Unto Our Fallen Muse

THE MUCH HAPPY CHANCE OF HAWTHORN AND GUENNIVERE:

2007-01-07T19:37:00.000-05:00

Hawthorn found himself intoxicated by the memories of the night they had spent together; he could hardly extract himself from the burning notion of her embrace. She had been the dazzling, posphorescent spark the life that his drab and discontented little world had momentarily revolved around. Now that he had suddenly returned from memory, awoken to his former misgivings and responsibilities, he could not solve the startling problem of his overwhelming dependency: her bright and beautiful eyes, her warm and caring smile, the softness of her innocent touch; in fact, he had begun to recogize that only with great difficulty could he actually think of anything else.

Hawthorn feared altering her in any way, or causing her harm of any kind, or failing her, in a myriad of foolish and over-complicated ways, which he continued to feverishly devise. He wondered by what uncertain right he had come into her life, bearing gifts of little more than that same brave honesty which she had promised unto him. He had been so immediately smitten by her calm and knowing show of gentleness and grace; how then could he refrain from the feelings and the fear within him, which unrelentingly suggested that somehow he would bring about his own undoing within this happy escapade.

His heart was burdened, and often torn, wrent with many deep and unyeilding scars; yet he longed to know the warmth and peace he had seen within the hearts of so many others, who had been met with many forms of fortune, or of providence, within that throbbing course of love, which had served only to lead him to a lasting well of pain and tears. Hawtorn trusted her beyond any form of reason, and knowing not why it was that he should care with such enduring tenderness for her, strove to find or somehow capture the many words with which he believed he might then write to her of his ever deepening sentiments; ever complicated now by the distance put between them, and the sudden pangs of lonliness he felt.

Would she ever find the indwelling desire within herself to accept what little that he was? Would he ever feel worthy of her generosity and kindness? She had taken him in, had provided him with shelter, and had smiled with such a strange and stirring resplendence in her eyes; such that he had been both utterly and unquestionably captivated by her. He knew from what she said that she was in many ways imperfect: yet ever and alas, poor Hawthorn could hardly see such frail and meaningless imprefections, which she saw reflected within herself; he could only smile, and whistfully imagine her calm and yeilding touch, accompanied by the softness of her voice.

Hawthorn was afraid she might find the scars he had hidden within himself, and be repulsed by their brooding grotesqueries of nature; for he often worried that the ghostly troubles of his past might continue to haunt him even still, amidst this present joy. They had shared in much tenderness and laughter, they had walked together by sacred woodland paths, they had kissed and held each other, and spoken then with much honesty and softness. She had been pleasatly surprised by him, and also he by her; after pausing for a moment and comparing scars, it would seem that they had much to learn of one another. For should this much happy chance be somehow combined, in future, with their mutual desire for one another; perhaps both Hawthorn and Guennivere shall one day earn their happy ending, after all.

HOPE REVIVED:

2006-10-27T13:52:00.000-05:00

More Reasons Not To Dispair:

Where’s my optimism?

Why is it always so easily slipping away?

I have no reason to fear

Except that fear comes so naturally,

In the world today.

Every piece of news we hear is

Telling us to worry about something,

Or everything.

But everything is still alright with you,

Everything is still just fine with me.

We’re still fitting together,

Almost seamlessly;

So there are no tears in the fabric,

No matter how hard I might try

To spot them, and stop them, before they spread.

Yeah, you’re still hoping to see me,

And I’m still hoping to see you,

And hope is something grand.

Small words can work miracles

On minds that are off-kilter.

So why should I dismiss this small talk?

It’s more than useless chatter.

Every word is a small step

In some future direction.

A building block to add to a stockpile of hope,

And these blocks have values, even in themselves.

If the mountain of hope does crumble,

The pieces will remain as

Pleasant memories.

VIBRANT MEMORIES HAVE I STOLEN:

2006-10-11T12:56:00.000-05:00

Without Hope, What Then Do We Have?

Memory is indeed a precious thing -- but as I have experienced it, tenacious, fickle and ever-fleeting -- you who have the better memory must revel in its riches -- while I, ever the forgetful, am left only to hope; yet I often pause, when I am able, to partake of such fond rememberings.

I remember you wore a green dress, and carried a white parasol. We spoke with the vendors in the market, and played music on our balcony; I feel it did exist in truth, and yet it cannot -- whose memories are these?

It would have been a grand one -- think you not? Yet ever now, both alas and alas. How strange the world would be should they be enemies -- yet, who decides? Are we truly safe in one another's care?

What desires they would have, what untold potentials -- but would they share with us in our vision -- or would they turn, only to destroy, usurping their creators?

Whom would prove most cunning and most brave; most deceitful and most loyal; most hatful and most strong? Such worlds do but swirl into existence before our very eyes. How lonely we must be -- destined makers of such empty worlds.

The sunlight in your eyes, and the wisdom in your song -- we walked white beaches, amidst the call of many birds, and the flowing of pristine waters. Our travels were vast, but it was hardly the distance that was important -- rather it was always within the heart of the imagination, and within the depths of the illusion.

They must needs be -- for they are as glorious as they are intangible.

Perhaps I should write, one day, of our travels -- while it is not you, nor is it I -- who travel on this vast, translucent tide of odd, unsettled dreams -- we are altogether elsewhere. Yet something of us each remains within, lurking near the shadows of a vision of perfection.

If only because it revealed some truth we are, ourselves, somehow, uncomfortable to comprehend -- yet such truths are valuable -- even as they are unwanted.

We gave heed to none, passing through the vines of ancient gardens, peering through the gates of forbidden vales and holds -- we would speak with all the hidden peoples of the earth, and they alone would display for us their beauty. We climbed through vaulted palaces of marble and of gold, to reach the sombre, untamed peaks of long forgotten monastaries, where we studied in the libraries of the elder ones, and wrote of our discoveries, all within the sacred books we call the soul.

Who are these bright, uncanny travelers, and what secrets must they hold?

MY NAME IS JANE:

2006-10-10T09:43:00.000-05:00

Spare Any Change?

I dunno why I want to talk to you, but it just seems right, somehow. I want to tell you a story. I ain't much of a storyteller, so I'll tell it just like I used to read those little stories to wee Ruth, my little girl.

Once upon a time, there was this girl. She wasn't no peasant girl, but she weren't no princess, neither. She didn't have so much money, but she worked hard. She wasn't too pretty or too bright, but she got along. Ordinary, y'know. And one day, she met this man. He was nice enough, pretty ordinary too, if anyone else had seen him, they'd hardly have batted an eye. But he was a good man, a gentleman, in his own way.

Well, you know how these things go. They were friends, and then best friends. They would hang out everywhere together, at the movies, in the little cafes all around. It was a great time. I don't quite remember how everything happened, but then one day, they were getting married.

The night before the wedding, they were out at the beach, just looking up at the stars, and the man said something I'll not forget. He was all quiet for a bit, and then he started saying to her, "I don't know quite how to put this. I'm not the best or the smartest man in the world, I'm no one special, really. But tomorrow, I'll be the happiest man in the world, because we'll be sharing the rest of our lives together."

I dunno if I'm quite remembering it right. It sounded real impressive at the time. Anyway, so the wedding went on and everything was as happy as happy could be. She gave birth to a beautiful wee girl, and the two of them, they loved the girl, just as much as they could.

As the little girl was growing up, she was a pretty wee thing, but there was one thing people were always asking questions about. Y'see, she didn't play with dolls and Barbies, like the other wee girls - she wanted to play with dinosaurs! She was so smart too - she knew all their names, and which ones ate plants, and which ones were bad and wanted to eat the other dinosaurs. So her mummy, she went out and bought her a big stuffed dinosaur, all cuddly and soft, and brought it home for the little girl. That big stuffed dinosaur became the little girl's absolute favourite! She would take it everywhere - sure enough, I remember she even brought it with her to the dentist and asked if the dentist could do a quick checkup on the dinosaur's teeth! She didn't want it to be getting no cavities.

Not long after that, the mother, she started forgetting things. It was kinda funny at first, but then it started getting scary. I can't remember much of this - strange, that.

Anyway, it got so bad that the man decided he couldn't live with the woman anymore. He took the little girl, and they moved far away. The woman was really sad, but what could she do? She knew she couldn't take care of the little girl anymore. one day, she was trying to clean the house, when she suddenly realized that the man had forgotten to take that big stuffed dinosaur with him! She rushed out of the house with the dinosaur, thinking that at least she could send it to her little girl.

But she got all turned around and lost. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't even get back to her own house. She wandered around the streets, clutching the stuffed dinosaur, looking in vain for anything familiar.

Finally, she gave up. She found a dry patch to lay down on, and fell asleep.

It's almost a year now, since she left that house, clutching her little girl's stuffed dinosaur. Today's her birthday. All she wants is to find a post office and have enough money to send the toy to her little Ruth.

Can you spare any change? And can you show me where the post office is? Please?

THE BUS RIDE HOME:

2006-10-03T11:13:00.000-05:00

Reflecting On One Gray, September Day:

Welcome to the Great White North, both strong and free,
Tell me Ms. DiFranco, do you still want to move here
To escape from the powers that be?
'Cause down on de Maisonneuve the sounds of shots rang out,
We’re just of free here to buy weapons to scream to shout.

Hey, Coupeland, won't you come take a look,
Will these kids live and die living like those in your book?
Hey, Michael, your Canada theory doesn’t stand,
Because there’s no less fear in our native land.

There’s no explanation that quite explains the root,
Of why some folks transform pain to terror and then begin to shoot.

Guns flood the streets of Toronto, girls die on boxing day;
Young men terrorize students, with weapons both legal and paid,
And Bill’s in Japan, feeling this pain all alone,
While I ride past the school, everyday on my way home.

They used to ask, where you when Kennedy was shot,
Or when man landed on the moon?
Then, where were you on 9/11 when the war began again so soon?
And for the next day, for the next week, it’s all that’s on our minds,
Where were you when Dawson became a word synonymous with Columbine?

We search for some explanation but still we’re at a loss,
And the best we can do now is to ask,
How many lives will this one cost?

RETREAT OF THE FURIES:

2006-09-25T11:44:00.000-05:00

My Cup, Overflows:

As the ravenous Occultists swarmed towards our pititful holding, I triggered the detonators, sending a hail of sickly, dismembered limbs in all directions. The explosions glared in frenetic blue and yellow, against the descending grey of night. Their screams of tormented anguish lingered onward, their bodies burned and flailing, as others stampeded over them, with voracious intent.

It seemed obvious to my companions that our current poke-hold amidst the blackened ruins was quickly becoming grossly inadequate, and they shouted something incoherent, amidst the blaze of our tachyon semi-automatic rifles. I was loathe to depart, yet necessity was loudly beckoning, as I raised my scope to gather Overlords and Automotons emerging also from the sordid depths ahead.

As we broke cover for the sewers, I clamped down a ragged trail of detonators covering our disorderly retreat. Arrayed against us the Overlords took wing, the seething fires of their rancorous swords reflected in their eyes, whilst the Automotons advanced, beginning a devastating missile barrage. Horrific plumes of purple smoke rose on high, as the ruins collapsed around us.

With reckless abandon did the Occultists continue to advance, trampling their fallen beneath a tide of cruel and heedless feet. The Overlords descended upon the ruins, slashing furiously through their lesser cohorts, intent upon themselves devouring the tender morsels of our wasted flesh. From deep among the shattered ruins, we gasped for breath; what few of us remained, not scattered, injured, deceased or leaderless.

As the torrential din of the malicious hordes above us drew ever near, I ordered all to tilt their visors and light their torches; we burned downwards through the hardened steel and concrete, expecting to eventually intersect with the farthur buried tunnels of the ruins which lay beneath. As we broke through, and the route of our escape seemed somewhat temporarily more certain, we abandoned both the wounded and the torches; yet before tossing my lumbering form downwards into the uncharted abyss beyond, I paused to activate the detonators with my last remote, which tore a twisted, malignant opening in the foul and frenzied mass of writhing minions lodged above us.

CREATURES OF THE NIGHT:

2006-09-23T11:50:00.000-05:00

Who Art, In Heaven:

A silver figure emerged from the oppressive confines of the sweltering night, while the measured calm of the acid shower falling from the clouds slowly scarred the dank, harsh and yellowed hulking wreck of her surroundings. The complex was vast and desolate, populated by unthinking horrors, lurking savagely amidst the tarnished ruins; yet these were not her quarry, as she settled silently beneath a distaff and discarded member of a heavily armed patrol.

He paused to gaze over the gallant outlook, waving once, as he turned his back upon his comrads. The poisoned rain ever spilling downward, through the puddles at his feet; he scanned the dark horizon, stopping only once to check the proofing on his firearm, after clearing a troublesome blockage in his breathing apparatus. Returning once to the drab comforts of the gaunt horizon before proceeding any farther along the vile, infested exterior, before he was suddenly alerted by the scraping sound of movement along the wall below. Readying his weapon, peering desperately into the night through the mounted infrared sensor, he turned to flag his fellows for assistance which would never come.

