Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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The Cold from Between the Stars

It doesn't come every year, but it's here now: the Deep Cold, the Cold from Between the Stars.

This is Cold that kills, a vampire cold that sucks out warmth and moisture: Eater of Life, the great void which will never be sated until it has engulfed everything that is, until all that is Unlike has been made Like Unto.

Gods help us, this too is She. With Her fearsome Winds, She comes, snow swirling around Her skirts.

Life slows to stasis, huddled in its little warmths. If these fail, we die. In the streets, the sirens shriek out again and again. Terribly, even Fire obeys Her.

Deep Winter.

We call You by Your ancient Name.

We shiver. We wait.




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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


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