mind from his stunned reverie. Then the abbot started singing. His voice filled the space, amplified and distorted by stone surfaces and Mother knows what hidden strengths the abbot tapped into. It was loud, creaky, and strangely pitch perfect. The guardians reacted instantly with a screaming symphony of their own as their assault on the door intensified. The heavy lock disappeared into the wood, ripped out from the other side. Frederico saw the gaping hole for a fraction of a second before the view was obscured by the abbot’s back. But what he saw was enough to jolt him into action. A talon the size of a hand poked through the hole, probing the space beyond. The enormous statue held the door in place but once the door had been destroyed board by board behind it, the statue would be no barrier.
“Fred?” John tugged Frederico’s robe. “They’re coming. Fred?”
And with that, the statue holding the door shut, started to move. Just a fraction, allowing just a bit more darkness to leak out of the frantic turmoil. Frederico didn’t see it, he didn’t have to. The Fred selected a key at random from the big key ring and the door clicked open. “Too easy,” Fred mumbled as he pulled the door open. Oiled hinges, a key that should not fit, a singing abbot. The abbot’s voice couldn’t compete with the birds cacophony anymore but not for lack of trying. Frederico hadn’t recognized the melody but now he knew what it was. It was a hymn never used, never heard. Although all children had to learn it at an early age, they were strictly prohibited to sing it, or even speak of the ancient tune. The song to be performed only in the most dire of circumstances. A text only for the end of days. Something to gather all spirits and all life to celebrate World’s end. He had not heard it sung since his childhood lessons, but the words came to him. Just as fast, he made a point to not hear. As if singing the ominous bittersweet words would make it happen. That was what they were taught. he pushed John through the door and followed him through. Pulling the door , his final view was a frail old man, singing, and the fast glint of torchlight reflecting in a small glass bottle raised as in a toast to the monsters that would rip him apart in seconds. A glimpse of questionable relief for the old faithful man. A shade away from the worst that could happen. But a significant shade. He pulled at the door when John’s considerable hand suddenly squeezed his shoulder. “Fred!” He shoved Frederico out of the way and extended a hand through the opening and shook something out on the floor. Moments later the door was closed and Frederico stared dumbly at the darkness surrounding John. John who suddenly held the ring of keys, locking the door. He had no memory of giving them up. He backed away from the door, expecting it to crash open, for the guardians to rip it open, for something. But it was silent. “Too quiet,” he mumbled through his numb lips, “Ttoo easy.” When a handful of breaths passed and nothing happened, he exhaled, “Okay then.” They turned to face their way forward, “Okay then, okay. This shouldn’t be too difficult,” he said to the darkness ahead. ”

About the author


Jenny K. Brennan is a Swedish/Canadian vocalist, songwriter, and writer living in Ontario, Canada since 2002 with one husband, one dog, and unfinished projects in the thousands. Find her on
The House of Imp,
kompoz.com, and anywhere else Mr. Google can locate her. She studies English and braille at The Hadley Institute for the Blind and Visually impaired. On her free time, she learns Wordpress by trial and error, audio production using Apple Logic Pro, and carpentry by association.


Mother of Crow – 05 – A pleasant little town (Revised draft)

Reading Time: 6 minutes


Mother of Crow


By Jenny K. Brennan

This Sundered World - Book 2



A spirit-punk steam-punk tale we don't know where, maybe not even why, and most certainly not how.


Draft exclusive to House of Imp. Copyright 2017 Jenny K. Brennan - All rights reserved.


Chapter 5 A pleasant little town

Last updated: January 14, 2019 at 13:52 pm

Gabriel listened with half an ear and none of his attention to Jesse’s pointless conversation with a mindless town official in the dirty little office. It had taken them less than a minute to realize that any hope of finding any sense or useful information would be a complete waste of time. The one good thing about it would perhaps be that no one had shown even a hint of hostility toward them. On the other hand, the delusion these people were in was maybe even more disturbing than killer birds and lunatic thugs. This building had the appearance of normality, so far as Gabriel understood what normal should look like. The Mayors office had seemed a good place to find answers, but Gabriel had learned nothing. Jesse didn’t want to call it quits yet so Gabriel let her do her thing. Instead of frustrating over the pointlessness of their visit and despairing over the disappointment burning him, he watched through empty window frames at the street below. So much death and half baked construction, dysfunctional re-makes, broken down automatons, unfinished projects where apathy marked any human face. Dreamy purpose marked others. Those who came and went, carrying empty baskets and women smiled lovingly at lumpy bundles of faded fabric. Gabriel shivered in the reek of the stagnant community that didn’t know what had hit them. Those not dead ate when others gave them food. Those with instinct to survive grew crops of corn and tended pots of grubs. The water collectors leaked and around the base sprouted tendrils of brown vines. A woman picked a vine and dropped it into a basket. She turned and walked away. After a few steps, she crumpled the vine into a ball and stuffed it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, watching the ground before her. Then she looked in her empty basket and slowly made it back to the water canister and picked off another strand of the slimy brown plant. Gabriel looked away from the emancipated woman and looked at Jesse who was still trying to show the mayor that his town wasn’t at all how he told it. Gabriel shook his head and turned to the mayor. “So you are quite proud of this town then.” He said with a smile that made Jesse stare at him.

