Hello! I’m Chester Tanyeo, I’ve written four books, and this is my blog. [ Follow me on Facebook, Twitter, DeviantArt and Kiva. ]

[ My Books! ] [ Stories: Short stories, The Canon, Witch-Girl (Read from the bottom of the list) ] [ Poetry: All Poetry; ( ♥ ) ( ⚔ ) ]

[ 091202 ] Smithe994 – Helpful info. Fortunate me found your website by chance, and I’m shocked why this twist of fate did not take place earlier! I bookmarked it.
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Witch-Girl / Mirror Heart (1/18) – Sparks Fly
[ ]
23 Aries 12, Moon's Day
2011 Ophiuchus :: Tempest Eyes
Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (24/23) – The Revelation of Stacey, the Witch-Girl
[ ]
08 Aries 12, Sun Lord's Day
Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (23/23) – Opening Eyes
[ ]
04 Aries 12, Woden's Day
Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (22/23) – As the Raindrop Softly Drowns
[ ]
22 Pisces 12, Thor's Day
Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (21/23) – Moving House
[ ]
19 Pisces 12, Moon's Day
♥ Believe the Hype ♥
“…like a manga-inspired Oujia board…”
Gunther, Facebook
♥ Selected ♥
My Books!
The Witch-Girl
The Canon
About Me


…you say “go slow,” i fall behind / the second hand unwinds…

Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (24/23) – The Revelation of Stacey, the Witch-Girl
♠ 08 Aries 12, Sun Lord's Day ♣

Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (24/23) – The Revelation of Stacey, the Witch-Girl

“All things eat or get eaten,” she says, “it is the nature of things.”

Things get done.

Ramiel tells Izzy what Alice had said; to be kind to her, when her time comes. Izzy listens. Izzy nods. Izzy does not ask, and he does not tell, about Lilith, about Alice, about anything at all. It is done, and, perhaps, best forgotten.

Izzy intends to stay in town. They make plans for dinner, next week, promising to talk about something besides the killing of old gods. They laugh.

It’s all very normal, and he slides into normality with great and comforting ease.

Then Ramiel and Stacey are sitting at the kitchen table.

She scoops another spoonful of stew into her mouth. She swallows, she smiles, and she says, “This is delicious.”

“Thanks,” Ramiel says, with the air of one preoccupied. With his spoon, he pushes the cubes – potato, carrot – around in his bowl. “Do you think it needs more pepper?”

“No. It tastes great.”

“Perhaps the cubes are too big. The recipe actually calls for oddly shaped vegetables. But cubes are better, I think.”

“It’s a more sensible shape.”

“It is.”

They continue eating; she with enthusiasm, he with thoughtful consideration.

“What’s this dish called?” she asks.

“Stew Surprise,” he says, absently, his eyes on his bowl.

“What meat is this?”

“Huh? Perhaps chilli, instead of pepper. Cumin?”


“What?” he looks up. She stares at her spoon, frozen midway between the bowl and her mouth. It has a cube of meat in it; unidentified, unnamed, meat.

She says, tentatively, as if afraid to voice the question: “What did you do with Bunbuns Too through Five?”


She looks up, her mouth open. “You didn’t?”

“I might have.”

Her spoon drops from limp fingers into the bowl with a plop. “How could you?”

“Jesus died for your sins; Bunbun died for your dinner.”

“That’s not funny!” she wails. “You’re a monster! They trusted you!”

“Rabbits trust everybody. Nobody was going to take care of them, so it stands to reason to put them to some final –”

“I would have, if I had known! You’re no better than a troll!” she looks down at the bowl, horrified, “I am no better than a troll!”

“So you would have taken care of them?”

She looks up, incredulous eyes wide. “Yes! I said that! Of course, I would! And now it’s too late!”

“They’re in the back, near the washing machine.”


He looks at her; it’s rather charming, the way her face reflects her thoughts as they go from accusatory to – ah, there it is – revelation.

“You tricked me!”

“Yes, I did. But what do you think about cumin?”

The End

Happy Easter, everyone.

Rabbits return from the dead, do they not? Oh, but they must!

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Something witty this way comes…
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13 A first sign of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die.
This life seems unbearable; another unattainable. One is no longer
ashamed of wanting to die; one begs to be moved out of the old cell,
which one hates, into a new one which one must first learn to hate.
One is also moved by a certain residual faith that, during transport,
the master will happen to come along the corridor, look at the prisoner and
say: “This man is not to be locked up again. He comes to me.”

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