7 Deities

Occult-Based Original Cosplay & Media Production

Original Cosplay Character and Media Production 

One Fine Destiny

As seen on AFROPUNK


The concert hall floors were glossy and black, reflecting distorted images of every

surface in the room. I walked through a pair of black doors and was suddenly bathed

in a rainbow of lighting, the mood of reception of good music being set. I moved

towards the stage and was swallowed by darkness, a mass of black clothing-clad

bodies moving briskly to the jarring beat of the music. A visceral heat rolled off of the

bodies, and all that encompassed mine responded, suddenly satisfied that I was in that

very room at that very moment. The pungent smell of perspiring human flesh invaded

my nostrils, tugging at a strong sense of familiarity. The sound of the music pulled me

towards it and I obeyed, understanding what it was trying to say to me. Finally I was

close enough to the stage and stopped walking, tapping my heel in time to the music.

The music rushed quick and ragged through the crowd streaming together in perfect

arcs of harmonious sound. The resonance would have looked like multicolored

fireworks bursting through the air, through chests, through bobbing heads, had my

eyes the interpretation of swelling sound as bursting sight.

In that moment I felt my eyes light up. The commencement of the music made the

mass of bodies jolt to life, suddenly beastly in the heat of their enthusiasm. They

moved together in intimidating speed, circling like a human merry-go- round. Being

frail and thin, I knew better than to throw my weight into the circle pit, but still my

eyes would rotate between watching it and the stage. The energy in the room was

building, and I felt it prickle across my skin, then work its way into me. Some part of

me got lost in the pulse of the music and I pushed my way towards the front of the

stage my body feeling fueled, animated by the intangible substance produced by the

perfect blend of instruments. I reached the front of the crowd and glared at the

musicians on the stage as they spoke a wordless language with their instruments that I

was so incapable of reproducing. I pumped my fist in the air and sang along to lyrics

that were so familiar to me, as their recordings had been played time and time again

into my ears and my subconscious. The wave of bodies that I was now a part of

moved in a liquid-like motion, a body or two being shoved violently every now and

again. The shoving eventually made its way to me and I responded with a jolt of force

through my arms I didn't know I had. I looked to see the receiving end of my shove

and caught sight of a frail man with a bare shiny white head, covered in tattoos,

toppling nearly off his feet as the force of my strength pressed him into the human

wave. He looked up to see where-from the force had come, and we met eyes. As his

gaze met mine, his familiar eyes went from hot, to a flaming fury of hatred that I

recognized from the day before. He was the white skinhead addict from the soup

kitchen, and the last person I wanted to see here and now, or ever. Fear shot through

me as we were in the perfect setting for him to act as hatefully and violently towards

me as he saw fit, with possible supporters all around him. I took a moment to wonder

why I'd decided it was a good idea to come to this show, as Dropkick Murphys

proceeded to play the soundtrack to what would be a real-life fight scene. My reality

warped. Nausea swept over me and within seconds his open fist made hard, thrusting

contact with my face. A flash of white light sprayed across my vision, and the brute

force of the physical manifestation of his empty hatred sent me bouncing off of

loosely packed bodies. My arms flailed in a violently disoriented tumble, the

exploding contact knocking me to the floor. Metallic, salty liquid filled my mouth and

I spat blood onto the floor. A degree of fear I hadn't felt since childhood, since I was

deathly afraid of the dark, of monsters in my closet, of death itself, spread quick and

hot through every inch of my body. I became aware that my life was in danger, and

purged the fear out of me as instinct and self-defense.

The next 10 seconds of my life felt like a blur, as if every action that passed through

my body was being lived by someone else completely. Moments being watched

through foreign eyes set in my face, as if my body were numb, being carried to safety

by some force, some entity stronger than I. I reached forward and slid my fingers

down the side of my boot and pulled out a rainbow switchblade, pushing my thumb

across its release button smoother and faster than I'd ever before. Its sharp edge

sprung to life in my hand and I jolted to my feet with an urgency that made me feel

made of electricity and brand new. For a split second, fear burst visibly like a hallow

spark through the man's eyes. Like a Time bandit, I stole away that split second and

dove armed into its fleeting void. My arm slashed forward in a nearly invisible blur as

I gave him half a joker's smile, the red meat of his cheek giving a twitch, then splitting

agape. My razor sharp salvation met his face halfway between his ear and his thin,

discolored lips. Tiny trails of a crimson waterfall began to fall eagerly down his now

disfigured face as it bubbled slowly out of the wound. His body buckled down

towards the floor in a wave of pain I could almost feel, his blood trickling into pools

then surrounded by prancing red foot prints within seconds. The lack of him at eye

level gave way to dozens of crystal-colored eyes that were like magnets to my

presence, my rich chocolaty skin, and the vibration of this building battle. I could feel

the beat of their awareness pulsing through them like rhythmic blood through veins to

a common heart. Fear-induced paralysis held me captive for a vulnerable split second

while my mind raced towards the best means of survival. I bolted as quickly as my

legs would carry me through the press of bodies towards the door. The dark-hued

colors of the room were swimming unsteadily, and I could only think of getting out of

there. I had to get the fuck out of there.

