Chapter One – part one

The Golden Age will come to an end when the first hunter is born. Spawn of the Earth, none will know him, for he is a time bender.


Kymoorgrove was a small village in the mountain at the foot of the old masters’ temple. It used to be a lively place full of children running, laughing and playing hide and seek in the bordering forest. Ultimately though, the games ceased to be just that, when they turned instead into an endless nightmare. Most of the villagers had been either spirited away or killed during the war. All that was left in Kymoorgrove were children who had been forced to grow up too fast; wit and cleverness had saved most of them as they had learnt to move through tunnels and galleries under the village, always leading to the safety of the temple.

Under the cover of the mountains, Kymoorgrove had been a mystical place for centuries as the masters hid its location by bending space. But their powers were fading and all that they could hide now was the temple, leaving the village exposed to the growing danger.

Selena was the eldest of three siblings, whom she had raised after their parents disappearance. She was barely an adult now, but she had become wise beyond her years – with a little help from her godmother Iman, the only female master left in Kymoorgrove. Together, they had protected the children the best they could, but the task was getting harder every day. It was difficult to keep children confined to the temple and many of them sneaked out and were never seen or heard of again.

The war was something of the past, or rather it had become a day to day routine which did not help convincing the youngsters that life did not use to be like this. Today, only the masters knew of such times.

[to be continued]

Claire Perez Ekman © This work is copyrighted and protected by the law.

eek | Sneaky Devil

Digital Art © Jonas Ekman / 2011-2013

Digital Art © Jonas Ekman / 2011-2013

One shouts louder than the other
Always your mood swings following;
Bad tempered or faint ease of mind,
Brush either one from your shoulder

From the depths of your subconscious
They’re arguing thoughts provoking
Your own resolve’s inconsistence

Brush away your own devil, like
A speck of dust from your shoulder
Yet, soon blinded by your bright halo:
Pretty words are naught but petty
Emptiness hiding in plain sight

So you let loose your winged angel
From your heart’s darkest corner will
Come to light your most evil self
Claustrophobic from the shadows
It’ll creep out slowly, dragging feet
It will sneak up on your pure soul

Angel dust and blazing eyes stare;
Confusing, corrupting even,
The gentlest of man to madness

One shouts louder than the other
Always your mood swings following;
Bad tempered or faint ease of mind,
Brush either one from your shoulder
It won’t make any difference
For neither is good or evil
Both are both, for you to choose one
Thus dealing with the others’ choice

Life for good and ill till death comes
Taking you out of the equation
Resetting the clocks and waiting for
Evil to creep out from the shadows
Fallen angels to claim miracles
Deaf once more to your angel’s cries.

© Claire Perez Ekman - 2013

eek | Mindless chaos


Digital Art © Jonas Ekman / 2011-2013

Swim against the current
Finally touch the dream
Only to feel the nightmare
Of the absolute illusion

Smiles turn to grins,
Laughter to cries…

Waves of despair feed
The delectable darkness
Unveiling the mask
Under the mask

Mindless chaos
Of haunting words
Shapes the soulless

Hopeless hope
Shatters the heart
Bringing it home,
Over and over…

Fears overpower the doubts
Undoubtedly wandering
From mouth to mouth…

Diving into the storm
Touch without touching,
Uttering empty thoughts:
Those that were, but weren’t;
Those that weren’t,
yet should have been…

Mindless chaos
Of daunting words
Shapes the tragic

Breathe without breathing,
Hold it and breathe slowly
Until your breath becomes

© Claire Perez Ekman - 2013

A dead balloon is a dead balloon

In the deep of the ocean, where the only reaching light is that of the angler fish, the layers  of oddities could compete with the cubistest (read “most cubist”) of arts. Colours are grey if at all visible and their display is chaotic at best. Within the disorder though exists a peaceful harmony behind which is hiding the agony of lonely hearts.

It came to this of course when one hand after the other let go of the rope holding them tight by the neck… in the end, some dreams within flew away either outgrown or just forgotten… and the balloons joined the parade of disillusion.The ones that popped were those that went all the way rope in hand towards the same dreams… ultimately though, they die… happy.

You see a balloon is not just a balloon for it contains dreams. I did not invent that though. Ending up in the wrong hands a dream is just a silly balloon, but in the hands of the 100 years old child the balloon is the ultimate treasured fantasies… for nightmares, you see, are just unpleasant dreams and as long as you hold on to your balloon, your life will get richer… in good or ill…

You’ll know when to let go… when its head gets so big that there is nothing else to do than to release your grasp. It will pop eventually and sink in the deep of an ocean or a lake… at peace with its fellow balloons, it will feel the heavy weight of the lonely hearts endlessly floating on wind drafts… never allowed to touch ground. Yes, a dead balloon is a dead balloon…

… but a dead balloon is not a dead dream…


© Claire Perez Ekman 
All rights reserved – Copyrights 2012

eek | Forgotten Wisdoms

Source: Jonas Ekman

Myths and legends do not tell lies and fantasies,
Nor do they rely – or trust – people’s superstitions:
Naught other than the will of the evil within -
Fearing stories have already led them astray.

They cast aside the all-knowing and pedantry
Shining a light on the natural ties that bind;
Yet fall in oblivious dismay and prejudice
When the wise men discards them all as pure folly.