The mayor lit up and swelled visibly of pride and smug satisfaction. “Oh indeed.” He waved expansively at the town beyond his window. “My people, Isn’t it marvellous?” He continued as he stuck a finger in the bowl of corn mash and sucked it clean with a moan of pleasure. A clerk appeared at the desk and cleared his throat. With a deep bow he placed a small piece of paper on the desk in front of the mayor and disappeared back to a dark alcove where a machine hummed and crackled behind a pile of similar bits of paper. As Gabriel watched, the machine creaked loudly and produced another card that appeared empty.

The mayor looked quickly at the paper on the desk without touching it. “Ah. This is marvellous. My loyal clacker will bring me the answer any moment now.” With a content smile he placed a finger gingerly on the piece of paper and dragged it to the edge of the desk where it fell. It fluttered down to the floor in a heap of similar pieces of paper.

“The answer?” Jesse said carefully.

The mayor looked at her seemingly surprised to see her there, but he answered readily with a shrug. “The answer we all need of course.” As if it was obvious.

“Yes, of course,” Gabriel said quickly, “the answer to the question.”

“Ah, certainly to the question.” The mayor nodded and glanced at the clacker feeding the analytical machine. “The question.” He mused.

“But what question…” Jesse started but at the look of the mayor’s dreamy blank gaze, she tightened her lips and decided on a different strategy. To shut up. It made no difference as the mayor kept talking without the need for prompting.

Gabriel caught movement in the corner of his eye and turned to see a thin figure supporting a voluminous wig staring at him in wide eyed astonishment. As the Mayor kept astonishing Jesse with one pretty anecdote after another, Gabriel stopped listening to the pompous little fat guy and moved closer to the wigged character. The pale little man trembled slightly and shook his head not in warning but as if clearing the wig from powder and his mind from an unpleasant dream. The man suddenly grinned, looked around the decaying office. The grin faltered and he frowned. But then he looked at Jesse and the grin returned. He glanced at the mayor before meeting Gabriel’s eyes And blinked. He gave Gabriel a hint of a nod toward the window and raised his eyebrows. Gabriel looked around the office and caught the shadow of a bird vanishing through the front doorway. When looking back at the man, he was too disappearing around a corner, hurried footsteps quickly disappearing.

Gabriel scratched at a healing burn on his cheek and turned to Jesse. With a nod at the mayor, he offered Jesse his arm and excused them both from the most fruitful of honourable encounters. The mayor smiled and waved them off with a satisfied smirk and turned back to his bowl of grub.

Clack waited for them at the edge of town where neglect transformed into neglect of a different kind. Terrytown was the first populated town they had come to after leaving the train station where they had picked up Clack and left carnage and a fresh set of bad memories behind. The others waited a mile down the road to the South. Gabriel nodded to the scar-faced captain and then immediately shook his head. To Clacks unasked question. Jesse was silently staring at the dusty road at her feet, unwilling to give away her thoughts. Clack glanced at her and then he sighed and put a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder.

G”Gone huh?” He cleared his throat. “Their minds I mean.”

Gabriel nodded and then shrugged. “ Not as far gone as,” he hesitated and glanced quickly at Jesse but she didn’t seem to listen. She hadn’t been talking much and despite everything, Gabriel found himself missing her sometimes irritating chatter about all of Gabriel’s many failings. He looked back at Clack. “The gang back there.” What he really meant was ‘Your gang back there,’ but he didn’t feel that was called for. Clack had saved them from his own band of lunatics as well as the guardians. He had been as long gone as the others before Morette made Gabriel bring him out of it. He knew what Clack was thinking now and shook his head. “I wouldn’t bring some of those people back if I could.” He grimaced, opened his hand and shook it as if that would remove the sensation of the mayor’s sticky handshake. “I mere touched one man. A greeting I well could have been without. I think that was enough for us to know.”

Clack grunted. “Nothing.” It wasn’t a question and he was not surprised.

“Nothing. ”

Clack nodded and glanced back toward the town. He frowned. “did you know you have a tail?” At Gabriel’s blank stare he shrugged. “Well, someone’s hoofing it this way. That fellow is either murderously wanting to get us, or he is getting away from this town in a fucking hurry. Let’s get moving.” He urged them further down the road and to the side. Gabriel and Jesse followed without question. Gabriel squinted against the glaring sun and saw someone running toward them. Someone with ta huge white head. “Yeah, maybe. Must have slipped my mind.”