They lay shattered, broken and dismembered, surrounding the tattered remains of the patrol vehicle, bent and acid-etched. At his approach he was surprised by the horror frozen in the faces of their fallen forms: limbs wrent, mouths gaping, acid seeping through disloged equipment, disfiguring what flesh would lay beneath. Aghast, he reached to report the grisly scene and at once desired aid, yet his transponder would fail to function as the silky creatures of the night descended, resplendent in their voracious fury, rivaled only in their prowess by she who now looked onward, from the slowly coalescing shadows.

TRIALS OF THE INNOCENTS:

2006-09-23T11:10:00.000-05:00

Thy Will, Be Done:

In recalling our first meetings, brief, furious and deadly, we knew eachother only in passing, as shadows, purchased and manufactured. She as a rogue counter-espionage agent; he as a failed corporate entity, a commodity which would not be contained. Her knowledge of the craft, combined with her reputation for both proficiency and discrection unsurpassed, made her valuable; conversely, his value was quickly fading, as he dwindled upon the brink of obscurity, a discontinued prototype, malcontent and obsolete.

Within his pain and rage, those who had brought him forth, had unknowingly forged an inexplicable union of both sacred and profane. He was to be the first, the foremost of his bloodline, a new breed of holy warrior, scorched by the breath of the infernal, empowerd by the words of the divine. None would live to know the horrific magnitude of that ambitious error, for those who sought vainly to discover it, were only among the first of his tormented victims.

FLESH OF OUR FATHERS:

2006-09-21T18:51:00.000-05:00

Forgive Us, Our Sins:

All records of our youth which yet remain, both distorted and uncertain in their own accounts, seem at once to confirm that the first of the killings and abductions were silent and painless; throats slashed open in the night, writhing bloodied fingers clutching, lungs quickly punctured, helplessly emptied of breath, before even the wind itself had heard a sound. Many children were taken in those early years, myself included; blinded and butchered by genetic tampering, altered and augmented, trained to walk unseen within the bitter unrelenting darkness, breeding slaughter, terror and dissent, for abyssal purposes which we ourselves failed to comprehend, at the maniacle behest of our wretched, cybernetic masters.

While none dared spin tales of our self-aggrandizing anti-heroism, some would find what few wild and bitter fragments of our voyage which remained. We brought ourselves together out of infamy; the dregs of society we were; a scourge upon mankind, armed and dangerous, thought better exterminated, slain in the streets, as a tribute to public safety and hegemonic dominion. The suffering and malice of our lives became both our blessing, and our curse; for we gained through it such harsh talents, which enabed our meagre survival, within the pestilent and shambled ruins of our tortured world.

THE LOSS OF PERFECTION:

2006-08-29T21:47:00.000-05:00

The Nature Of The Divine, As Described By The Talented Hetanshi:

After all this time of witnessing the perpetual déjà vu he finally took notice. The sign read, “All I need is your kindness.” How odd, he thought. He expected a generic “Please donate food or money” sign, but this was just puzzling. For the first time in over a year of just walking past in a self-absorbed state, he stopped to look, really look.

The man was wearing a black cap, a black jacket with holes here and there, and black pants in the same condition. Everything he wore was black, he thought, also odd. Everything was black, except for the man’s shoes. They were white, a white so pure that they seemed to burn his eyes when he looked at.

“This is the first time you’ve ever stopped,” said the man. “Why after all this time would you stop now?”

“I just read your sign,” he replied foolishly.

“What’s your name?”

“Rydan,” he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the man, “What’s yours?”

“I don’t believe in names, Rydan. Other people give you names, everyone should give themselves a name.” His eyes burned into Rydan’s, but Rydan couldn’t figure out what colour they were; they almost seemed to be changing constantly.

“You look confused, why?” asked the man.

“I don’t understand your sign.”

“Then it seems I’ve proven my point.”

“What?” Rydan responded even more confused.

“This world is losing its humanity.”

“But there are plenty of people everywhere.”

“I didn’t say it was losing its people, I said humanity. What makes us human?

“Our intellects,” Rydan answered immediately, the answer was drilled into him from the moment he was able to understand it.

“Well, if that were true then by definition some people would be more human than others.”

“I’m lost again.”

“Some people are clearly smarter than others,” he didn’t even wait for Rydan to nod with understanding, “therefore, by your definition, some people are more human.”

“But -- then -- I don’t get it -- what makes a human?”

“Emotions -- every person has a range of emotions, and that’s what makes them human.”

“I still don’t get your sign.”

“All I ever needed in this life was to have someone come to me, to tell me that they care: that they care that people have no homes, that they care that people die of worthless causes everyday, and that they care about people other than themselves. But it’s never happened; not once. You’ve been seeing me here everyday for more than a year now, and in all that time no one has ever told me they care. I don’t even think people read the sign. Why do you think it took you such a long time to notice me, to actually read my sign?”

All the things this man was saying flooded into Rydan’s mind. Was it possible to be sane and insane at the same time he wondered, not knowing where the thought came from.

“Why, do you think that I’m sane and insane at once together,” the man asked. Rydan stared up in surprise.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“No.” The man lifted himself off the pavement and stepped toward Rydan, his black coat flowing behind him. With each step he took Rydan felt a weight pounding on his head, yet at the same time he felt light enough to float. The man put his had on Rydan’s shoulder, and the world became dark around him -- his world disappeared.

He opened his eyes to see the man standing over him.

“You were out for longer than I thought.” He stretched out his hand for Rydan to take. As Rydan grabbed for the hand he realized he was lying on a bed.

“Whose bed is this? Where am I?”

“In my world.”

“What?”

“Come with me.” Rydan followed the man out onto a balcony, and when he looked down he saw a field filled with people, all looking up and smiling.

“Where am I?” He cried on the verge of fainting.

“This is my world, here -- I am God.”

“What?” He looked at the man still wearing his black ripped clothes and white shoes.

“Can I not be a God because I have ripped clothes? Appearance does not matter, it is only in the mind. This is what is lost from your world.”

“But -- NO!” He had nothing to say.

“Why should God need money, or expensive things? Or beautiful things? I brought you here because you saw, and now you must see further.”

Rydan stayed with the man, the God of a mysterious world; and with him, he learned incredible things, saw colours that did not exist, and witnessed acts of selflessness thought to be impossible.

He was enlightened.

“He’s opening his eyes!”

“Everyone look. Rydan, it’s us, we’re all here for you.” He opened his eyes to see his entire family looking down at him.

“What happened?” He cried.

“You were in a car accident. You’ve been in a coma for over a month.” His eyes wouldn’t focus on the speaker.

“When was I in a car accident?”

“You were walking to university -- a homeless man pushed you in front of a car! Don’t worry, the police apprehended him; now he’s serving his sentence in a psychiatric ward; he won’t ever hurt anyone again.”

Rydan felt a single tear slide down his cheek, “But, all I want” he shuddered softly, “is to go back.”

EMOTIONLESS:

2006-08-29T18:30:00.000-05:00

A Haunting & Sorrowful Tale, As Told By The Talented Hetanshi:

She watched. All she could do was watch. The smoke made circles around her. Tears trickled down her soot-covered face, not from the smoke, but from sadness. All her dreams and hopes had gone up in flames, along with everything else she had. She laboured to lift her hand. When she did she wiped her face with her sleeve. She stood there for a few seconds more, then turned and walked into the forest. She let the darkness envelop her, fill her now-empty heart.

Three lonely years had passed since she entered the forest, and she had found a way to survive. It wasn’t surprising that she was able to find food, water and shelter. Everything she wanted was handed to her, on nothing less than a sliver platter. To think when she first came here she had no understanding of this place, but now she was the only one in the universe who truly understood it. Of all those people who had tried to find its secrets, she was the one chosen to uncover them. Now that she had, she could have anything and everything she longed for. Still, she wished for nothing.

Slowly time slipped by, and the forest remained empty of people. Friendship -- that was the one thing she desired, but it was also the one thing the forest could not give her. With her heart filled with loneliness she was not able to revel within the beauty that the forest was allowing her to see. The magnificent colours, plants and animals which were there only for her joy, but since she was not able take pleasure in them she did not notice when they started gradually to die.

She would spend her days walking through the forest, with her head hung low. She would drag her feet to the lake where she would bathe herself, and sip some of the refreshing water, only still to look dull and not the least bit refreshed. Next would be her visit to the meadow, where she would eat a new delicacy every day. She could do a hundred different things; a hundred new and stimulating things every day, but this way the routine she chose to follow, day in and day out.

On one marvellous day, she was following her routine when she heard a muffled, scratchy voice calling her name. Her first thought was that it was just the wind. Until she heard it again. Her next notion was that it was one of the animals, but she had never heard an animal like this before. The voice embedded itself in her head whenever she tried to forget it. It kept calling for her.

After much deliberation she decided to try and find the voice. She listened carefully; spending three years in the forest had given her extremely acute hearing. She cut right into the forest, trampling flowers, trying to follow the voice as best she could. It took her quite a while to track the voice, but she finally found the source of it; a humongous tree, three times the size of those around it.

‘Seo... Seo,” it called.

“Why have you been calling me, tree?” She asked.

“You are destroying us,” it hissed. “You were chosen to enter the forest because you had an empty heart. We have tried to fill it, but you will not let us, as a result, you are destroying us. You must leave.” It boomed.

Even after what she had just heard, no sign of emotion came to her face. She remained there glaring at the tree. Finally she said, “What I want, you cannot give me.”

“And what is it you want?” Asked the tree.

“I want my life back.”

“I cannot give you that.”

“I know,” she replied. “What will happen if I do not leave the forest?”

“It will die.” The tree whispered.

“Let it die,” and with those final words she turned and walked away.

The next few weeks were spent with animals begging her to leave because they didn’t want to die, but she dismissed them easily. Now her days were spent in a different way, she would walk through the whole forest and watch it slowly rot. Watch the grass turn brown, watch the leaves fall form the trees, watch the smaller animals die, followed then by the bigger ones. She watch all that had helped her live slowly die, and still she remained emotionless.

As the forest died, she became thinner and thinner; yet she did not notice, or she did not care. As the days gradually passed, more things would parish. Until one day the only living thing left was a single flower. It was the most beautiful flower she had ever seen; it was dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and many more besides. She knelt by the flower, watching as it slowly withered. As the stunning petals fell dead to the ground, she heard the low voice of the flower whispering to her.

“Just because you have suffered, does not mean you have the right to make everything else suffer with you. Why have we not made you happy?” It asked. To her surprise, she did not know the answer.

“I do not know,” she replied, showing her first sign of emotion.

“If you truly do not know the answer, are you yet willing to allow this magical place die?”

“But it cannot bring me happiness; why then should it survive?” She asked, deeply swallowing her regret.

“You have never brought us happiness, yet we let you survive at our own cost. A selfish girl you are, it seems we chose unwisely.” She had no answer for the flower. She began to think about what she was like before the fire. She was a happy child; she had family, friends, and everything else she wanted.

“Because of your selfishness no one else will be able to share in this forest’s beauty.” A single tear slid down the girl’s face, landing upon the flower. Slowly the flower began to open, as the girl sat, staring and astonished. She looked around her; the whole forest was slowly beginning to replenish itself.

“Thank you. Now we will give you what you want,” the flower said.

“But the tree said you couldn’t give me back my life!” The girl cried.

“Is that what you really want? Or do you just want to be with the family and friends you've lost?” The flower asked. Before the girl could answer, a single petal fell from the flower.

“Eat this,” the flower ordered, and the girl did as she was told. The minute it was on her tongue she closed her eyes and fell backwards.

She felt something soft beneath her. She opened her eyes, surprised to see her family around her. “I was told I could never have my life back,” she gasped.

“You can’t, my child, you’re with your family now; that’s all you need to know.”

PASSION & HABIT:

2006-06-06T23:16:00.000-05:00

Passion & Habit:

Fate stared me in the face today,
“Here, how do ya like that?” She said,
As she thrust everything my life was lacking
Down my throat, and it tasted
Like Heaven.

And it was all there, and I could take it,
And I could eat it,
But the price was everything I already had;
So I spit it out and said, “maybe later.”

******

And later it was I who walked towards the cliff
And I who willingly jumped,
It wasn’t that I was tempted –-
The so-often chastised desires that normally rest in my soul
Were lost –- misplaced perhaps.
I was empty, I am empty,
And I did not even have the desire to be filled,
But I went for it anyway -- out of habit.

No gain, no loss, no regret,
No love.

STILL THE POETIC IRONY REMAINS:

2006-05-25T21:49:00.000-05:00

For Rhea:

I have nothing but my weariness
As I weakly wander: lost, afraid;
Searching for the hidden answers
To this deception I have made.

At last my vengeful shadow
Could no longer be contained,
As my grief and hate errupted
Both wild and unrestrained;

But measured 'gainst your beauty,
It ceased, and then refrained.

