A MAN WITH NO HOME
Tell me, sweet stranger, do you know the story of Normant Lumensky, the man from a mystical land universes away from Earth? Making an ark out of his chains, he turns from a prisoner of war into a fugitive.
A WOMAN AGAINST THE WOR...
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8 November 2012
THE CLOUD OF SPARKS spat me out onto a dead-end street, out of breath and completely out of mind. My thoughts jumbled. Was this real? Had I actually made it to Earth or was this just another dream of mine? Hell, was I truly in another universe?
The cold, sudden gust of wind that struck my face, awaking my senses and bringing me back to the present moment, was proof that yes, all was real. I leaned against an oak tree, trying to catch my breath. Pointless. There was no way I could quell the adrenaline rush that had taken over me, unexpected and fervid like a sylvan. I had anticipated that once I had made it out of exile, all my energy would nimbly perish. I had thought that my escape would be my swan song, and that my freedom would come with a mix of exhaustion and paralyzing fear. But here I was, unable to control my joy, smiling and whistling through my teeth like a teenage boy experiencing lust for the first time.
For good measure I scanned the surroundings, searching for Amanda or any of her guards, still wondering if this was another one of her traps. There was no one around though, only some blue sparks swirling in the air—the remnants of the portal's existence. My time on Kastri had officially come to an end. Everything was over.
"This can't be real," I murmured to no one in particular and continued scanning the area.
There was not much to see—only grey apartment complexes and the snow that fell intensely and blanketed the streets. For some reason that I didn't quite understand, the bleak and urban scenery held a peculiar charm. There was something about the streetlights. They shone like stars among us. There was something about life and the way it crept in everything around me. I could see it in the footsteps in the snow, in the overflowing trash bins, in the string lights adorning the balconies. This was not a desolate island in the middle of nowhere. This was not exile. This was life and beauty and celebration.
Somewhere not far away, there were headlights flashing across glittery storefronts. Unhinged enthusiasm found its way into my body. "It's beautiful," I whispered, beginning to follow the lights. A pilgrim chasing holy stars. "It's so fucking beautiful," I repeated.
Within minutes, I found myself on a bustling street. Fast cars drove off into the night and neon signs shone over the restaurants' doors. There was chaos and there was life. It was everywhere—in the people walking past me, carrying inside them stories and secrets I wished to learn, in the loud noises, in the music blasting from a nearby bar. I shook my head, trying to take everything in. I'm here, I thought to myself and smiled. I'mactually here.
Where was the all-consuming fear that was supposed to wrap its fingers around my body the moment I landed here? Where was the shivering and the pining that Jersen had been talking about? As far as I was concerned, nothing had been lost in the cross fire. How could it have? I had made it. I had made it to Toronto, Ontario, which meant that tomorrow morning I would not wake up to the sound of angry waves and shackles rattling; which meant that prayers were not always useless.