“Something like that?” Clack snorted as he watched the running man appear to pick up speed. “I don’t know about you, Kid, but I wouldn’t forget such a character easily.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Wasn’t the only odd character….” he mumbled as they approached a stand of scraggly elms at the side of the road

“Oh Mother, what is that?” Next to him, Jesse suddenly swore under her breath and moved behind a tree to watch.

The skinny man from the office, struggling to hold his absurd wig in place as he ran full speed toward them, was screaming. Gabriel thought at first that the man was screaming in terror. But the man rushing toward them and then dashed past them was grinning. Not pausing a second in his sprint as he yelled at them wit wide eyes and gleaming teeth slamming together hard between the gasping words. As he rushed toward them and past in a whirlwind of dust and flapping robes, frenetically pumping limbs and a toppling wig. “Good people! If I may…” gasping, passing.
Clack pushed his companions behind him. The running man shrieked louder as he ran down the road and away from them. Away from the town. “I would strongly advice…” Gasp. “you good people…” he stumbled, regained his balance and continued, “to join me in…” Gasp. “removing yourselves from the road.” With that, he turned and upended himself into the ditch beyond the grove of trees and disappeared out of sight.

Gabriel finally glanced back at the town but didn’t have time to interpret the running mans message before Clack jerked them both off their feet and he found himself face down next to Jesse, both pinned down by the big cursing soldier.

“I knew this was a bad idea. I fucking knew it.” Clack growled.

Then, for the third time in Gabriel’s recent past, the world blew up and everything turned too bright, too hot, and utterly fucking miserable.

About the author


Jenny K. Brennan is a Swedish/Canadian vocalist, songwriter, and writer living in Ontario, Canada since 2002 with one husband, one dog, and unfinished projects in the thousands. Find her on
The House of Imp,
kompoz.com, and anywhere else Mr. Google can locate her. She studies English and braille at The Hadley Institute for the Blind and Visually impaired. On her free time, she learns Wordpress by trial and error, audio production using Apple Logic Pro, and carpentry by association.


Mother of Crow – 04 Mundane things, and water (Revised draft)

Reading Time: 5 minutes


Mother of Crow


By Jenny K. Brennan

This Sundered World - Book 2



A spirit-punk steam-punk tale we don't know where, maybe not even why, and most certainly not how.


Draft exclusive to House of Imp. Copyright 2017 Jenny K. Brennan - All rights reserved.


Chapter 4 Mundane things. And water

Last updated: January 5, 2019 at 19:40 pm

Mary turned off the tap from the water collector and moved the full bucket to one side. She reached into the tepid water and grimaced. Tendrils of slimy water vine stuck to her hand. She moved the hand in several small circles before pulling it out of the bucket. Threadlike greens stuck to it in a clump of wet slimy grass. She tugged at the mess with her other hand; the metal one. When she had managed to gather all the vines in a soppy bright green ball, she squeezed it dry and tossed it over her shoulder and Over the edge of the island that had become her home. It disappeared without a sound. Peering into the bucket, she picked up one stray bit of green and then nodded to herself. She placed a second bucket beneath the tap and turned the crank once more. Water dribbled lazily, taking its time. Mary didn’t normally mind. The vine choked reservoir would eventually give her all the water she needed as it always had. There was time, there was no rush to do much of anything. But time was short. Somehow, it had gotten shorter. “Or I’m just getting older,” she muttered. She was barely forty but her body felt differently. The next water collector would work better, but she would have to make her way to the other side of the Maker’s Plaza for that and she had neither the strength or the will to go that far. This was safer and close at hand. Plus, it was rarely used and never ran dry. Waiting didn’t bother her. Until it did.
She turned her back to the copper collector with a creek of dry metal and innumerable twinges and pinches throughout what was left of her body. Mary stepped carefully to the end of her world and looked down. This took a moment as her neck protested in pain while emitting noises no human body should be able to. Mary cringed. She would never get used to the harsh grinding crackle that made her head ache. But it was easier than trying to fold forward; bending at the waist. It had seized a few weeks earlier. Her lower back would fuse completely if she didn’t do something about it. Soon. She walked with an uneven clunky lumbering gate on the best of days, It was getting worse. She would have to visit the tinkerer again.
She sighed heavily and looked out over the ocean that wasn’t there.
Listening to water dribbling into her pale, she raised her arm to shade her eyes from the misty harsh sunlight. Once again, she tried to make out the land that she knew was on the other side of the dried out sea. There were days when she could. Today was not one of those days. The glaring light made the world harsh and unforgiving.
No different from any other day and she should be able to see if only a hint of the distant main land. But her eyes were tired and the strain made them sting. If she kept insisting they would ache. That was one thing the tinkerer couldn’t do anything about. Her natural flesh which consisted of her head, one complete arm, chest, one complete leg and both feet was beyond his expertise she knew. He could oil her midsection and left leg, adjust her right arm to make it function, but he couldn’t heal her torn skin and aching bones.
That didn’t stop him from glaring at her chest and pretend he didn’t. She lowered her gaze to the edge and the great waterless expanse of death far below her. At the edge of Isle of Machine the land dropped off steeply and fell away in a tangle of rocks and petrified remnents of life.

