Burning Fire and Golden Bird

The red lanterns shine gently, mending the shadows, but not warding them off.
People have dressed in fine but comfortable clothing; here, too, the shades of red are playing the majority of the colour scheme.
It is the night of Burning Fire and Golden Bird.
The night of the Newyear in lynianian calender.

Around two weeks from this night the cold rains will start and the winter shall come; world shall fall in deep slumber in the grey sleep.
But for now, everything is still warm and cosy; like a cup of warm tea and golden honey.
Like an ember.

Although the Nowhere officially uses different, twelve month system, the streets near the river are painted red by the lights and the masses of people.
Majority of the crowd is of Kiresian blood who live in the gentle waves of the muddy river on their boathouses. The river, which shadows are now contrasted with red in the both shores, lights reaching far; letting just the smallest line of dark, muddy water between.
But there are people of other ethnics too, not just the Kiresian; lynianian calender is old, after all; and the old habits need more than sixtyone years of corrupted rules to die.
This is the night the ancestors of the people here have celebrated, and so, they will too.
It is in their blood, after all.
Blood as red as the lanterns swingign in the gentle wind.

Air is heavy of the burning incenses; of spices and perfumes. Burn cinnamon, nutmeg, oranges, ginger.
The merchants sell their goods in small booths fast mounted near the river shores; they offer food and jewellry and incenses.
The ones closer the shadows of deep alleys sell things more exotic and potentially dangerous, but facinating nonetheless. The shadows are not good place to be for the tourist; it is better to keep close to the red lanterns.

Of course it is not all about red; there are flashes of amber, sunset orange and gold everywhere to be seen. Even green and royal violet.
The gold is the majoríty among them; colour of jewellry and the small bells tied on the hair and clothes, and so the world of sounds is filled with tingling and clittering; the moving crowd adding it's own living music to the sounds of the drums heard behind everything, when young people dance on the wooden decks of the Kiresian boathouses; tallying and competeing eachother in the skill of dancing.

The most skilled dancer appears only once that night, along with the sound of lonely flute; sound of great beauty and of great sorrow; like the instrument was crying for the lost love.
Perhaps, it is the feeling of the mucician; breathed in life through ivory and old wood.; given a form with skilled, delicate fingers.

People gathering around, but keeping the respectful distance as the dancer, dressed in amber and burning orange and yellow and carmine, steps at the deck of one of the boathouses.
Their hands and feet and ancles and wrists covered in golden jevelry, glittering in the light of the red lanterns, silently jiggling to the gentle steps the dancer takes.
Their face hidden behind golden mask; a mass of fiery red feathers as their hair; a picture of Golden bird.
Unlike the fast dances the young ones have shown; this dance is slow and sensual; drums have gone guiet, and the only sounds beside the crying flute are the steps of the dancer's bare feet on the wooden deck and the jiggling of the jewellry.
The dancer moves; delicate and vulnerable.
Every step, every gesture bears the meaning beyond the obvious.
The funeral song of the Golden bird.

The dance ends in the fire; red veil suddenly gathering around the dancer; the flute crying one sound above everything, and then the dancer is gone.
The funeral pyre of the Golden bird; a night of Burning Fire.

The spell woven over the people is gone; the dance has come to an end, and they all return to their celebration.
Sweet and spicy foods are bought from the small shops, gifts are given, and fast dances start again along the living music of the crowd and the drums.
When the dawn draws near, people return to their families; to spend time with loved ones; with friends; to enjoy feast together.

But underneath this everything there lies the promise; the Bird has died, but will be reborn due the morning light.
The time will flow foward.
Life will go on.

Nowhere

The city has a name, just like all the human cities have.

But the people don't use it, and the new generation will most likely grow up never hearing the name and so it will be forgotten. If people call the city with a name they say "Nowhere", and this name is said with hushed voices, like a name of a lover. 

The city is like a woman; lover and mother to us all. Her hair raises in the sky like a brown and dark grey smoke, her thousand eyes look at her children from the lit as well as dark windows of the buildings, she is dressed in the dress like the shadows in the alleys and dead ends, and her mind is fast and restless like the people who live in the arms of her streets. She hides knifes in the pockets of her children and guns under their pillows. She wears jewels like the neon lights, and she sings for you with never ending voice of the sirens, barking of the fighting dogs, music from the bars, the screams of women, shouts of the men, the laughter of the children and the sound of the gunshot from few blocks away.

The city is a reckless and a cruel lover; full of wits of the moment. She'll seduce you with the whispered voices of the whores in the street corners, the hushed words with the courtesan behind the glass. She'll make you drunk with the wink from the dealer in the game board, bewitch you with things you can't find, ("but we happen to have one of those"), showing you the secret parts she hides, like women hides their breasts; all those shady bars, clubs and shops where you can buy anything your heart desires. She will favor you in one moment, give you fame and money and women, and toss your dead body in the dark alley in next. She will kill your family and friends, and then give you your revenge in a silver plate.

But the city is mother to all. She opens her arms for the foreigners as well as for the native ones, her shadowy alleys give a hide for her children, and she will lead the rich people lost in her streets, complex like the mind of a woman; and this way she will feed her children.

People who lives in these streets; in her arms, love her and curse her name. They dream their dreams here and they bleed their blood in these streets.

Many of them have born here.

But every one of them dies here.