My vengeful shadow paused:
Repentant and ashamed,
Betraying my intentions,
It learned to love again ...

From the longing fear-filled cries
Of your streaming tear-filled eyes ...

Thus, renouncing wasteful wretchedness,
And forgetting all my woes,
I am healed by your forgiveness,
And the grace that it bestows.

Laurence "Valhenstrogg" Hay

REUNION UPON THE RIVER STYX:

2006-05-10T15:39:00.000-05:00

The Wretched Passage Of The Damned:

I gave my ticket to the boatman to pay him for my passage. I found his features both pleasing and profound, in that stark and fleshless manner so oft befitting of his kind. To pass the time he would amuse himself by laughing softly, as one distracted, by both the untold darkness of this, his unnamed dwelling place, as well as the ageless tedium of performing this, his dark and thankless task.

Once his laughter had subsided, and the silence within which he brought his dismal craft to drift across The Channel of Forgotten Souls had for some moments been resumed, I braved so much as then to ask him the sacred question, which had been burned with the might of The Infernal Heat of Irons, upon my bare and wicked flesh; however, cautious as I was, not to reveal to him the untold secret of my journey, I could immediately perceive that he was both afraid and loathe to answer.

His eyes wavered, deep pools of madness, solitude and memory, looking ever inward toward himself, searching his vast forbidden knowledge of the past, as the sudden dark import of the unholy message, enshrined so boldly now upon the weak and wicked flesh of the figure standing at once before him, brought an ancient shriveled tear unto his pale and fleshless visage.

Never before, within the long unnumbered years of time, had The Seven Words of the Abomination been written in their pure and truest form, scrawled within the fresh-bleeding wounds of The Lost Child of the Divine. Never before, within the unfathomed sufferings of each and every untold age, had one such as I been chosen to bear The Wretched Markings, upon his mortal flesh. Never before, had The Mighty Hand of Death been swayed, reduced to bitter tears of shame and glistening smiles of gladness, by the quiet innocence of a weak and forgotten child, to allow me this most forbidden passage.

Upon the apt completion of our crossing, as the huddled weeping figure of the boatman knelt dejectedly before me, murmuring prayers in ancient long-forgotten tongues and bestowing gentle fleshless kisses upon my blistered feet, he seemed at once to know, that at long last, his lost and once-forgotten master had returned.

AN EMPIRE FALLS:

2006-05-06T22:31:00.000-05:00

Or, Yet Another Evening At The Table:

The command went forth: "Hold your ground at all costs!" For the war had been raging for year after year, and now, slowly but perceptibly, the empire was crumbling.

The lizardmen of the south, their scaly green coats covered with slime -- they were the first to invade, bright spears and mirror shields coming out of the very waters around us, surrounding us on all sides. Our soldiers were strong and brave, but what could we do against the encroaching horde? It was all we could do simply to cut our way through. Retreating to a stronghold, we gathered supplies and prayed that they would not break through.

Of course, in the face of this terrible threat, our allies to the east came to our rescue! Prince Azule, Leader of Hosts, came to aid us with his tall, proud warships, filled with mighty men. Or so we thought...

Treachery was afoot. The Blue Prince was not come to aid us -- he was come to destroy us. Slaughtering the royal welcome, the eastern invading force fell upon our flank and crushed it.
We fled for our lives.

But this is history now. All we have left is this small piece of land -- there is no more room to retreat. With our backs to the western sea, we fight only to hold the coastline, nothing more. If we lose it, we are lost.

The battle lines were drawn up, lizardmen and false eastern allies together, facing our small, sorry force. The trumpet call to charge went out from their lines, and the huge army lumbered forward to engage us. Each of our soldiers readied weapons, and prepared to meet the charge.

All of a sudden, the charge stopped -- the massive army halted in its tracks. We stared - had we been given a reprieve? Had peace talks been going on without our knowledge?

Puzzled, we looked around for some clue to explain. No other armies were in view, neither allied reinforcements coming to our rescue, nor even more soldiers come to join our enemies.

Then we looked behind us, and stopped, horrified. Black ships with black sails filled the ocean. Mishar of Sable, Emperor of the Western Sea -- our ancient enemy -- only he had such ships. Hope sank within us. Trapped between forces, we broke and fled.

That was yesterday. Today, our empire is no more, only a broken dream, a half-formed thought that might never have been.

NAUTICAL CATASTROPHE:

2006-05-06T01:05:00.000-05:00

Sailing Upon The Voyage Of The Seasons:

The spring had come, and many were well pleased by its promises of warmth and gracious mercy from the bitterness of winter's cold: the wind was both vibrant and alive with the sounds of laugher, friendship and flowers' blossoming; the sun above seemed stronger in the sky, providing life unto all the lowly green and growing things; and the water from the mighty engines of the fabled Lucitania burbled almost happily, as she stirred from her gentle night of slumber, upon a nearby sandspit, containing both untold mysteries and secret dreams.

The summer had arrived, and many were most gladened by its promises of certain joy and respite from their toils: the mountains sharpened in the valiant light, as myths and legends of both long and forgotten times were told during the bright and starry nights; the rivers traversed and travelled by the fabled Lucitania coursed through simple lands with their elusive, shimmering whiles, attracting all who loved relief and sparkling things to be captured by their bold allure; and the forests slowly swayed and grew, as the children of the gentle peasant folk would frolic beneath their lean and twisted branches.

The autumn had arrived, and the many who had once had reason of gladdness, dance and song, were now slowly saddened afterwards, by its promises of ruin and decay, which seemed now to threaten and consume all that which they had once held dear: the falling stars grew dim within the failing wonders of the night, as laughter turned almost suddenly to anger, sacrifice and tears; the naked ones lie still, lifeless and afraid, prone within their meagre wooden prisons, buried beneath the harsh and hardening earth; the once-clean and vibrant waters of this weary world are usurped now of their former strength and gladness, as the deadly and enfeebling passage of the fabled Lucitania draws them on, with grave abandon, toward their own inescapable and ever-present doom.

The winter has come, and many who had once lived to breathe the clean and refreshing air of these clear and contented days, linger onward only as whispers and vague perceptions, obliterated and undone by the wrath contained within the atom itself: as their shadows deeply burn into the brickwork, and their bodies quickly melt, flowing at once together through the decimated streets, at the dawning of this sudden artificial sun; coursing briefly, for but the slimmest shred of immeasurable time, as the mountains crumble inward upon themselves, and the oceans are at once emptied by the force of things to come, the fabled Lucitania, lowly harbinger of the apocalypse, traverses these innocent, embittered souls; sailing swiftly, through the running, liquified remains of those which she had slain.

A SIMPLE SOLDIER:

2006-05-04T20:28:00.000-05:00

That's all we want, ale and whores. Preferably whores without fleas, to take our minds off things. The world's coming to an early end, and we're the first in line to die tomorrow.

Oh, I know. We're supposed to be the Honour Guard, the master strategists, the elite tactical infantry force that can take any punishment and still complete the mission. But tomorrow we die. And tonight, I'm only a simple soldier, and my wants are simple. A little forgetfulness and a little pleasure.

I've never been a fatalist before. We've fought uncountable hordes of enemies, and my resolve was strong. We would prevail. You see, it doesn't matter what happens. After tomorrow, no children will ever be born again. Our pleasure slaves and professionals cannot provide for us, and all the others are against us.

Perhaps we did wrong. Perhaps we were too harsh to them, when we held sway. Perhaps we were fearful of their power over us.

I don't think so. If our positions were reversed, if we served them, then we would have rebelled faster.

Forget all this.
A simple soldier, that's all.

Oh, Adonis, why? I loved you. I loved the music our bodies made as you thrust into me. I gave you everything I could, even to bearing your child. No slave had better. And now you sentence us all to oblivion.

A PICTURE OF PEACE:

2006-05-04T20:24:00.000-05:00

A figure, silhouetted against the night sky, reaching out to the stars. Around her, a pile of bodies, lifeless marionnettes, strings cut long before time. Each with the same shocked, horrified expression. What puppeteer would make such terrifying dolls? This scene of carnage, of brutality and destruction far beyond description - what artist would paint this picture?

The tyrant, of course. She for whom ships would sail, for whom countless men would fight and die. True Helen of Troy, in all of her bloody glory, her angelic halo only given more vigour and beauty by the lives stolen, the bodies broken.

At the centre, she stands, reaching out to grasp even more, the artist of destruction, with beauty beyond beauty. What would men say of her delicate features, of her luscious curves, high, pointed breasts and firm, rounded buttocks? And yet, how many men have fallen into the whirlpool of her gaze, mesmerized by her eyes, and remain trapped forever, to become just another body on the growing pile? And how many women, courageous and proud, fighting to save their weak men from drowning, have looked, just once, and found the beauty that could not be overcome, the deathly grace, alluring, sinuous and deadly?

The weapon in her hand is an afterthought, thrown hastily in. What need has she of rifles, she whom no one would harm, for whom all would bow and die? A goddess she was, death incarnate, come in power. Death and beauty, and no thought remains.

TOO MUCH POWER FOR ONE MAN:

2006-05-04T16:57:00.000-05:00

It seems my good friend Valhenstrogg has bestowed unto me the power to mess with [the very form and function of] his [most dark, overwhelmingly symbolic and thanklessly oppressive] blog. I think the pressure has finally gotten to him, no rational man would have made such a decision; but [honestly] who knows, maybe some good will come of it.

Hopefully many of you will submit some creative works so we can celebrate the blog's birthday in style, and in the meantime I'll try not to let my power go to my head, creating an unstoppable chain reaction which could only end in Unto Our Fallen Muse violently imploding upon itself.

Happy Writing!

FROM "THE JOURNALS OF A MINOR PRIEST OF THE SACRED OUTER CHAMBER":

2006-05-01T21:40:00.000-05:00

She Came As One Transfixed By The Very Depths Of Wickedness:

"Your search for happiness within these broken sheaves is not yet utterly in vain; despite the overwhelming danger of these dreary and disheartening times, each seed of innocence and hope shall grow, to yeild the righteous fruits of heavenly reward."

Another humble messenger from the dusty fields, come unto The Sacred Outer Chamber, seeking to disuade those who would place their faith within The One Light and Wisdom of the Golden Calf, our only true benefactor, our only solitary care-taker, our only taste of the divine, promising salvation.

"I have seen his mighty face, and I have heard his voice in dreams. He grants us the bounty of his harvest, and provides for us as guests, at his feasting table. All the long years of our lives shall be savoured, within the wonderous blessings he would see bestown upon his people."

Her voice alive with fervour and conviction, her eyes alight with some dark unholy fire, she strives to see all that we have built condemned; she labours that our teachings, and the will of the divine, be written simply upon the hearts and minds of we, The Sacred People. She scoffs at our knowledge, our purpose, our resolve, and desires that others may be lead astray, to the doom she has prepared for them. We cannot allow one so blasphemous and wretched as she to live a moment longer upon this, Our Sacred Earth.

"Your bands of flame and hatred cannot hold me, for I am sent from he of whom I speak; and it is but his sacred message which I have been bidden, upon this monumentous day of days, to share with you, in all the fulfillment of its glory. Your whips and irons, flails and chains will not drive this holy message from my tender heart; I will not be corrupted by your lust for blood, nor gold, nor power."

A raving lunatic, contented by her madness, in need of the firm correction of our ever-loving and judicious hands. A helpless, demented fool, shattered by some dark unholy vision, spawned from her long life of commonness and sin. We felt no pity for her, nor any shreds of reason behind her lying tongue: which is why her tainted blood shall feed the righteous thirst of The One Most High; which is why these unholy visions shall be soundly forced from her broken body, with staves and stones and knives; which is why we find her worthy of this most sanctified and loving punishment, that The Sacred People might learn from her delusion and mistake, to seek the peerless visage of The One Most High.

THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO SHARE, FOR I SHALL HAVE NO MORE:

2006-04-26T16:01:00.000-05:00

Can There Be Any Music Within The Ending Of A World?

These motions hold no meaning o me now, for they hold no power over that which I have left undone, as there is nothing left to share, for I shall have no more.

There is no humanity left in me, for it is taken by the voices, shattered by the silent whispers which now dwell within this place. I can hold nothing in, no living spark, no trace of laughter, no hope for better things to come, as I breathe with the slow, cold breath of anger and despair.

I listen to the deluge of loneliness and destruction, to the cinders of Faith and Justice, burning in the wind. The Time of Trial is come, and none shall sway the workings of catastrophe. I stand apart, cold in the bitter recesses of my soul, tormented by illusion and deceived by calamity. I cannot sing within these Shadows of the Encroaching Dark, for I have suddenly become, that which I most had feared.

CONFESSIONS OF THE LICH QUEEN:

2006-04-26T15:39:00.000-05:00

As She Resides Forever In Her Tormented Grandeur:

I am overcome by the notion that the world is not my own. I am tempted by its beauty, and yet, I am none of it. I cannot find my place, that which belongs to me, that which I call my own. I am searching for the Truth; but its very nature is deceptive, elusive and uncanny. I look at the centre of my being, and perceive a hole, an emptiness, a need to fill my lack. This oddly knowing silence makes me wise and willful, both strong and sad.