From where Mary stood, she saw no bottom. Perhaps it was her failing eyesight that made the distant ocean floor look soft and not quite real. She had a feeling that it was better that way. She could think of it as something distant, something from a dream. But pretending didn’t stop her from wondering. What happened to those creatures? All the fish? all the boats stuck on the surface of the sea when it drained out of the world. The land was over there, somewhere, and again she squinted.

The changing sound from the bucket brought her out of her reverie of a world lost and with a grinding squeak she turned back to clean one more bucket from slimy growth. She wondered about the new plants that had started growing all over the island. A stubborn sickly green vine that clung to everything and anything. Even the bare rock that covered most of the island could sometimes sprout ugly plants that had little or nothing to do with real nature.
this island was dead.
She thought of something else. Could it be called an island without the water? Mary smiled weakly and turned off the water collector. But what was the point of remembering? It hurt to remember and she ached to forget. Forget all of those dead and all of those minds lost in the change. She slowly and carefully shook her head. A muscle twitched, sending a spike of hot pain down her spine and hip. She grimaced and pushed the past out of her mind best she could. After cleaning the second bucket of water from vines, she whistled softly. A battered Model madame service robot rolled up on squeaky wheels and announced its arrival with a distorted beep. Mary smiled at the helper. “Oh I know, little one. I may be broken and only half me, but I can see you just fine. You should spare your voice, Dear. You have precious little left.” She placed the water on the flat top of the rolling drinks table that beeped once more. Mary’s smile lingered and she shook her head. “Come now, we best get back before…” Mary let her words fade as she walked slowly and carefully next to the diligent servant of long gone nobility. Before what? She didn’t know what bothered her. She was restless and more distracted than normal. Something was up. She glanced up at the sky that was opening the blinds to its tainted secrets. Unnerving flashes of something that may or may not be the answer. But Mary thought not. “Taunting bitch.” She said, but quietly. Mary’s dislike of the world as it was did not allow her to disrespect the Mother. Not even to herself. She had seen the display thousands of evenings. It never seized to fill her with awe. And terror. Now she made herself watch it again. Soft tones of orange and red crept into the endless misty blue. They quickly changed to deep purple that shifted to ugly green. Streaks of luminous yellow appeared and disappeared. Red gained stains of color Mary had no names for. The emerging lights were just the precursor of the blazing nighttime artistry that was Mother of Crow never letting humans forget. But the deiti’s nightly tantrum wasn’t what was bothering Mary. Something else was begging for her attention. something other. Something far away but right here. Despite the pain, she glanced over her shoulder and swept the horizon with weary blue eyes, as if something would come. If she looked hard enough, something would come. A sudden shiver ran down the spine that was so embedded in metal that she shouldn’t have felt anything at all. She shuddered and closed her eyes, momentarily without air, without time, without thought, simply a vibrating longing pain that she didn’t recognize. For a fraction of a moment she thought she knew. Knew what? Suddenly released from the sensation, she turned violently and painfully away from the sea and hurried away. Away from a quickly fading knowledge that she didn’t know if she could bare. Not yet, she didn’t. so she forgot.
For now.

About the author


Jenny K. Brennan is a Swedish/Canadian vocalist, songwriter, and writer living in Ontario, Canada since 2002 with one husband, one dog, and unfinished projects in the thousands. Find her on
The House of Imp,
kompoz.com, and anywhere else Mr. Google can locate her. She studies English and braille at The Hadley Institute for the Blind and Visually impaired. On her free time, she learns Wordpress by trial and error, audio production using Apple Logic Pro, and carpentry by association.


Mother of Crow – 03 – To panic or not to panic (Rewrite 1)

Reading Time: 4 minutes


Mother of Crow


By Jenny K. Brennan

This Sundered World - Book 2



A spirit-punk steam-punk tale we don't know where, maybe not even why, and most certainly not how.


Draft exclusive to House of Imp. Copyright 2017 Jenny K. Brennan - All rights reserved.


