cunningas: (art: puzzling)
An old bum stood on a busy street corner, shouting at passersby.

This wasn't very unusual.

He wasn't shouting about the End Times. Or profanity. Or begging for change.

This was a little unusual.

He shouted about things that made no sense as if they made perfect sense. Most people skirted around him cautiously, a few made certain to cross the street so they might pass him with a wall of cars between them. If anyone got close enough to look at him (if they even looked), they might have noticed under all those old bundled raggy clothes he wore, and that layer of dirt and grime, he wasn't quite as old as one might think. There wasn't any gray in his rust-colored, scraggly beard. There were no wrinkles on his forehead, around his eyes.

And if one got close enough to look into his eyes, one might have seen them to be perfectly clear and lucid, sparkling with a hint of amusement. And as green as a field of clover on a summer afternoon.

No one got that close. And if they did, they certainly didn't look into his eyes.

One woman, edging near him because the crowd wouldn't give her room to go anywhere else nearly jumped out of her skin when he shouted at her, "Hydraulic or dentist in charge that you are!" She quickly pushed her way through the mass of people on the corner feeling like she'd had a sudden brush with death, having a story to tell when she got home about the old bum that tried to mug her.

Nevermind that he hadn't, she'd remember that he had. It was more interesting than him just shouting random drivel.

Another man was walking purposefully in the bum's direction, dressed impeccably in suit and tie, his gaze glued to the Blackberry held in his hand. The bum waited until a crucial moment in the businessman's reading before gleefully proclaiming loud enough to be heard across the street over the sounds of a multitude of cars between them and certainly loud enough to distract the businessman, "aspirin will usually not affect urine sugar!"

The businessman, startled, looked up from his Blackberry, almost locked eyes with the bum, realised what he was doing, and tossed a bit of change at this stranger on the corner like a charm to ward off demons. He then swiftly moved away, muttering, "yes, right...of course, thank you, going now...." He'd be so rattled by the experience he wouldn't be able to concentrate on his business for at least the rest of the night.

The bum just smiled and waited for his next prey, which came in the form of a little girl clutching her mother's hand. Before the mother could haul her daughter away from the strange, dirty old man, he'd already produced a shiny quarter out of the girl's ear and whispered to her, "colour printer reaches superstar status," as if he were whispering the secrets of the universe to her. The girl smiled, eyes shining, meeting his for one brief second. The mother yanked, and then they were off. That girl would feel for the rest of her life there was some cosmic joke she'd once learned the punchline to and just couldn't quite remember and would always search for it once more.

For a drug dealer swaggering down the street, the bum greeted him with, "VIP watches replica!" And for some reason, the dealer looked down at the shiny gold watch on his arm with something amounting to suspicion. The bum simply gave him a cheery wave and went back to shouting at passersby, "it has been ordered by your doctor! For narco!"

And the crowds swirled around him, ever moving, few paying attention to the man standing in the flow of humanity, the rock in the stream.

But those who did pay attention? He altered the course of their lives forever.

It was his way, after all.
cunningas: (other: insane laughing)
They had spoken together, almost civilly. Well, Baldr was pretty much always civil, it had been Loki who had had to put forth the effort. Even though Loki had never really made his feelings all that secret where Baldr was concerned -- he wasn't the type to fawn at the feet of someone simply because everyone else did, unless he wanted something from them. And there was nothing he wanted from Baldr, nothing. Though a perverse little voice -- and think how perverse a voice it would have to be inside the head of someone already perverse -- in the back of Loki's mind suggested there was something indeed he wanted from Baldr and at least some of his frustration with the Shiny Happy one was in his not getting it. Loki imagined quite cheerfully vivisecting said perverse little voice.

No, there was nothing he wanted from Baldr or anyone like him. Baldr represented everything he despised in the world. No, not the light, shiny, happy bits, those could be okay. It was the parts of Baldr that encouraged peace and constant goodwill, lulled the Aesir into complacency. Peace only meant stagnation, without conflict there could be no change, no growth. This was something Loki knew in the very depths of his being, it was, at least in part, the reason for his existence.

He would not let Baldr win. Not on his watch. He wouldn't let everything he'd worked so hard to bring to pass crumble into ruin while the Aesir sat around and happily hugged each other into oblivion.

Baldr'd have to go. No matter what Odin would think of it. No matter what any of them would think. He'd get out of it, somehow.


With this vestige of a plan in mind, glad to finally have a reason to be rid of the Shiny One, Loki's cracked laughter echoed through his house.

And in the other room, Sigyn couldn't help but wonder what her husband was up to now.
cunningas: (boys: mirror images)
They sat on folding lawn chairs together, passing a bottle of wine back and forth between them, firelight flickering off their faces. Occasionally, one of them would begin humming a cheerful tune and the other would break into song and they'd both smile at each other and sing. Sometimes they'd get out of their chairs and dance. Mostly they sat. And drank. And watched.

Watched the fire, that is. It's what they were there for, after all. Just two men, a bottle of wine, a fire, and song. It had become something of a tradition, in fact, when they did the same thing the year before. Though that year had been rather more wild and this was rather more subdued. Just the simple cordial union of two such men.

If they could even be called men. But that's a story for another time.

"You know what we need for this next year?" Loki asked Hermes, his gaze still caught by the roaring burning tree before them.

"What's that?"

"Chestnuts." Loki responded with a grin, before breaking into a heartfelt rendition of Chestnuts Roasting Over an Open Fire while the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree blazed brightly in the cold winter's night.
cunningas: (blood and gore)
Loki had found himself the best seat in the house... )

Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse Mythology
Wordcount: 1255
Rating: PG-13 - some gore
cunningas: (insane laughing)
A gardener can spend hours in his garden. Watering, pruning, planting, mulching, feeding, weeding.

Weeding is especially important, for even if you do all the others, if you don't remove the weeds, they could spread and choke out the garden's precious flowers. They could steal nutrients needed by the plants the gardener wants there. They could block the sun, causing plants beneath them to wither and crumple and die.

And if nothing else, weeds are an eyesore in a well-manicured garden.

So weeding is important. Separating the bad from the good, the chaff from the wheat. Sheep and goats. Whatever.

Loki has his own garden. Well, he calls it his own. And it's the whole world. But his flowers aren't flowers, his plants aren't plants, his garden is made up of people.

In his own way, he's a careful gardener. There is a method to his madness, though none may be able to say what that method is, save Loki himself. And he spends hours getting his garden just so. But whereas that of another gardener might be all balance and careful lines, that of Loki's is haphazard and crooked. He's less about creating a beautiful garden than he is about muddling someone else's beautiful garden into his own vision.

He schemes and pranks and destroys and builds and opens gates and closes windows and plays his little games.

There, there is a madman and they go just so.

And over here is a liar, thief, scoundrel and that one should certainly go right there beside the nun who's hardly a nun at all in the truest sense of the word for Loki sees the truth beneath her handy lies but he won't tell, oh no, he'll leave that for his thief.

And his prizewinning flower, his lovely Lady certainly deserves a central spot.

And everything is placed just as he likes but there are still Problems. There are Weeds. And weeds certainly must be removed. And he is quite capable at that, as well.

One, two, one, two and through and through. He carries shears and a scythe and a sword and a knife and uses them as need be, cutting down those that he does not need. (not that he needs anyone oh no, never, ever need, not truly)

This is his garden. We are his flora.

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December 2013

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