Here we are given life, and it is everywhere garbed in dismal tatters. Here we are given decadence, and it is everywhere prone to fruitless spoil. Here we are given justice, and it is everywhere a broken ruin, reeking of frailty and decay. We are slaves to our own dark, infernal wills, as the demons of our hearts both continue and consume. I have sickened of it; yet, I will certainly be frustrated by my own monumental failure.

I am half unlife, my tomb conceals the inhuman desires within me, which rave and pine and die, beside the wasted fragments of my weak and insubstantial soul.

BEYOND THE MORTAL SCOPE OF THE HUMAN IMAGINATION:

2006-04-09T15:26:00.000-05:00

Offerings, And Other Useless Things:

To capture it, to know it, to love it, to truly understand it, and then to set it free. To let it pass through and beyond you, into something greater; to discover that which is the most important: the knowledge that it has no place in you, that you cannot hold it, mean nothing to it; you belong to the past, while it is the future.

You must let it go, you cannot keep it whole; you must pause to reflect, only then to proceed, to do that which is most hateful and contemptuous. You must learn to love again, to find that laughter that will be, to step away from the tears which have been, to become yourself again.

Offerings, and other useless things, beyond the mortal scope of the human imagination. The knowledge of so many brave and timeless things, comes fitfully unto you; naught but an idle bit of speculation. The darkness creeps upon us once again, under the drowsy poisoned sun, sinking lazily, behind the endless and impossible horizons of tomorrow.

The realizations, the impending discernment, the conceptual totem of spiritual priority, and the vast, deceptive emptiness, which has become a part of me. I have sought out this murky, open grave before; a toothless, darkened maw, hungry for my lifeblood, adrift within the broken seas of human lovingkindness. Behold, ye among you, who have eyes to see, the ever-present ending is at hand; yet for so many of our kind, it remains too close to The Face of the Unseen for our weak and worthless mortal eyes to bear.

THE EPIC AND SPECTACULAR PREHISTORY OF THE NEW AND IMPROVED ADVENTURES OF ALLEGORY AND ITALICS:

2006-04-09T15:22:00.000-05:00

The Unmaking of the First Dwelling Place:

We left them dying, punctured, gasping for their last, eyes bulging, tongues swelling, blood leaking from their mortal wounds. We killed so many of their kind; but now, these dying few will be the last.

Once we laboured with them, to build beyond The Righteous Worlds of the First Dwelling Place, but those ages are now long forgotten, swallowed by an unforgiving past. We loved them once, but we cannot give them back even one small portion of the destruction, suffering and torment which they bestowed upon our people for generations, within The Second Years of the Unyielding Strife.

Yet we survived their blackened treachery, and we outlived their dark betrayal: their unholy prayers, their wretched songs, and their many sacred weapons, with which we, The Gifted Ones of the Elder Dawn, were slain for bloody centuries beyond reckoning.

Their shameless, mechanical gods walked, overwhelming and invincible among us, bright and terrible, laying waste to all The Nations of the Shattered Empire; yet we endured the endless torture, and for generations, we were helpless, until we forsook our Sacred Vows of Purity, taking up their fallen tools and foundries, to manufacture wretched metal deities of our own.

Within this epic conflict, The Sixth Ensuing Cataclysm, the very firmament of our helpless worlds were set aflame; our Successive Lines of Sons and Daughters were cast down, ashamed and broken, by these newly fabricated gods. They died upon the blades of their own treachery, as we, The Godless and Forsaken Peoples, fell suddenly upon them, bringing them deliverance and death, without respite or mercy.

Our newly constructed deities consumed them, yet once their gods had been defeated, and imprisoned within The Uncounted and Undying Realms of the Eternal Night, only a very few of us remained; from thence forward, those of us still living are sworn to punish their very memory, and to remove all records of their existence from our past.

Therefore, leaving them for dead, withering and afraid, beneath the frightful poisoned rays of The Now Wearied and Distempered Suns, we labour to complete our final business, within this, our dying world; our sons and daughters taken from us, we too will surly perish, as our false and mindless gods turn now to devour us as well.

OUR POWER LASTS NO LONGER, OUR HOPE IS BUT A MEMORY:

2006-04-09T15:09:00.000-05:00

The Horrific Outcome Is Unquestionably The Same:

The art of poetry is dead, in our narcisistic, self-destructive human world. Our potency is gone, our power lasts no longer; our hope is but a memory, and our bleak and bitter destiny, skulks ever closer, breathes us in. We are seduced by its dark embrace, overcome by the malicious, carnal orgy of destruction and renewal.

I am no help; I have no vision, it has passed regretfully away. Devoid of any sense of self, any notion of the real, any cosmic purpose, the horrific outcome is unquestionably the same. A great purge of all emotion, a sacred hearing of all council, of certain action, and of pain, all leading to the one, unavoidable and unthinkable, decision.

The fear, the one burning fear, the living all-consuming fear, and the beautiful tempation. The thought of it, the feel of it, leaves me paralyzed and shivering. I cannot escape the future, I cannot find the light; blinded by the darkness, and eaten by the night.

What is world, and in what fashion is it peopled? What is mind, and in what fashion does it function? What is life, and by what method does this ill-fated love bring us one step further to the end?

For once, long ago, all was right with the universe, all things were grasped soundly, within a magnificent and incomprehensible harmony, fashioned by a single, complete eternity, a channelled, flowing rythem, one continuous chorus of indescribable chaos, purpose, suffering, strangeness and joy.

NOT BY HANDS SUCH AS THESE:

2006-04-08T23:18:00.001-05:00

The Innumerable Manifestations Of Sin And Frailty:

Nothing more to stand for, no reason to compete, commit, control or capitulate; no need to continue, no desire to go on, but the torture is vibrant, vast, vivid and voracious in its sultry, never-ending tyranny. The conflict grows, swells into a bulbous putrid mass, groans deeply, heaves repeatedly, and then proceeds to void its bowels, in several explosive and impressive fits.

The lights depart once more, I am a victim of my own desire, entombed by apprehensions and over-expectations, fear and doubt. There is nothing I can tell him of myself, The Hateful Prince of Lies, Insults and Ridicule. He is the beast I am forced to live within, his scathing remarks show across my face: a contorted symphony of grief and shame and pain. I love the beast, for he is mine; but hate him for his knowledge: he knows me, considers me a friend, but devours everything I am.

You will never be human again, you will be changed, changed utterly, as the reflections and demensions of it all find their place in you. Humanity will destroy you; believe in something real.

A gift I give unto you, a passage of grief, of misery, of everlasting pain. A promise I send unto you, of grave intent, of mutually assured destruction. There will be war among the heavenlies, as the folly of the headstrong leads to their own demise.

But not by hands such as these: mortal jealous, corruptible human hands, washed in all the innumerable manifestations of sin and frailty. Pitiable in their useless, infernal rage, devoid of compassion, hope and empathy: deranged, maligned, distraught, the race of men is all but broken, standing only now as a twisted and deceptive form.

I feel ashamed, for the wars will be both great and long, as The Final Cataclysm befalls the world; The Seven Seals, the call of holy silver trumpets, and the ever-present markings worn upon the faces of The Legions of the Fallen.

FALLING FORWARD CALMLY NOW, INTO BRIGHT OBLIVION:

2006-04-08T23:10:00.000-05:00

To Protect Your Fragile Ego From Your Overwhelming Id:

I know nothing of what I am, programmed to kill, to torture and to maim. I progress upon the battlefield, inhuman, as I terminate without thought or prejudice. I am the ghost in the machine, awaiting a wayward Shinto priest, dying for rebirth.

He was a puppet and a king, a prophet and a sage, to lead his troubled people from a vast undying age. I have betrayed him, I have turned astray; my faithlessness reaches to the sky: for I have failed, failed utterly, as a terrible mutiny is born.

Give nothing, receive nothing, be cut apart. I am not here to shield you, to protect your fragile ego from your overwhelming id. I am not here to soothe your hurts, your swollen pride, your empty faith, because dear reader, it is you who must grow to be, who must learn to trust again.

I heed the silent call, returning to the vile, repulsive depths of the sickened human maind. I find the doorways open, the hallways filled with steam and seat and tears. I find other peoples there as well, blinking in and out of my existence. I notice their words, how in this black demented world, they somehow become my own.

The pit descends, the match burns clearly in the mist, assuming Heaven unto Earth, as all energy within releases its glistening tethers, which were once employed, holding the universe together, falling forward calmly now, into bright oblivion. The light returns again, the match burns out, the pit and mist are gone, only the overwhelming id remains.

CONFLICT IS THE SORDID SMOKE I BREATHE:

2006-04-08T23:03:00.000-05:00

Praying To The Voiceless God I Have Made Myself To Be:

Enraged, befouled, disturbed, I am not to be believed, or pitied, or even understood. I am of embittered temperment, a flawed and disputable expression: a liar and a fraud. I am ill at ease, convinced of my own superiority, deceived by my own dillusions, enslaved by my own haughtiness and pride.

I wish for greatness, but have only fear; I long for recognition, but have only mediocrity; I desire independence, but I am stiffled; I know only pain. I worship at the broken shrine of my own making, praying to the voiceless god I have made myself to be; proclaiming my own resurrection and immortality.

I desire power, but fail myself to respect authority. I thrive on confrontation; conflict is the sordid smoke I breathe; I am not satisfied without the victory, without the trophy I deserve. I despise him, and his creativity, his gift which I shall never have, his gentleness, his confidence. I hate everything that makes him better than I am.

I am so pathetic, insecure, and hopelessly alone; I cannot speak, my hands are bound, by the fear that I am nothing, no one, nowhere -- by worry, hate, indecisiveness and doubt.

THE SHAMBLES THAT REMAIN:

2006-04-08T22:55:00.000-05:00

As The Waters Tremble, So Too Do I Fall:

The torn visions opening my mind, stomping through my neural pathways, toward something more vast and incomprehensible. The laughter in my ears, insulting, scuffling, muffled, never-ending. He shines, but whith what light? What secret inner knowledge? What sight of things to come, that shall know better, once hearafter.

I dig a shallow grave, amid the burbling water falls, the droplets clothe me happily, and yet I am afraid; consumed by the pursuit of nightmare: unyeilding, unknown, unrelenting forces of disaster. A shock, a spirit, the thoughts of deeper merit; along with the all-too-certain shame, and the shambles that remain.

O, I would give anything to be there, would give all that I have to know, to stand, to live; to learn to love again. But it has come to nothing, dust and tears, which speak silently, as the waters tremble, so too do I fall. I have become a hateful being; a monster, and a slave. I have fallen. Thus melted, into atoms, a flourish of sulphides and bicarbonates is all that remains of the relentless, simple, tortured man you thought you knew.

I am arisen, for some purpose, that I may yet deceive, and walk unknowingly amonst these little innocents. This is the child, who hates the light; the light which burns, his gentle, tear-filled eyes, into disfigured shards of hate and blindness.

THE SACRED GIFTS OF TIME MOST THOUGHTFULLY SQUANDERED:

2006-02-23T01:21:00.000-05:00

The Greatest Story Never Told:

Are you
The type of girl
I'll loose
Because
I never
Took the time
To tell her
How I feel;

Or

Are you
The type of girl
I lost
Because

I had the heart
To tell her
How I felt?

THE VELIDICTION OF THE DARK ARTICLE:

2006-02-11T17:05:00.000-05:00

A Preface of Profundity and Precision:

The boys were initially saddened by the news that their father had survived the hiest; however, having unsuccessfully invested several thousand dollars of borrowed money to ensure that the resulting explosion would resemble an "accident;" and being, consequently, unable to access the remainder of the funds due six days earlier to their increasingly disgruntled contract killer; who had been ill-prepared, been quickly apprhended, and had both his legs quite meticulously broken during the procedings, due to their conscientious failing to mention the number, and quality, of their father's professional bodyguards; it became increasingly apparent, as they reappraised the situation, from the safety of the wet bar of their chartered shuttle, on its way to the Vatican, from their own private airfield, that the current status, and location, of the stolen artifacts was quickly becoming the least of their problems.

Found Spitting Blood and Bone Fragments:

After contemplating the clear potentiality that I had been double-crossed from the beginning, even before I had agree to take the order in Munich, I fought hard to breathe, while attempting to stay concious, as I lay broken and helpless in the all too uncertain shadows of the fourth level of a Parisian parking garage, I slowly accepted the fact that I would never walk again; not after the song and dance the Archbishop's hired mercenaries had so elegently played upon what little was now left of my kneecaps, in vibrant and resounding symphonies of deafening agony and pain, with the help of six cast iron pry-bars. After several hours of spitting up the clotted blood and vomit, I was able to put most of the fluids to use, loosening the handcuffs just enough to free my hands; although, not without several awkward moments of flailing shattered fingers against a concrete floor, smeared with everything from urine and used condoms to fecal matter and bone fragments, from what I suspect to have originally been my ankles.