Chapter 3 To panic or not to panic

Last updated: January 5, 2019 at 19:07 pm

A dusty pile of shattered butterfly, a bottomless pit of dread, a shattered future. All of that could be stuffed in Frederico’s memory hole and covered with some blissful ignorance. If it weren’t for the distant echoes of instant punishment and the true consequence of his failure drifting into Frederico’s breeding lab.
He desperately needed to let his bladder empty itself. He wanted to crawl up in a ball on the floor and wait for this horrible moment to end. The sound of their visitors drifted ominously through the silent building, but wasn’t rowing stronger. Not yet. But in a rare moment of pure selfishness, Frederico’s self-preservation kicked in, Truth was: staying where he was, like a fool, would not be helpful.
they would not move ever again. Maybe they would get a last scenic trip to the Nest Capital for repurposing. Maybe. But the look on John’s face shattered all illusion. the big man trembled and any second now he would start blubbering. the sound of click and scrape mingled with the so helpful abbot’s joyful blabber were still far away. The corridor made three turns before hitting the cloisters eastern wing, where Frederico and his Butterfly operation was located. It was in the farthest corner of the oldest part of the main building, closest to the rear gardens and the secondary garbage pile, not needed anymore as the total number of residents had dropped from nearly a hundred to less than twenty in the last decade. John raised a hand and pointed at the door and tried to speak. In an instance, Frederico made up his mind. He put a finger to his lips and John shut his mouth. Frederico’s illusions drained away quicker than he could hold on to them. The benefactors. That word was a mockery. The guardians didn’t accept failure and Frederico had failed. “”Shh.” He stopped to listen. Still distant, but their so called benefactors were coming. Benefactor. In just a few moments, The concept of the guardians as benefactors had become a mockery of everything good in the world. The Abbot believed the guardians kept them safe. Safe from what? He didn’t know. Frederico hadn’t been outside the cloister walls in months, outside the monestary property in nearly twenty years. Where had the time gone? Where had all the missing monks gone? A few of them, like the aged Rafael had died ob old age. A few of the older monks had died from prolonged illness and in one case, a fall that broke too many frail old bones to mend. Where had his mind been? His sense of truth? He suddenly felt his body in a way he hadn’t just that morning. He was thin and his robe hung on his frame like little more than rags. He remembered eating, but didn’t know what or when. He recalled working, but didn’t know why. The butterfly. He blinked the mist out of his eyes and stared at his hand. It trembled. He closed his fist and didn’t recognize it at first. Then it came back to him. The self. I am me.
“Fred?” John watched Frederico with wide eyes, “Brother?”

The sound of John’s voice jolted Frederico out of is inaction. He rushed to the open door and peered out in the misty passage. The sound did not indicate any kind of hurry. The Abbot was one of those that should have died of old age decades ago, but he lingered well past his due date. And he was slow. it would take the abbot a good long while to guide the guardians to the right chamber. If he could even remember where it was. But he couldn’t count on the old monk forgetting. Not this time.
He had to put his faith in age. The Abbot and his visitors had to make their way through a maze of narrow corridors. It was a less than optimal part to live in if one wanted company, but growing butterflies in the midst of monks on duty in the main garden and the library complex was unthinkable. It was also a good five minute walk through dusty passages past crumbling artefact collection and empty rooms and chapels.
he stared at John and his metallic coverings. That wouldn’t be good. And he couldn’t leave the man behind could he? the thought shamed Frederico into action. He quickly inspected the metal parts and knew that as soon as John started walking, the sound would reverberate and spread through the echoing building to eager ears. He looked around the room and thought frantically. Removing the armour wouldn’t work. Unfastening the straps and buckles holding John’s suit together would make just as much noise as leaving it on. But maybe he could do something about that. If John could cooperate. But first. He hurried to the heavy door and tried to remember when he oiled the hinges last. Remembering John’s entrance earlier he tried to recall if the door itself had made any noise. He didn’t think it had. if he was wrong, he was bird food, but if he was right, it could win them a few moments. He pushed the door closed. it swung silently and closed with a barely audible thud. He released his breath and saw what he was looking for. A pile of discarded blankets and polishing rags lay in one corner. John’s tear-filled eyes followed Frederico’s doings. Frederico caught his eyes and put a finger over his lips. He leaned close to John’s ear and with barely a breath he whispered, “We will get out of here. But you have to be quiet. do you understand me, Brother? “ The big man frowned and opened his mouth. Frederico quickly put a hand over the trembling lips. “When I say quiet I mean absolutely quiet. No talk. no moving. No questions!” He waited a moment. John blinked furiously but his eyes lit up and he nodded. “Good, very good.” Frederico didn’t stop to listen. What was the point? He muttered to himself as he got to work.

About the author


Jenny K. Brennan is a Swedish/Canadian vocalist, songwriter, and writer living in Ontario, Canada since 2002 with one husband, one dog, and unfinished projects in the thousands. Find her on
The House of Imp,
kompoz.com, and anywhere else Mr. Google can locate her. She studies English and braille at The Hadley Institute for the Blind and Visually impaired. On her free time, she learns Wordpress by trial and error, audio production using Apple Logic Pro, and carpentry by association.


Mother of Crow – 02 The choices of flutterbys (Revised draft)

Reading Time: 7 minutes


Mother of Crow


By Jenny K. Brennan

This Sundered World - Book 2



A spirit-punk steam-punk tale we don't know where, maybe not even why, and most certainly not how.


Draft exclusive to House of Imp. Copyright 2017 Jenny K. Brennan - All rights reserved.