S is for Sanctuary

As seen in Me: IN FOCUS Magazine

S is for Sanctuary

Sanc·tu·ar·y   [sangk-choo-er-ee]

–noun, plural -ar·ies.

1. a sacred or holy place.

2. immunity afforded by refuge in such a place.

3. any place of refuge; asylum.

Illustration by Chad Edwards

Illustration by Chad Edwards

The night faded away as the sun rolled over me, a slow exhale inching across my skin. As the Earth woke, it called me to it, like a serene beckoning to another day here. It almost felt as if the elements were smiling at me, and I wanted nothing more than to explore this perfect day in beauty and solitude. I arose and stretched into the morning, so anxious for everything that was awaiting me.

Standing to my feet, my soles pressed against the hard wood floor, refreshingly cold in contrast to the summer heat. The floor boards sang soprano and gave weight to my existence for the first time that day. My fingers pulled against the heavy lace that tried its best to shield the room from the rays of the sun. The gesture gave way to a flood of light that poured unyieldingly over each surface, thrusting against my eyes in a stinging kiss. The sensation was startling and sleep was nowhere near me now. I secured the drapes open with a satin rope and turned to see all that was around me, harshly revealed in a wash of light. Its warmth and burning luminosity tugged at me in ways that transcended the comprehension of my intellect, and a force that made me feel weightless guided me outside. I walked towards the bedroom's exit, passed the golden pecan-colored dresser and the matching framed mirror that hung above it on an eggshell-colored wall, subconsciously ignoring the reflection that floated by. I walked through the kitchen and the floor tiles were slick in comparison to the solid grip I'd felt before. The screen across the front door swung open against the force of my palm, and my heart strained for the slightest moment as the overwhelming light of the sun coated and cradled all of me. I stretched my face to the sky, suddenly more aware of my empty palms, harnessing an amazed invitation for such a blessing of beauty in my chest.

I pitter-pattered down the wooden steps, its grey paint warm and sticky under me, then finally I made contact with the Earth, green blades of grass bending under my feet, stretching through my toes. I was so happy here. I belonged here. The yard was long and wide and as green as the truest, untainted envy. Trees hovered and danced for me, their rhythm slight, and perfect. Walking around the side of the house, my garden came into view, and I wanted nothing more than to taste and ingest what I was feeling. The peaches were ripening nicely, and a part of me was till in awe of my successfully growing fruit. This garden was my second, and I regretfully killed more produce than I'd like to mention last summer. My nurturing skills were still developing, and in more ways than one.

I turned on the water hose and rinsed the fuzzy fruit clean, then hydrated all of wherefrom it came just a bit. Turning the hose back off, I walked back over to the front of the house and plopped down in the grass, my legs fantastically naked and free against it, softly caressed by the breeze. Laying down in the middle of the yard I stared at the sky and bit down into the sweet fruit, my amazement still flowing. The juices ran down my chin and it felt perfect. Breakfast in the sun on a bed of grass while mundane responsibilities were the furthest from my mind. I finished the fruit and licked my fingers clean trotting up the stairs back to the kitchen. The screen swung open and slapped shut behind me as I entered the kitchen once more, tossing the fruit's remains in the compost beside the island counter. My eyes caught sight of the glowing green numbers on the stove. It was 8am and reality was setting in. The shop wasn't going to run itself.

As much as I would have loved the day to drag along and only belong to me, it pained me to realize the rarity of such occasions. This life is beauteous and robust with endless additions to myself, to this still, solid, quiet, solitude, to this sanctuary. But I guess paradise doesn't exist without an opposition, a balance, a sacrifice. My lips made a loud, kiss-like sound as I used them to clean the rest of my fingers of the peach remnants. I ran the sticky fingers through my hair and was shower bound. By 10am I'd have to be in the city, and reality-ready in front of a marble counter. I was eager to see what this day would consist of.