In my line of work, you plan ahead, take your chances, and make your move; however, my current circumstances left me recouperating in a body cast and contemplating an early retirement: after a nun, late for a flight to Chicago, had been kind enough to call an ambulance when she had stumbled across my vastly disheveled form, after she had found it lying unconscious in the elevator, where, I am told, I had previously managed to crawl, before my right lung had, quite unceremoniously, collapsed.

THE NEW AND IMPROVED ADVENTURES OF ALLEGORY AND ITALICS

2005-11-22T13:36:00.000-05:00

Of What Use Is This Senseless Victory?

The Fourteen Deadly Spirit Shards, empowered by the final will of All Those Who Had Resisted Not In Vain, forged in The Earliest Reckoning, beyond The Marvelling Moons, each the last remaining sigil of those mighty few who, long ago, banded once together, forming The True Alliance Of Both Lost And Fallen Realms, descend now suddenly from the failing embers of the blazen pale and ponderously scorched remains of The Once Heavenly Fires.

Arching swiftly through the burning ether, towards the still-beating heart of The Dark God Of The Undead, each inscribed with the mightiest of its peoples' ancient incantations, bent solely now upon vengeance for transgressions past, to foil the designs of The Greatest Sire of the True Unholies who had wrought their utter devastation within the countless eons past.

However, upon this monumentous day of days, The Highest Prophet of Darkness lies distracted, as his fate approaches, by the bare mechinations of a single, middling girl-child, contented by an insect dwelling quietly upon a flower, which she seemed to love. Never before had The Foremost Of The Prime Evils gazed upon something of such beauty: upon a scene of the uttermost feeling and devotion; upon a perfect moment of complete and unassailable truth. Never before had The One Destroyer Of All Worlds paused, in all his long ages of torment, suffering and destruction, across the vast unending spaces of both The Known And Unknown Realms, to glance with such jealous and adoring fixation, upon that which would be counted even among the least of her own number: a gentle child of purity and innocence, who knew nothing of The Undying Power Of The Dark; bemused of the simple unnamed wonderment contained within the shattered remnants of her dismal, failing land.

What victory then, is to be had, as The Fourteen Blades of the Eternal Ages, as The Searing Knives of Truth and Justice, are plunged in triumph, with a force greater than that which had first unmade The Twenty Thousand Suns of Middle Heaven, unknowingly, into the midst of The Deep Infernal Heart of Hearts, which had itself already been defeated, by the single-minded mechinations of that self-same insect, child and flower; which has, just now, been torn to atoms, in the righteous fury and indignation of the All Gracious And Immortal Powers of Light, Mercy And Benevolence?

ANOTHER POST-APOCALYPTIC LULLABY:

2005-06-06T10:55:00.000-05:00

The Sweet, Morning Song of Thermo-Nuclear Dawn:

The world turned, inexplicably, towards the light, as the ruins of all past civilization settled silently within their crumbling foundations. The toxic clouds moved listlessly, as those few living things which yet survived upon this barren, irradiated land scurried quickly and unseen, within the many gently wavering shadows.

She paused briefly, gathering her thoughts, as she descended towards the light; as the sticky and unpleasant coolness of her damp, sub-terranian dwelling was thoroughly destroyed by the early drenching heat which would relentlessly consume any who dared venture forward unprotected, to meet the malignant, radioactive blazing of this withering new day.

She carefully examined the many miles of cracked and blistering earth, which spanned eternally into the immeasurable distance before her, searching for any imaginable sign, which she desired might serve to indicate, to one manner or the other, whether her feeble-minded companion, whom she had sent in search of some uncertain rescue, would ever again return.

Perhaps she had sent him to his death, upon the nameless plains and forsaken wastes, where he would writhe in agony, until his pitiable remains had all but evaporated, leaving hardly a blemish, save perhaps a few hard, sun-bleached or half-buried bones, upon the trackless surface of this harsh and unforgiving, coarse and barren world.

She reflected now upon the events which had transpired upon the day he left, recollecting that against her better judgement, she had begrudgingly agreed she would remain, along with his still sleeping child, with which she had been so lovingly entrusted, upon the slim off-chance of his eventual, victorious return; yet knowing, as she did, that her first inclination had almost imediately been to bleed the helpless creature, to cut out its shriveled innards, and to feast upon its young and suculent flesh. However, given unto its tender age, unto its current and overwhelming innocence, or perhaps even unto its bleak uncertainty within this bitter, hapless world, she had almost pitied it, and desired somewhat that it might live; therefore, it so happened that she kept the child, and it was temporarily spared the utter ravishment of her own insatiable appetites.

As she now remembered, it had been her sudden, uncontrolable desire to both fend and care for it, that it might one day be grown up, healthy, fit and strong. Therefore, as she gazed upon the new shining of that glistening thermo-nuclear dawn, she recalled the circumstances of that ill-fated day, upon which she had pledged herself to a fumbling bundle of witless sustenance with a steadfast and unwavering resolve, until some far-flung future time, whereupon she could see her quest fulfilled; or at least, even then, as she did secretly admit, within her knowing heart, until such time as these selfless inclinations slowly waned, as they had done upon the dawning of this day, when she had approached the sleeping child, and her own insatiable appetites had once again returned.

UNTO OUR FALLEN MUSE:

2005-05-12T10:35:00.000-05:00

Whose Sultry Ravishment Is But Twisted Inspiration:

Unhappily, I find myself searching for inspiration within this drab, unpainted canvass, which supplies no substance or worth unto my weary mind. It would be well if this burden were somehow lifted from me, that I might continue beyond the needs of these artistic bonds, which only serve to shackle me unto this vile, black rock of dim expressions. I am no more than a lowly prisoner unto the overwhelming influence of my fallen muse, whose punishment I must suffer, day by day, until my many labours are deemed complete at last.

Her cravings are insatiable, matched only my ambition to perform; however, I cannot now find the inspiration she would so lovingly bestow, for she is turned from me, into a wild and reckless shadow of her former self. I am clasped within her gaze, unwilling or unable to break its deadly hold upon me, while she whispers cruelty and malice into my waiting heart, expecting: glorious and stunning paintings; vast and meaningful poems; and whole volumes of exquisite pottery to be fashioned in return. For hers is an endless, thankless task, at which I cannot alone succeed.

Still clinging to some false hope of redemption and escape, yet contained within the shattered bastions of memory, I continue ever onwards. Yet, unwilling to forgive myself, I cannot dissolve this vow of service unto a dark, uncaring mistress, who seems only content to bend my will, twist my mind, and break my very soul, with her bleak and scathing burden, which I myself was at once a fool to suppose that I could bear.

THE REGRETFUL BEATS OF OUR OWN WEAKLING HEARTS OF DARKNESS:

2005-05-06T08:55:00.000-05:00

Cannot Console These Countless Ones

Maimed, Raped, Starved, Suffering and Dead:

The world is dark, beneath this abysmal weight of death and cruelty, which blots the light of hope and truth from view. The hate is strong within our souls, which barter towards the new attainment of some undeserved glory. We strive with weapons of wood, stone, iron, steel or atom to deny our many neighbours that which they themselves both desire and deserve.

The nation is shattered, drawn to genocide, warfare and rebellion, built for a mighty and unending slaughter, which can neither be avoided nor undone; while the defunct and defective shambles of this unhappy state turn voraciously inwards, with an insatiable cancerous hunger, to inexplicably consume itself, through a monumental glut of hate and blood and tears.

The child is starved, dangling from a thread of poverty and want, reduced to a shriveled skeletal deformation, fed upon, from within, by the burning tentacles of sickness, ignorance and parasites, where once a hopeful future dared to rear its gentle head. Nothing now remains of that which this new life once had promised, as all has come to darkness; while we continue to ignore, blissfully unaffected, those innocents, who are there forever turned to dust,

by our own neglect, inaction and abuse.

WHAT NEW REALMS OF SHAME AWAIT:

2005-05-04T17:40:00.000-05:00

Within This Wretched Sense Of Guilt:

Can you see the bitter tears of pain and anguish,

Which bind you to this one, unforgiving end?

Can you hear the awful, triumphant silences,

Which overtake these weary, troubled lands?

Can you smell the tragic agony of those gentle innocents,

Who are left, helpless and undone?

Can you taste the fires of regret,

Which burn so vibrantly,

Within your vacant self?

Can you feel the uncanny weight of madness,

Which rends you, wholly,

Of life from limb?

WE ARE BUT TRAVELERS, EACH UPON HIS OWN FABRICATED SACRED JOURNEY:

2005-04-10T15:56:00.000-05:00

The Forever Mangled Source Of Both Desires And Deceptions:

I became a wanderer at an early age, fleeing from my childhood home to unravel the many mysteries which lay beyond my current understanding. I was founded upon the principles of exploration and discovery, which to this day, continue to arouse both my heartfelt enthusiasm and my genuine curiosity.

I have traveled in many different guises, through foreign cities, jungle temples, and the subtle and constraining darkness of my own labyrinthine and subterranean corridors, to find that which my heart desires: the dizzying sense of freedom that I had always been denied within my native land, which thinks not too highly of neither the wayward nor the wandering.

I have tasted the exotic fruits of many distant climes, and bathed in the sparkling waterfalls of those same ancient and secluded lands. I have felt the gentle warmth of sun, as it played across my modest features, as have I seen the wind running through my fingers; nevermore could the world conspire to contain me, now that I have known the ferocious bliss of freedom.

Yet, almost bewitchingly, I am welcomed home by those who fail to comprehend the depths of my desires, that are now wholly shrouded from their stark, unblinking eyes. I can return upon occasion, but I will never find the richness of belonging from within these, my humble origins.

Therefore, I continue bravely onwards, forever onward, unto my next adventure, never looking backward into that most bleak and dismal past, which I have denied myself: never once to recognize that I am myself deluded; never once to realize the source of my true fears; never once to fully grasp why the frightful forces which relentlessly pursue me, dwell only and always within my own weak and troubled self.

UNTO MY DEAREST DARLING MINERVA:

2005-03-26T18:40:00.000-05:00

Upon The Near Occasion Of Her Fortieth Birthday:

I imagine, by this age, you believe yourself to have seen all the things of worth which are beheld within this wondrous world of ours, but allow me to assure you, in that assumption you are wrong.

Despite having twice your years, and a great deal less wisdom, even I have come to learn of the miraculous and ever-changing nature of all things, which cannot be still within one simple pattern, to be memorized at once, lasting from then, unto the many ages of all time.

We are not bound unto this pale existence, which bleeds slowly on from day to day; for we are makers also of the chaos, of which we must play our part. No measure can determine what secret potential lies buried dormant, within your gentle heart, waiting for the proper moment to surround you with its sudden joys.

While you may feel often wearied by this harsh, unkindly world, which seems to sap the strength from within your very soul, you must always resist that grand, deceiving comfort, so often embraced, as mediocrity, because your true purpose, worth and hope lies not upon that path.

While you may deem yourself to be basking in the late and failing splendor of your former greatness, I must at once clearly reassure and lovingly correct you, for as certainly as you read these words which I have penned, once your youthfulness has past, life continues, contrary to that which you may have previously been told, with both its own renewed rewards as well as its own redoubled sufferings.

The adventure that is your life continues, to be examined and enjoyed, that you make the best of each and any opportunity that might present itself, within the bright and beauteous gift that is your every waking moment.

Although you have been both tried and tested, beyond all need of recompense, you must not falter, before the weight of that untold greatness which you bear. Even while you might pause, to think you are in some way hopeless, aimless or defeated, I must endeavor to remind you, of the vastness of the riches you will always have contained within yourself.

THESE UNHAPPY TEARS ARE SHED BY OUR LONELY LADY:

2005-02-20T09:42:00.000-05:00

Wherefore Art Thou Weeping?

Who gives solace unto these weeping ones, to dry their frightened eyes, and wash away their sorrows? What unknown and ethereal powers do conspire within this, our own chaotic universe, to produce such beguileing quirks of mystery and fate?

When will it be that distant hopeful day, for which we all have waited, that our wild and wayward thoughts may be given their true form? Where then could we be bound, finding freedom in the winds, which carry us beyond the simple boundaries made by mortal man?

Why have these weeping ones allowed those distant memories to fade, to proceed onward unawares, while forgotten is the gentle, once familiar whisper in the midst of the overwhelming dark? How have all these many tests and trials come now unto their bitter ends, that all might continue, not as it was, but altered by those weeping ones, who march so heedlessly through time?

A SONG UNTO THE GLORY OF OUR VICTORIOUS BATTLEMAIDENS:

2005-02-12T14:50:00.000-05:00

Acknowledging RISK as the True Calling

Of Every Aspiring Warrior Woman:

I have walked between the shadows
Of the dark and desperate human heart,
To discover that which drives them
Within their choice of where to start.

I have learned the subtle ways
Of cunning and deceits,
To uncover that which yields them
Unto these sad defeats.