Chapter 2 The choices of flutterbys

Last updated: January 18, 2019 at 13:48 pm

A voice like velvet, like chill wind over frozen forest floor, of sand over water. It was all of those sounds in one gentle plea. Perhaps the tender tone was a trick of the acoustics in the bare stone room with its unforgiving surfaces and odd architecture throwing the sound in strange ways. It could easily be explained that way if one wished. And perhaps not. Maybe these sweet whispers were honest enough, halting and insecure as they were. The truth was somewhere in between. Deception was the work of the room; the honesty was real. ,And the force of will could not be denied. The man speaking urged and encouraged with soft gestures and careful movements of face and hands. “Come now, Little one. Don’t be shy with me. Come on, Sweets. You only need to do this once. A little bit closer now. Oh, that’s right. Just a little bit. ” Frederico’s Urging whispers spread out in the room and as the sound hit the stone it seemed to grow rather than fade. Gentle words of encouragements turned into a harsh echo of hissing that lingered. Frederico stood leaning forward in a painful posture that left his back constantly aching. His natural hand poked through the aluminum mesh and he held it palm up as close to the newly formed insect he dared to. The butterfly quivered a little as it stretched its newly formed wings in the warm air. Brand new wings spread out proudly, exposing their marvel of colour and form. A still damp pattern in luminous yellow and black somewhere between hot charcoal and pitch quickly dried as it slowly moved the wings against its new world.

Beautiful. Yes, you are.” Frederico breathed almost soundlessly with that familiar feeling of awe. It was an amazement that never got old. But this time however, it came adorned with an aching sense of dread.; A feeling long expected and not really a surprise. He moved the hand slowly, and with practiced smoothness in his approach to his ward, He moved it a barely measurable distance closer to the being beyond the barrier. A single drop of Frederico’s carefully concocted phantomgenic mixture sat ready on the very tip of his middle finger. A clear drop of liquid that would be the first, and last meal the butterfly would get. On the butterflies wings yellow and black appeared to move within their individual shades until one became the other, without a visible change. This was the critical phase. Where the insect was still in flux and could decide to be one of three things. It could finish the process of becoming what it really was meant to be. By letting the colours and shape settle into a normal creature in the world. A butterfly destined to live out its life in a futile hunt for sustenance until it starved and died . A quick and natural death in this unnatural world where butterflies could not survive .

“We don’t want that do we, darling. No we certainly do not.” Among the nonsense words had crept in a dissonance of desperation that the Butterfly tending monk didn’t like. Barely breathing, he let his mind stray no more. The butterfly was still but for the slow movement of wings where the colours were not quite solid, not quite there. Frederico’s mind stilled but not without effort as the butterfly started moving toward the glittering drop on the human’s finger. Slowly, hesitatingly, curiously turning toward it. The monk held his breath. Would this be the one? Would this time be different? Yes, this time they would finally be able to deliver on their promise to their benefactors. The butterfly trembled but calmed just as quickly and moved closer. Frederico’s equilibrium, threatened by his sudden hope, held for another moment where he kept his thoughts strictly on the image of the creature coming to him. He needed to hope, then believe, then be in utter and complete knowing that the insect would come to him. He needed more than endless patience. Patience alone couldn’t bring the creature to him. the butterfly had to decide to come. He was almost depleted of patience. He had the hope. He also had a sliver of belief in his craft. But it was the lack of knowing that had on previous attempts failed him. He had rarely been able to see reality as something different than what was in front of him. But this time he felt it. That rare alignment of wanting and being came over him as the butterfly crept even closer . It would take the plunge and become what he needed it to be. What they all needed this one to make the right decision. Finally. Frederic’s vision shifted and he saw it. Saw the transformation take place. layered with what his eyes saw, he saw what he believed and the future was clear and decided.
Just another moment. Just a single second, a held breath. This time it would come to him. What felt like a lifetime of responsability, of threats, fear, and doubt lifted and he could breathe. Frederico exhale into the endless still moment. The butterfly came for its meal. It flexed, reached. And that was when someone decided it was a nice time to visit. The silent butterfly sanctuary held in a silent reverie rarely broken, shattered with a bang. dissonant shriek of uncoiled hinges and the sudden crash of a door slamming the wall shattered the fragile image and Frederico reeled, suddenly dizzy and disoriented. His perfectly placed fingers shook and his heart jumped into a jolting ra-ta-ta against the insides of his ribs. A loud clamber followed, the unmistakeable sound of a fully suited metal monk making his way across the stone floor but Frederico didn’t hear. He struggled to remain still, to keep calm. He desperately fought to pull back the image and the belief. ”No. don’t listen. That didn’t just happen.” He keened and begged the butterfly. It took him a split second to make his hand go still again even if his racing heart couldn’t be slowed that easily and his mind would not be eased. He stared at the insect in dismay. He knew what was happening and he couldn’t stop it.