Seeking the truth behind beauty of heart and soul,
- Unfailing to aid those in pain and suffering -
The witches’ hunt spread its unforgiving flames,
Religiously burning down their flesh and bones.

False and wicked truths of men have sprouted and arisen,
Spread their venom infecting the purest of hearts

They made the Gods fight endlessly over a name
Leaving the oracle at the gates of the world,
Thus the wise men declaring they had conquered Death
As science reasoned against the invisible magic
Of all thoughts and wisdom that were myths and legends

But the eye of the seer vanished behind the scythe,
Slicing thy destiny thou have taken for granted.

True to their nature, they have foretold and seen
What lies ahead the light footsteps of their children
As the oracle once said to the forefathers
The Gods will yet again prevail upon this Earth.

© Claire Perez Ekman

Picking the brain of the poet

Inspiration is not always a God’s sent, nor a muse’s touch… Inspiration needs to be provoked and worked up; it is like a muscle and sometimes it takes more than just a few daydreams or stroke of genius.

I have explained before that I like writing while listening to music… most of the times soundtracks… well, not today. Today, I was in want of inspiration and could not find it anywhere, so I looked where I should have from the start… I looked at my husband’s digital art, turned words in my head for about an hour until the first verse was laid on my notebook:

“It was the Gods that prevailed”.

The verse was too short, for some reasons I wanted to write twelve feet verses… so I turned the page and came up with this instead:

“Myths and legends do not tell lies or fantasies
they do not trust…”

I liked the sound of it – except for the unfinished second verse – but I did not know what it would all be about, I nonetheless built around the first verse until it began to mean something intelligible.

Yes, yes… but what does it mean?

The thing is that I do not fancy explaining what I – the artist – meant because it takes away your own fantasy as a reader. Even more so, when the main subject of the poem is the need to explain everything so that mysteries, dreams and imagination completely disappear from mankind. There are no secrets behind what I write; I deplore mankind’s abuse of power and its way of turning good into evil every other day.

This poem has a lot to do with the expression “what if…” Indeed, what if myths and legends that are populating our world’s literature were true… what if superstitions were true warnings for stupid habits that go against nature… what if small truths were trusted once again…

eek | Trance

Source: Jonas Ekman

Wilderness sneaking around
Savage to itself… uncontrollable
Civilisation mixed with rituals
Misplaced knowledge of what was
Yet… still is.

Understanding beyond grasp;
In a trance, get a glimpse
Of an existence or coexistence
That could be…

Untameable spirits of a world
Burning in our fists, fading even
As we stare forcibly to get closer,
Yet grow apart a little more
For every step we take…

Transcendent truth,
Of a long lost harmony.

© Claire Perez Ekman

# 5 – On the edge

Image: Againstar /

This is the end of it all,
Standing on the edge,
Crushed and misjudged,
I am ready to jump
Although my story
Isn’t finished yet.

I have looked through
Lines of wonderings;
And sought your
Lines of thoughts.

In front of the mirror
That are your eyes
Endless puzzles did I set up,
For us to solve.

I hate that thing
That you do:
Shake your head
Roll your eyes…

I believed we’d go on,
Hand in hand
And all the way,
Through the bumps
And the chaos.

Though all the way
You do not wish
To go with me.

Who cares really if yet
Our story isn’t done?
I am ready to jump
Crushed and misjudged
On the edge I stand.

This is my end
As I roll down
In the trash can.

© Claire Perez Ekman

Birth of a poem

I usually set out to write while listening to music: mostly soundtracks because there are no lyrics that can distract me. Music does not, however, set the mood of anything I write… at least not as far as poems are concerned. It does nonetheless help me set a filter-net for the triage of my sentences, expressions and words. This is how “On the Edge” came to paper and what it ultimately means. I do hope you have read it before peeking on the “making of”…

I was sitting on my bed, headphones on and music was starting to work its magic; notebook and pencil in hand, I was ready to write… the only problem was: what? I stared at the blank page, the cosy room with its friendly shadows on my walls… thinking: “what should I write about?”… Thinking: “In the deep of the night,”… Thinking: “dig deeper!” Nothing was coming. I shrugged my shoulders and closed my eyes, but I ultimately saw what I was planning to do the next day, which was absolutely no use at all. I opened my eyes again and I thought: “Standing on the edge”. I said to myself: “Alright, let’s try with this for a while.”

Naturally came to mind the picture of a woman standing on the edge of a cliff. She had her back turned on me. She looked pretty peaceful, for what I could observe, not even distressed and I wondered what she was doing there. I had absolutely no clue. She had long black hair dancing in the air; the light around her was that of a coming dawn maybe. It was definitely not night. I was staring and I really thought she would turn to me, but instead, I noticed her outfit: it looked like some kind of flannel, the wind made it float gracefully around her…I think it was a dress of words.

As soon as I realised that, her decor faded and so did she. I was now looking at a light brown desk in the middle of a very well-lit room, although each time I tried to see what was around, darkness blurred my vision. I focused on the desk… It was messy, with crumpled papers everywhere; pencils, notebooks and books occupied the entire surface; I wonder now how I actually could have seen the colour of that desk… but obviously, it belonged to a writer – mine maybe, I could not say. My eyes finally settled on a crushed ball of paper, “On the edge” of the desk and looking upon an already full trash-can.

Now I think you’d do well to read the poem again ^_^