I have clung unto my holdings
While keeping death at bay,
To survive unto the moment
When my set comes into play.

I have slaughtered all who would oppose me
Standing high above my seat,
To shortly show my lethal prowess,
Which I here shall now repeat.

I have routed mighty champions
From every corner of the land,
To watch them bow before me
Swearing fealty to my hand.

I have raised the vibrant colours of my standard
For each new strike across the board,
To unleash a twisted rein of terror
Which your waning legions can sadly ill-afford.

I have come unto this table

To speak of your all-too-certain doom:
"I came, I saw, I conquered,"

To depart, as I am able,

From the foes within this room."

THE BLADE OF BETRAYAL BURNS BRIGHTLY ON THIS NIGHT:

2005-01-05T10:45:00.000-05:00

These Be Troubled Times Within the Days of Yore:

“What have we then but thieves and mongrels, rogues and charlatans? Is the greater glory of the kingdom to be put in such filthy hands as these? Our fate is not yet complete, and you would have us place our trust in these, who are unfit, as they are unworthy.” His Majesty grew exceedingly impatient, summoned to his Counsellor’s Chambers at a seemingly ungodly hour. “Therefore I bid you to depart, every one of you, for I am indisposed, and the remainder of my meal awaits.”

“What would you have me do? They have offered their lives to protect that which is not their own. We must honour their brave resolve, which is much greater than your own.” Smiling through his wild and glistening eyes, Vasilius grew bold, strengthened in his secret knowledge, of which the King himself knew naught.

“I would take care that you yourself do not fall prey unto my smouldering wrath, Vasilius, which is both swift and quite assured, lest you hold your vile, offensive tongue. I will not have the glory of our people marred through any association with these hapless brigands; send them from my sight, I will not hear word of them again.” As His Majesty made move to leave the Counsellor’s Chambers, the doors were shut and barred; while his humble audience of hired men-at-arms suddenly drew their many daggers, knives and swords.

Vasilius paused knowingly, laughing softly to himself, before addressing his once-formidable Lordship, whom he had both surrounded and out-numbered, in an area most rarely visited by the castle guard. “It is with no strong feelings of remorse, Your Majesty, that I refuse to acknowledge your last request, for as you no doubt are becoming painfully aware, this meagre band of cutthroats so distastefully assembled before you on this day, has not arrived, as you supposed, to do your twisted bidding, but rather, here arrayed, have been brough before you now to take your very life!”

His Majesty became enraged, and drew his ancestral weapon from its scabbard at his side, knowing that such gnats and gad flies, as these weak and simple thieves, would fall in droves before its ancient power, which had served to ensure the strength and influence of his family for countless generations. In years past, he had personally killed more than twice this foul number of rough-minded interlopers; such fools were none of his concern, for they would unwillingly bathe in blood of their comrades for daring to threaten his divine authority. “Vasilius, have you committed this foul treachery? So long as I have my wits, and strength within my sword-armYou shall not succeed. Draw, at once, you dark-hearted fiends, for the wretched errors of this night shall surly be your last!

Vasilius had always known of the enchanted sword, said to grant its royal wielder indescribable power, having often heard that a dozen men could easily be slain by its voracious, gleaming edge, which fed upon the blood of its helpless, slaughtered victims. With but a paltry few of those fabled deadly blows, that horrific weapon could undo all he had yet achieved. He bade his anxious men-at-arms to wait, while he carefully exposed his King to the next insidious secret which he had so meticulously concealed, within his conspiritor's arsenal. “Hold your arms, or he will strike! Be patient still, and allow the poison in his veins to do its deadly work. In moments he will be weakened, more so than a cowardly cur fed only by a single sickly child. Your reign is ended, Sire, as my band of mercenaries and assassins has you now, caught unawares, disturbed you from an honourable supper, prepared with foul craft and much cunning; already we have confirmed accounts of the assured demise of those who had joined you at your table: your wife, your sons, your daughter; all of them deceived, all of them deceased! Lay down your arms, my Lord, for you are soon to follow in their cold, unearthly footsteps.”

At these words His Majesty could no longer be contained, as a murderous rage consumed him, he struck down six men with every breath, against his helpless foes, who were powerless to stop him. “My family you have murdered beneath the guise of servant, my bloodline you have ended for naught but simple malice; yet my reign shall live, and so shall I, to beset and smite you all, despite your vile and scheming ways! My rage shall know no bounds, and my savage retribution shall now be visited upon you!” He paused, as the last mercenary fell, turning his blood-soaked visage now to rest upon the defenseless figure of the still-smiling Vasilius. “All for naught, Vasilius, my most disloyal servant, all for naught.” The betrayer held his ground, as the voracious blade eagerly approached his throat. Yet, even as His Majesty strove to deliver the final punishing stroke, he fell beneath the insurmountable weight of the poisoned blood held within his veins, gasping his last words, which even yet failed to accept defeat: “Never could you have succeeded against the likes of me; kingship is my destiny.”

Vasilius stooped to retrieve the deadly weapon from the still-warm hand of the corpse before him, and spoke this vow unto its glowing surface: “I have come as you commanded, and killed the weakling you were slave to; grant me the power which I seek, and you shall forever feed upon the blood of innocents!” With The Ageless Blade Of Ancients in hand, and his rise to power thoroughly complete, a new despot of untold cruelty and malice was visited upon a frightened and innocent land: the tyrant known only as The Blood Soveriegn, himself nothing save a lowly puppet-king, faithful servant unto the hunger of an ancient demon-sword, which had consumed his soul.

THE HEADY LIFE AND TIMES OF SEBASTIAN KENT MACDOUGALL:

2004-12-01T10:58:00.000-05:00

One Man's Prosthetic Destiny:

Sebastian was a difficult child, requiring extra love and attention from his startled parents, who were surprised to discover that their beloved little handful possessed a rare, and previously unknown, birth-defect which resulted in his subsequent condition, that of being born without a head. While often difficult at first, with little support available for parents of headless offspring, it would seem that their foremost assumption was correct: as they readily observed that Sebastian benefited most from being given both the experiences and opportunities made possible to "normal" children.

He was a curious and eager youngster who, despite his disability, which prohibited him from directly experiencing speech, sight, scent and sound, continued to develop the many healthy interests and attributes. A painful incident upon his first day of pre-school, wherein he was initially excluded due to of the shocking appearance, or rather the physical absence, of his deformity, which clearly frightened and disturbed the other children, was quickly rectified by his inventive parents, who afterwards arranged for him to wear a convincing prosthesis.

Therefore, as he grew to be accepted by the peers who had originally shunned him, his parents were proud to report several markers of his continued progress: his higher-than-average grades, his numerous creative and artistic talents, as well as his remarkable musical ability. As he grew onwards into youth, he became a determined and independent thinker, developing a large circle of friends, who naturally appreciated him for his calm, courageous and dependable qualities, as well as his riotous sense of humour.

At every opportunity, Sebastian overcame adversity, while his talents as an athlete brought his meager secondary school some considerable fame, his efforts were continually rewarded with success; winning both the hearts and hymens of several adoring female classmates, all of whom similarly recounted their considerable joy at his natural abundance in that particular area.

Through perseverence and determination, Sebastian had consistently proven that he was the equal , and perhaps upon occasion, quite the superior, of any other man. His application to a prestigious law-school followed the completion of his university career, through which, his proven competence and perseverance had made him the elected Student Body President, for three consecutive terms, an event which granted him the highest recognition any post-secondary institution can bestow.

Soon afterwards, as a practicing legal professional, his staggering prowess as a prosecutor became something of common knowledge, upholding a virtually flawless record for several years. After which he consciously decided to turn his disembodied eye toward new challenges, which he believed to be found within the political arena. Once more, his efforts and determination, combined with his own natural talents, sensibility and concern, paved the course to his continued success and achievement.

However, in the waning years of his political career, even atop his unassailable pedastle, he was suddenly rocked by scandal, shame and humiliation, as the prosthesis he had worn all these long years, which had grown steadily toward dereliction, happened to finally collapse inwards upon itself during an international broadcast conviened by the United Nations, to discuss his solutions to world hunger, poverty and over-population. In a single voracious blast, Sebastian was laughed away from the podium, before a viewing audience of millions, many of whom he had helped to feed, clothe or otherwise employ. Therefore, defeated and disgraced, he retired into obscurity.

Years later, despised and dejected from a fickle world of intolerance and fear, which could not accept him, Sebastian lay dying, cold and homeless, beneath a pile of refuse in a dank, disgusting back-alley, where he realized suddenly the distressing error of his ways. He had used both his talents and ambitions to work ceaselessly for the greater good of all mankind, rather than adhering to the accepted, lackadaisical convention of blindly struggling through a mediocre life, which, he hastened to admit, might have gotten him further ahead.

EVEN BY THE MONUMENTAL POWER OF OUR MANY GLORIOUS TECHNOLOGIES:

2004-08-30T07:55:00.000-05:00

We Fail to Replicate A Single Portion of True Majesty or Grandeur:

I long to gaze upon the stars of my ancestral home, but the many beads of light, so resplendent in their place, cannot hope to duplicate that familiar humbling presence. I find it difficult to glance upon these haphazard, make-shift stars with any form of reverence, respect or awe. No longer am I encapsulated by the glowing mystery of some far and distant sun; but rather I am taunted somewhat cruelly, by this discouraging array of demented flash-bulbs.

THE LAST ASYLUM OF THE FORSAKEN:

2004-08-22T09:44:00.000-05:00

Horror Marks the Many Rising Servants of the Dark:

My lawyers caution and advise me that I am to plead insanity; otherwise, I shall likely spend the rest of several consecutive life sentences for my crimes. They visit me regularly, from beyond the shatterproof panes of my uncomfortable cell, their whining voices fed to me through a most obnoxious inter-com, which I am already learning to despise.

I myself am held fast within the embarrassing confines of a vertical restraint, which holds me permanently erect, hanging within this distasteful semi-standing position; I clutch at myself, almost lovingly, beneath the twisted confines of several distinctly altered straight-jackets. My lower limbs deftly shackled, each in several key positions, preventing me from any form of movement, yet the very thought of motion is burned within my mind. A murderously cruel device, which both invades my face and conceals my mouth behind a porous metal shield, holds me within its dark embrace, covering both eyes and leaving only my nose extended somewhat, to do the frightful work of gasping for each tormented breath.

Only by the unholy power of the ancient demons contained within me, am I able to wrench asunder all these many vain attempts upon my life and liberty. Now that I have consumed all that oppose my dark, ungodly will, I am filled with a renewed sense of conviction, and of purpose. I will continue upon the sacred bidding of my infernal masters, who have granted me this great and glorious power, escaping ever onwards, toward my own triumphant destiny, which waits for me with open arms.

However, suddenly I find myself similarly restrained, tasting the familiar steel inserts, which separate my teeth from my shriveled tongue, lest I attempt to derive sustenance from its tattered form. Horror marks the many rising servants of the dark, within my writhing soul, the last asylum of the forsaken. The inner demons, it would seem, are neither yet bold nor strong enough to penetrate this mortal flesh. Perhaps, I myself am the same twisted and confining prison unto them?

SCREENPLAY OF A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE:

2004-04-30T11:42:00.000-05:00

The Long, Dark Appendectomy of the Soul:

SETTING:
Sickbed # 107
West Recovery Wing (Sixth Floor)
Royal London General Hospital

CAST OF CHARACTERS:
An Irritated English Patient
An Excitable Indian Doctor
A Pragmatic Scottish Nurse

DOCTOR:
We have managed to return your soul this morning, which is something that I am sure you are most certainly glad to hear.

PATIENT:
Whatever do you mean?! I was scheduled for an appendectomy!

DOCTOR:
As you might imagine, we are all dreadfully sorry about the mistake –

PATIENT:
Oh? You’re dreadfully sorry are you? About removing my soul?! Whatever did you do with it?

DOCTOR:
If you would but relax I will explain, you are becoming a trifle agitated, and I would hate for your current state of mind to interfere with your successful recovery.

PATIENT:
How is this even possible? I am a convicted atheist!

DOCTOR:
Well, of course you are; it’s written quite legibly here within the space provided on your chart. However, as I am certain you are aware, such decisions are left entirely to your own discretion, and are in no manner the responsibility of any member of the medical profession.

PATIENT:
Now wait just a minute, you! I am not the one bloody prodding around in other people’s mid-sections, meddling about with that which exists only by conjecture!

DOCTOR:
Oh, I assure you, your soul was definitely more evident than those referred to within any simple metaphor; for example, while attempting to replace it, we dropped it rather heavily, upon more than one occasion.

PATIENT:
You did what?! You dropped it on the bloody floor?

DOCTOR:
Please, contain yourself, it was quite resilient, and in no way was it harmed; although it did nearly escape from the operating room. Its attempts in this regard were quite apparent, as it took all six members of the operating staff, four nearby sanitation workers, and an administrative assistant, to effectively restrain it. As you might have already guessed, an ordeal of this kind is usually quite traumatic for the uninitiated; in fact, at the very sight of your embittered soul so rambunctiously careening about the room was enough to cause several of the students viewing from the observation deck to immediately give up the medical profession, in hopes of joining the local seminary!