What did stop was the moving butterfly. Its world changed immediately and it went from being curious, to puzzled, to frightened at the sudden change around it. It instantly had the knowledge it needed to make its choice. For the briefest of moments, thanks to the phantomgenic infusion during development, it knew too much of the future it was expected to enter. It was in that briefest of seconds that most butterflies made their choice. To live the one day, to evolve and scatter through the world as communicator, or simply to choose not to. This butterfly saw enough of its own destiny and its place in the world to decide on the not. The insect froze and stilled. Frederico swore and he knew it was too late. Still, hoping against the horror filling his body with numbing cold that it wasn’t so. In a last frantic action, he thrust his finger toward it. It could be forced. If he could just get the transforming liquid close enough. If he could just…

The butterfly had finally dried completely which made what happened next so much easier. It decided to break and so it broke. Minuscule cracks spread from the body throughout the velvety colourful expanse of its wings to the fragile edge, breaking the glorious coloured surfaces into pieces. One by one the divided sections of wing turned to dust. The body imploded and all the pieces of the once magnificent beast slowly and soundlessly fell through the air in a rain of soft dust to settle on the worn granite floor below.

Frederico stared in disbelief at the empty branch, then at the finger with it’s uneaten drop of magic brew. Its glittering seemed to mock him. His failure. His weakness of faith. He pulled his hand out and turned from the now empty breeding cage. He shook his hand but the stubborn drop still clung to the skin. He brought it up close to his face and glared at it. To his horror, his eyes burned and he fought against the choking sensation at the top of his throat. He ground his teeth against the emotion he didn’t quite know what to call. He had been so close. So close. He closed his eyes and took a moment to consider the consequences. But only a second.
“Oh, sorry, Brother. Didn’t realize you were in here.” Said a not too concerned voice followed by more metallic noises.
the familiar voice ripped Frederico out of his thoughts and he turned around. Where else would I be? What else would I be doing? The words stuck in Frederico’s throat and the choked gurgle he emitted fell on nothing but an empty doorway and a dim corridor.

Brother John had moved and stood at the table, peering down at the bottle of useless butterfly food, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Frederico glared at the man and absently put his finger in his mouth and sucked off the sticky drop and grimaced at the bitter taste. He turned away from Brother John and sighed. His mind returned to the situation at hand. It was what it was. And what was didn’t look good at all. Oh dear Mother of Crow, Save me.” He groaned at the empty cage with its layer of failed attempts to breed another communicator. The fresh sprinkling of dead insect clearly visible on top of all the others that had crumpled, shattered, or just fallen down deaden silent protest against their destiny.
John creaked, groaned, and clanked to stand at Frederico’s side. “Fred?” He pointed into the empty; cage.

“Yes, John?”

“Am I seeing things or is that thing empty?” Frederico’s fellow monk spoke with a surprisingly high pitched voice as his eyes roamed the remnants of dead insects.

Frederico sighed. “If you were finally starting to see things, my dear idiot, what would you be seeing, pray tell?”

“Um.” John blinked.

Frederico turned toward the door, attempting to leave John in his usual puzzlement. He could stay that way for hours if no one came along to poke him out of his revery of some random thing he had found. This seemed like a good time to leave the man undisturbed.
Frederico paused and let his gaze roamed the rest of the room in a second of indecision. The breeding cage covered one full wall of Frederic’s breeding lab. The rest of the cramped space was taken up by two large tables hosting the phantomgenic still, an incomprehensible compilation of burners and pipes, coloured glass bottles and all the tools. At the very edge of the largest table, on a spot hastily wiped clean merely hours ago, stood a single carefully sealed vial; the result of months of preparation for the last living specimen. Useless now. Frederico tore his eyes from the bottle and hurried over to the tall cupboard standing alone against the opposite wall. He pulled open the double doors and stared at the contents for a long moment before closing it again. He drew a calming breath that left him ready to throw up and started toward the door. He would admit his latest defeat. He would speak to the abbot and explain. He would understand. Surely. He cringed at the memory of his own words, his promise.

“Fred, wait.”

John’s squeek jolted Frederico and he stopped with a hand on the open door, and waited. “Yes, john?”

“Um, I was supposed to tell you something.”

“Yes?”

Brother John had turned to Frederico and the normal puzzlement was gone, replaced with a look of fear. John was fighting to say something, damp lips flapping soundlessly. No words came. The sudden intensity in the monks eyes gave Frederico pause and he stepped to John and put a hand on the metal clad shoulder. John spat the words he had been struggling with. “Don’t go. Fred. They’re coming.” He faltered and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if the rest of his words were up there. Finding them at last, he sputtered. “To see you, Fred.” John smiled, happy. He nodded to confirm his message and then he frowned. “They’re coming to… inspect, that’s it, inspection. But Fred. He glanced anxiously at the cage. “Fred? where are the flutterbys?”