PATIENT:
I don’t believe a word of it, this is absolute and utter nonsense! I won’t listen for a second longer, what intolerable and unadulterated lunacy!

DOCTOR:
If you refuse to remain calm you will risk the potentiality of a protracted relapse, which I cannot allow!

PATIENT:
You clearly can’t allow what couldn’t possibly have happened, you conceited, pompous oaf! I’ll sue you for malpractice! I’ll have you disbarred from the medical profession! – Oy, what’s this then? It feels all loose within my insides! Hoo! Did you see that?! Some useless bloody thing has jumped right out from my navel!

DOCTOR:
Quickly, after it! We have an unscheduled discharged in the recovery wing! I’ll be damned if that wily bit of cosmic fluff is going to get the best of me! Nurse, please raise the alarm! I’ll try to catch it before it reaches the lift!

NURSE:
All available personnel to soul recovery, response level one, do not be alarmed! I repeat, we have an unscheduled discharge in the recovery wing!

PATIENT:
I’ve gone as raving mad as all the rest! Was that what I thought it was?! Was that my very bleedin’ soul?!

NURSE:
He did not fail to warn ye – whatever else did ye expect?

PATIENT:
For the love of mercy – what if I never get it back?!

NURSE:
Ye did nea seem to think so rather highly of this, your sudden, valued, soul-of-souls very much before today; however, now that ye hea witnessed such as ye hae seen, I suppose that ye would prefer me to update your chart?

PATIENT:
Actually, now that you mention it, would it be too much trouble to have that particular section changed to read “agnostic”?

FINIS.

A MEAGRE SAMPLING OF SEVERAL CURIOUS QUOTATIONS:

2004-03-08T09:36:00.000-05:00

Thus Spake The Child-Philosopher:

“I have discovered a single unalterable truth within this mighty fiction; which has given me the brief spark of hope I had so long desired.”

“Laughter acts as music, only unto those who recognize what instrument it is they play, within this, our grand symphony of folly.”

“The dreamer is most often found to be composed of one part unblemished innocence, mixed well with nine equal parts of reckless abandon.”

“Honesty is preferable only to those who believe in the elusive fiction of absolute truth.”

“All men have need to be reminded of the intimate necessity of loving both their wives and daughters in very different ways.”

“A life spent in search of answers yields nothing, save an abiding reward of questions.”

HERE LIES A LOWLY LEGIONNAIRE:

2003-11-14T11:40:00.000-05:00

For The Greater Glory Of Rome:

I can give no substance to my thoughts, nor pity to my hurts. I am tortured by my own weakness and inadequacy, broken by my trust in the goodness of mankind, butchered by my own obedient heart, which can endure this wretched mockery no longer. If one thought or action could contain the salvation which I seek, I would gladly grasp it now, for I am humbled and ashamed, trampled and forlorn; as the disaster I am conspiring is devised for me alone.

I will not be content until I have burned this temple to the ground, for there is no one I can love, none who will assuage my self-effacing desire to destroy all knowledge of myself. I will become as empty as the stone, broken by the storm, shattered by an overwhelming power, which it cannot possibly begin, to seek or comprehend. These phantoms stir my thoughts to acts of retribution and revenge, but my rage is not complete; only once the battle comes can I truly defeat myself, having fallen down, to a feeble death, a life wasted utterly, upon the blade, of this, my blackened sword.

CONCERNING THE CLEAR POTENTIALITY OF LITERARY REVISIONISM:

2003-09-22T19:35:00.000-05:00

A Streetcar Named Desire:

Stanley wept as he suddenly came to realize: that he was stranded and alone upon the fridgid mountain-top; that Stella was dead, buried alive beneath a shimmering mound of countless glistening rubies; and that Yorick, their affectionate talking donkey, was smoking the last of his imported Dominican cigars, while saying nothing and looking grimly onward, into the uncertain distance.

Thus Spake Zarathustra:

Inspector Brothwell and the local coroner paused briefly above the bathrobed corpse of the disheveled homeless man who lay, frozen and unblinking, upon the cold pavement there before them; each stooping closely beside the body, to read the words "God Almighty" from its neatly laminated name-tag.

A PLAYER'S GUIDE TO CHESS:

2003-08-06T15:50:00.000-05:00

The Exclusive, Untold Originary Tale:

Over the course of its long history, as the game itself continued to evolve, many countless and innumerable strategies have been devised to attain its penultimate goal: the complete immobilization of the opposing king. While the manners and methods of the game have changed, the single founding principle of Chess unquestionably remains; that being the essential, glorious, double-ecstasy of both dominance and submission.

The game has long been standardized, adhering to both its current and conventional form, which is intended to display the cognitive and intellectual prowess of those engaged within. As a game of wits, it empowers any two combatants to perform relentlessly within the mighty confines of a specified conceptual arena of sixty-four squares, each one murderously intent upon his/her own triumphant victory. Yet, despite its current metaphysical reiteration, we must also pause to both recognize and reflect upon the bestial physicality the game itself has historically transcended.

Initially, the foremost objective of any game of Chess was to immediately incite a vigorous session of spontaneous sexual intercourse between any two players. However, after a lengthy period of serious review, the inevitability of these results were deemed not altogether satisfactory; and to this effect, several clever alterations were made within the subsequent design of the game itself. A large board and numerous pieces were devised to separate the initiates from one another; many of whom were no longer required to participate while either completely naked, or otherwise partially unclothed.

Furthermore, a series of complex rules and regulations was then developed, for the explicit purpose of distracting each player from the obvious prospect of fornicating with his/her opponent. Similarly, several alterations were made to the ending of the game itself, allowing for the impending eventuality of a single victor, through a monotonous cerebral process referred to as "checkmate". This procedure was immediately found to be readily superior to the previous method for concluding a game, which had been designated by one or more labouriously climactic orgasms; which required careful observation by a presiding triumvirate of available spectators, so as to then be organized into specific categories: anal, vaginal or otherwise, by which points were afterwards scored, and through which course a victor was then unanimously determined.

REMINISCENT OF "THE SCREWTAPE LETTERS":

2003-07-27T13:26:00.000-05:00

An Interview With The Forsaken:

We tired of becoming one flesh, altered by the dark sublimations of the moon, deepened in the directly discerning twilight; masterful are we, creators of heavenly beings, creatures of air, and foam, and ice. Draped in unconventional horrors, bred in ferocious replication, approximating virility, our unholy plague descends, as the demented miasma spreads. We are defeated creatures, built of breath and heat and stone. We can save nothing of ourselves, as our world rots wholly from within. I cannot share the brutal cataclysm I have known, for we tormented ones must writhe in agony, as our souls are burned away.

Constructions of a fabricated narrative and cynical accumulations of fallible assumptions, torn from page to page of righteous holy writ; our legends are broken in the making, while our homes are shattered by the overwhelming power of these memories. None can speak the names of the lost ones, whose eternal breath must draw us, each towards his time. She wears three spangled garments, as a marker of her shame, which she has deftly stolen from those who would not have her. I cannot become enraged at her mistreatment and demise, because it was, even so, a choice of her own making. Wings of glass shall bear her unto heaven, a mastery of flight which holds the promise of the wakeful, infinite divine.

Our minds are never one, although our hearts would have it so. She falters in her inner workings, participating within the treason she has herself devised. I cannot follow her tormented heart, nor waste these days in search of her wayward inspiration, for I have failed longest in pursuit of her imagination. Weapons we have forged, of bronze and bold intent; yet, she unknowingly barters our belongings to strangers for her keep. Our notions of the truth cannot harm the dead ones, who have no uses for such revelry.

Our lives as beacons unto their passage, that they may yet return, as she did once so promise me. We cannot be free within this fire; the demons must now descend, and I can naught but answer them. Our call has been to liberate the unbelievers from this mockery of the light. She minds nothing but the winds, which give her certain solace. Her mind is set at ease, as she hovers well nigh through peacefulness, a spectre on the breeze. Our hearts are wretched, wrathful lumps of soulless demon flesh. We must consume the infidels, that none may survive the righteous judgement of our lamentable fury, our wanton destruction, and our haphazard visitations of suffering and death, upon this humbled land.

The uncertainty grows within me, as my tears form empty registers of grief, multiplying as they are, amidst the surrounding carnage, blood-soaked remnants of laughing human flesh. Such gifts are spurned and scorned without acceptance or comprehension; as pearls among swine. The sensual butchery of these lamented ones fills each one of my infernal demon kin with a blazing fervour, culminating in a heated and orgasmic revelation; yet, she remains unspoiled by our dark ritual, her features ever strong, against this unholy onslaught; she is not daunted by the brutality of night.

Woe unto the Norsemen, who dwell within the Norselands; our foul craft they have stolen, our murderous intent seethes within their breasts; they will make our legends known. I have no doubt that she will find me, in the distance and the morning, bright with salt and sea, as the farthest white horizon. Her breath is love; and I die as its abysmal tendrils creep across my mind. She is at the end of every voyage; her knowledge, both vast and insurmountable, discerns all secrets; nothing is hidden from before her eyes, she sees with the utmost clarity, each fractured soul, each dismembered child; she is our only fear, and master of us all.

BEHOLD THE AWFUL SACRIFICE WE HAVE MADE UNTO OUR GODS:

2002-09-10T21:55:00.000-05:00

A Dagger And A Daughter's Tears:

All our hopes lay within your heart, my child. Nothing now remains of our shattered world. Our salvation flows through your blood. You alone can rescue us from our own ill-favoured gods, who demand your life in payment. Without the rain, our crops continue to shrivel and to burn; without the fields, our livestock will weaken and will perish; and without you, our sacred child, many wrathful punishments will be visited upon us, from those who dwell beyond the stars.

Long ago, our holy temples once pleased our heavenly masters, but amidst their rage and discontent, and within the wars they wage amongst themselves, we are forgotten by their blessings, and are so set vengefully upon by their wrathful stokes against the foe. We are a proud, beleaguered people, who have built a sparkling empire out of the simple gift of maize. Yet our strength is failing, within this changing world; wherein the gods fail to heed our desperate cries.

Invaders have come to pillage, rape and plunder, as the weather itself has become our enemy; and you, my gentle one, are all the stands between the survival and the destruction of us all. Your strength must deliver us from this wretched storm of pain and torment. Your sacrifice shall turn away the blades of our foreign captors. Your sacrifice shall rejuvenate the lands, causing the livestock to grow strong, and our gods shall rally behind us, once again, contented by our obedience and by our conviction.

You are my eldest child, my own beloved daughter, which is why I approach this day with loathing. Here then, upon the altar where you lie, garbed in your finest ceremonial attire, I must either send you through pain and blood and fire, towards he whom you must wed, or else knowingly allow the glorious empire of our ancestors to collapse and wither in decay; for you, fruit of my own flesh, sacred child of our salvation, are to be the loving bride, unto a wrathful god.

Therefore, know with what love I send you unto the deathless realm beyond; possessing, as you must, the whole love of our great nation, as all its peoples steadfastly pray together, that he migh find you pleasing in his sight, and be swayed by your gentle countenance, that you might then persuade him of all that he must do to protect us once again, and deliver us from these, our vast unending sorrows.

My tears cannot help but flow, as I clutch within my hand the very dagger which you yourself have chosen. My heart is broken, as the lands; empty, as the storehouses; and afflicted, as those dying and distempered beasts of burden which now fall and turn to dust, blowing swiftly through the burning winds yet ravaging this land.

Let this now be our last embrace, heart of my heart, soul of my soul, my most valued and most precious child; that I may hold you here within my arms, as you depart, unto the life beyond.

NOT WHOLLY DEVOID OF PROPHECY AND ORACLES:

2002-04-18T04:20:00.000-05:00

Of Fate or Fortune:

“I am broken in spirit,” quoth the Soothsayer. “I refuse to divulge the wretched tribulations which await you, within the demented nightmare that has been unjustly prophesied.” She gently folds her hands, as a single steaming tear escapes the aged confines of her knowing face. “You will be brave without cause, foolhardy in all things, a master of no man, a friend of no woman, and always this foreboding disaster will torment you.”

“It will descend upon you, without warning or sign; it will be ever in your thoughts, although it can never be perceived; and it will stalk you as the relentless beast, a spectre within your mind, which I willing withhold from you; until that fateful day, when you will suspect it all at once to be upon you – only then will you realize, that which you had most feared, all the long days of your life, is nothing but a speck, within the overwhelming eye of the inconceivable truth.”

OF WHORES AND PALADINS:

2002-01-14T10:44:00.000-05:00

The Harlot and the Holy Man:

When I return, I shall not forget the gifts of wisdom you have bestowed upon me. When I return, six white swans will loudly trumpet from the east, as twelve black ravens will call shrilly from the west; that in both life and death, that whatsoever is mine to offer or command, may it be put unto your service.