About the author


Jenny K. Brennan is a Swedish/Canadian vocalist, songwriter, and writer living in Ontario, Canada since 2002 with one husband, one dog, and unfinished projects in the thousands. Find her on
The House of Imp,
kompoz.com, and anywhere else Mr. Google can locate her. She studies English and braille at The Hadley Institute for the Blind and Visually impaired. On her free time, she learns Wordpress by trial and error, audio production using Apple Logic Pro, and carpentry by association.


Mother of Crow – 01 – Just another day for Owl who certainly deserves a break (Revised)

Reading Time: 3 minutes


Mother of Crow


By Jenny K. Brennan

This Sundered World - Book 2



A spirit-punk steam-punk tale we don't know where, maybe not even why, and most certainly not how.


Draft exclusive to House of Imp. Copyright 2017 Jenny K. Brennan - All rights reserved.


Chapter 1 – Just another day for Owl who certainly deserves a break

Last updated: January 18, 2019 at 15:15 pm

A scout flittered down in front of Owl and tweeted brokenly through a scrap of paper. It spat out the paper and flittered off. It rose to the dark cave ceiling and vanished through a narrow crack in the dark stone. The opening to the coastal plane above allowed the remodelled finch through, but only barely. Owl watched the messenger until it was gone before he cocked his head and glanced suspiciously at the note. Paper? Paper was an unusual commodity among the guardians. There was only one machine capable of producing paper in the nest capital. And the transcription of that information had proven to be increasingly unreliable. But if Butterfly had talked to its counterpart, or parts, or fractions of self scattered throughout the lands, this could not be ignored.

But it could wait for a little while longer. Owl’s awareness of the worlds constantly shifting states of being didn’t quite prepare him for the idea of manifested thought being able to be everywhere and every time at the same time. Owl was too solipsistic to appreciate an existence that wasn’t focused in one body working within one set of instructions for a set number of tasks organized by priority. Butterfly was a concept. And how could concepts without blood or bones or duty be real.
The communications between butterfly and the rest of Butterfly unnerved Owl. But they were real. There was no denying the value of ever present and all encompassing knowledge. When it worked. Unfortunately most of what Butterfly knew was illogical and inaccurate at best. Deceptively logical and misleading at worst. But still, this butterfly could not be disregarded and until it could be replaced with a fresh specimen it would have to do. Owl had no interest in the dying butterfly and its faulty prophecies. But if the new formula worked as the monks had assured him that it would, the next generation communicators would be useful indeed. They would not guess at the state of the world. They would know. And they would obey. And it would mean obedience without all the softhearted diplomacy Owl dispised. They would have power. Real power. Owl liked power. Power to take knowledge and shape it, not just observe and report.
Owls bloodstaine feathers bristled softly with a delighted shiver. He checked himself and managed to contain his excitement. He needed to be calm. It would be soon enough. There was work to do, never hurry, all in good time. The big white owls scattered thoughts found their proper positions and his eyes twitched to his still grimy coat and snatched up the scrap of paper. He tucked it into a slot in his chest. He gave the human a nod to proceed. Not even thoughts of Butterfly or the sure to be disgustingly diplomatic visit with a hive of humans could keep him from enjoying his cleaning and polish.

The old woman trembled when folding her cloth and continued her work; slowly and meticulously rubbing each of Owl’s metal parts to a mirror like shine. This part was easy. It was the feather cleaning that gave her the nightmares. Blood, most of the time still fresh and sticky tended to creep into every crevice and every intricately carved copper plate and grafted blade base. That was nothing compared to the blood-soaked and now drying coat. This Owl in particular did none of the cleaning himself. It encouraged extra care and unbreakable loyalty, he told his entourage of tinkerers and communicators and yes, the cleaners, at every opportunity.

And so it was. The woman never failed in her duties. Until the day of her death she would never fail, never falter, and never submit. She was too old to fight but never too frail to hate. Unbreakable loyalty, timeless grief, bottomless hatred. Those were the things she knew and nothing else. And the cleaner who was still human who had never forgotten that she had a name once, polished another convoluted silver talon engraving.

Author note:

This chapter used to be a prologue. But it didn’t make sense to me so it has switched place with what used to be chapter 1 – Build me pretty, break me prettier. (It takes place in the past so seems odd that I didn’t clue in on that earlier. But oh well.)
I know there will be a certain amount of rearranging chapters so that the timeline makes sense. So don’t worry if it suddenly gets confusing. No, you didn’t remember wrong, I changed it on you. 😀
It will all fall into place at some point.
Jenny

About the author


Jenny K. Brennan is a Swedish/Canadian vocalist, songwriter, and writer living in Ontario, Canada since 2002 with one husband, one dog, and unfinished projects in the thousands. Find her on
The House of Imp,
kompoz.com, and anywhere else Mr. Google can locate her. She studies English and braille at The Hadley Institute for the Blind and Visually impaired. On her free time, she learns Wordpress by trial and error, audio production using Apple Logic Pro, and carpentry by association.