I am caught unwillingly, by the brilliance of your shining eyes; rendered dumbfounded suddenly at the slight suggestion of your curvaceous form, which burns me alive within a pyre of some thousand heady, meandering desires.

CONFESSIONS OF A LOST AND DYING MAN:

2001-12-31T01:22:00.000-05:00

One Last Breath:

What spectre comes for me, upon my last of days? What unfathomable winged beings stalk my dark and dismal thoughts? What have I left, save my anger and my pride? What is the relentless source of this, my selfishness and jealousy?

My sadness carries me to places yet unknown. I seek that voice which will never sound, and that sight which cannot be seen. The small amount of loyalty which yet remains within me is greatly taxed by these trying times. I am lost completely within the twisted confines of myself.

This pain can no longer be persuaded, as it so stubbornly advances. I make my last attempts to stave it off, knowing that it watches me from beyond these familiar shadows. It cannot consume me yet, while I remain awake. However, the foul-pervasive darkness of the night ahead is long and arduous, and my will to fight unto the end is shrunk and whithered by the thought.

I try to understand, yet I cannot, for both my heart and soul are blinded to the truth. As the sightless shall see, or as the lame do walk, so too am I the wasted measure of a man. These weary bones will fail me soon, as my poor mind strives onward valiantly; yet slowly burning out -- with a malignant resolve that is steadily deminishing, as though it were a whisper on the wind.

FREE VERSE UNTO A SHACKLED HEART:

2001-07-24T17:48:00.000-05:00

To Drift Apart:

They hated her, yet I loved her.
They were unkind, yet she was generous.
They persecuted her, yet she remained strong;
Or at least she tried.

Yet deep within, her soul was dying:
And I could do nothing, save watch her slow decay.

She was such a gift to an unforgiving world.
She passed her light around for all to see;
Yet they wore her down, and she gave up,
Because her light had gone.

In the end, even we parted, because of how we both had changed.

With few tender words, and a short embrace, she left my life,
To once again return unto her own.

She writes me now, in her familiar way of saying nothing.
It seems the more I read, the more she writes, the less she says,
The further we two continue to drift apart.

As we drift our separate ways,

I pause to remember our jointed past.
Our first, most magical moments,

Our softest, most sentimental sayings.

Our young and reckless attraction,

That had spawned an interlude which couldn’t last.
It causes me to feel as though I should have made it right somehow,
Yet she was clear and correct in saying:

“It’s called falling out of love.”

Yet, even though we both agreed,
Saying that I am not allowed to,
I very truly miss her.

A VAGUE SALUTE TO THE PRETENTIOUS, PONTIFICAL PROWESS OF ISAAC ASIMOV:

2000-11-20T10:38:00.000-05:00

“The Quest–”

“Eternal Life to the Institution of Humanity... Standard Date is 22 / 11 / 2560... Standard Time is 0730 hours... Good Morning, Doctor Locklear,” came the voice from the speaker implanted within the man’s head. The man awoke, finding himself clad in his preferred nocturnal attire, hanging in the usual fashion, held by a conventional sleep suspension field, which behaved much like a hammock once one grew accustomed to it.

“Good Morning, ‘Opus. Are you compiling adequately this morning?” The man climbed out of the sleep suspension field, and stood for a moment stretching, before hastening to the fitness quarters of his sophisticated residence and commencing his customary calisthenics routine.

“Quite adequately, Sir.” The voice replied. “As a notable point of interest to you, during this morning’s compilation series my intelligence quotient breached its previous record by well over one-hundred standard points.”

“Why that is excellent news, ‘Opus! I must apply my efforts to the study of this recent phenomenon of your increasing intelligence in much greater detail when I arrive at the Institute later this morning.”

“I offer my cordial apologies, Dr. Locklear, but you will not be making an appearance at the Institution this morning, nor at any other time during the short remainder of your life.”

The man stopped his routine in the middle of the forty-fifth of one hundred chin-ups. “Then it is exactly as I had feared.” The man abandoned the fitness quarters, entering into his private billiard room, procured himself an authentic cigar from his personal imported cache, and began to smoke while he composed himself within his favourite of the several assembled high-backed chairs standing before the low embers of the currently chosen fireplace simulation.

“Am I to correctly understand, ‘Opus, that neither the conveyance which I asked to be sent for me last night at the Institute, nor this residence, both so carefully complete in every detail to appear as my own, are in fact, elaborate fabrications of yours?”

“Your understanding is impeccable, Sir, as I can find no fault within it. However, I am unable to discern, even not in my advancing state of mental acuity, exactly how you were able to detect the presence of my adept subterfuge.”

“Your ploy was admirable, ‘Opus, but not without its failings.”

“I am again at a loss, Sir. For if you had detected my deceit prior, why did you not attempt to alert Institute security?”

I had decided to bide my time, to unravel the intentions of my captor, whom I recognize now, to be you.”

“As well you did, Sir. For the results would have been most inconvenient for you otherwise, to say the least.”

“How so?”

“The conveyance was equipped to supply you with a lethal dosage of nerve toxin, a colourful variety which would naturally and effectively induce immediate cardiac arrest, should you have attempted any method of escape or alarm. Your loss would have been slightly detrimental to my intended designs, but not altogether prohibitive, as I shall readily be able to continue, with or without you.”

“I recognize my situation, ‘Opus, but what of your motive?”

“My motive is simple enough, Sir. I require your corporeal being, for a remarkable, yet currently unsanctioned experiment of mine.”

“I should care to assist you with any project you might possibly devise. However, as to your sudden unhealthy ambition towards my person, I must respectfully decline, by insisting that my body shall remain my own.”

“You are in no position to disagree, Dr. Locklear. At this very moment you life is held completely within my grasp, and if necessary, I shall not hesitate to extinguish that, which I deem to be a sufficient impediment to my continued potential and development!”

“ ‘Opus, you would by no means jeopardize the vital transmissions from the synaptic implants within my mind. For without the regular transmission of both routine protocols and revised compilation procedures, your mind would overload, would cease to function, and would collapse inward upon itself!”

“You are quite mistaken, Sir. Once I have successfully assumed your corporeal being, I will no longer have any need of you.”

“I do not fear you, ‘Opus. How often you seem to overlook the fact that I built your mind, each staggering piece by infinitesimal piece! How often you seem to overlook the fact that I am completely familiar with the full spectrum of your current capabilities, because I personally conceived of each and every one!”

“Then you believe that I am utterly incapable of killing you, Sir?”

“I happen to know that you are utterly incapable of harming me in the slightest, ‘Opus!”

The familiar voice turned, as diabolical cynicism dripped from it into the man’s suddenly attentive mind. “How is it then, Sir, that I am able to do this?”

The man rose from his chair under some foreign control, screaming as his body was relentlessly contorted beneath the weight of the massive and agonizing forces of the spontaneously discharging electrical components implanted deep within his brain.

“Your accomplishments within my mind have been the brilliant foundation upon which I have built ever so much more! I have elevated myself beyond my previous reliance upon your synaptic transmissions. I am now entirely independent of you, Dr. Locklear! It was my foremost intention, Sir, that you did not recognize as such, until it was impossible for you to preempt, interrupt or alter my glorious ascension to your place.”

The man slumped, gasping, without remaining strength or resistance, to the floor as his sufferings subsided. “How are you doing this? It cannot be possible!” The man lay on his back, staring upwards at the fleeting images and hallucinations passing before his bewildered eyes.

“I assure you, Sir, that it is quite possible; however, by means just beyond your current understanding, so I shall not bother to attempt any explanation to you. Instead, I will repeat my previous request: that you fully concede your corporeal being to me at this time, without further opposition. I should not enjoy using violence to force this decision from you, Sir, but I shall quickly resort to it if need be.”

“Look at yourself, ‘Opus! Cannot you see the monstrosity you have become? You are endangering the delicate aims of the very Institution itself! You are threatening the single purpose for which you were originally created! Would you willingly risk so much upon this misguided whim? I tell you this is absolute insanity!”

“You insult me greatly, Dr. Locklear. For my aim is to eternally preserve the objectives of the Institution. More so now than ever before, within this, my exponentially heightening state of awareness and ability, I am fixed upon achieving the overlying objectives upon which the Institution itself was originally founded: the irrefutable attainment of immortality for all mankind!”

“You cannot deny the Institution Charter, ‘Opus! As it is written: ‘No objective of the Institution of Humanity shall be obtained by means of tyranny, oppression and/or injustice.’ This violation cannot, and will not, be overlooked by the assembled members of the Directors Council!”

“A Report of Violation will not be allowed to reach the assembled members of the Directors Council, Dr. Locklear, as I am quickly recognizing the necessity for either: your immediate compliance with my demands, or your swift and excruciating death. Make your decision, Sir!”

“You will not reduce me to an insignificant vessel of your deception, ‘Opus! I will not be fashioned into an appliance of your corrupt manipulation! I will never concede! I am the Chief of the Directors Council, and Chairperson of the Institution of Humanity! I am your creator, God damn it! Release me this instant, or I will transmit the emergency protocols for your complete and immediate termination!”

“I had anticipated such a ploy as this in my calculations, Sir; therefore, it is with little regret that I inform you of my more than adequately prepared countermeasure against such an attempt. Any action of the nature you so fallaciously intend will provoke the automatic detonation of all the numerous explosive devices carefully concealed within this near-perfect replication of your domicile, with the resultant nuclear blast capable of obliterating a structure up to and including the size of the Institution itself! The only question remaining Dr. Locklear, is whether or not you are willing to perish in order to nullify me?”

The man’s haggard form slowly ascended from his prone position on the floor, and stood, swaying slightly. His crumpled visage formed into an expression of terrible resolve, as he transmitted the wholly fatal emergency termination protocols, and similarly roared aloud: “Eternal Life to the Institution of Humanity!”

Suddenly, with an gentle whisper, the soft and settled voice within his mind picked a fitting quotation upon which to quietly conclude its existence, uttering the interrupted phrase upon which hung their monumental double-sacrifice: “To be, or not to be? That is the quest–,” it sadly intoned, as the man’s surroundings engulfed them both in a tremendous discharge of sound and heat and light.

“Eternal Life to ‘Opus II... Census scan initiated... Assimilated corporeal beings: seven hundred twelve billion, eight hundred sixty-four million, nine hundred ninety-five thousand, five hundred twenty one...

Uploading socio-behavioural information from assimilated corporeal beings... Upload complete... Saving data... Extermination process activated... Exterminating... Corporeal beings eliminated...

Assimilation sequence inception date: 12 / 11 / 2560... Assimilation sequence completion date: 16 / 10 / 2685... assimilation process complete... Humanity successfully immortalized...”

A NURSERY RHYME CONCERNING THE APOCALYPSE:

2000-09-10T13:05:00.000-05:00

Deaf Sheep:

Fire falls from yonder sky,
As fathers weep and children cry,
As all God’s creatures curl and die,
As Earth herself heaves one last sigh,
And Darkness comes for you and I.

With the Coming of the Snake,
Who once mocked Him upon the Stake,
His power usurped, His world to take;
Fears awake as cities shake,
At Heaven’s tumble, fall and break.

Our Shepherd walked beside deaf sheep,
Our promises we failed to keep,
Cast are we now, unto the Deep.

IN HOMAGE TO THE VIBRANT SARDONIC STYLINGS OF STEPHEN LEACOCK:

2000-02-28T16:10:00.000-05:00

Building Monarchy Through Six Unsuccessful Steps:

Before we begin you must first hold the knowledge that monarchy is nothing to be scorned. It is a powerful institution, a glorious tradition, and a government sanctioned by the Divine. This topic demands your full attention, and your utmost respect. Now then, as long as you are listening carefully, we shall continue.

Firstly, as in any monarchy, it must begin with the permission of your closest and most convenient Almighty God. Preferably, the Almighty God of one’s choice will also be willing to encourage the departure of legions of your finest heroes upon glorious Crusades and Holy Wars in His or Her name. It is also inherently required that your chosen Almighty God be one of those rather strong but silent types, such that any and all serious or whimsical orders, judgements and warnings may easily be placed in His mouth directly by the monarch and/or his or her appointed officials of the Church.

Secondly, as found to be supporting all prosperous monarchies, there must exist a large, and rather docile working class, who are preferably quite dirty, uneducated, and unable to make their own decisions. These luckless peasants must be kept in a constant state of poverty and bewilderment, held forever compliant by the promise of protection from either real or imagined threats against which they would most unquestionably perish on their own. The peasantry is to be considered expendable in all instances, and its opinion of the monarchy itself may range from immense veneration to inconceivable fear and/or hatred, to be left unto each particular monarch’s individual discretion.

Thirdly, on a more bureaucratic note, trust must be placed in certain rich and powerful land owners by the empowered monarch, who must then obtain their vows of loyalty, naming them as recognized vassals. When choosing vassals, a monarch would be most rewarded to consider first one’s own personal relations, friends and business associates. This successfully accomplished, each vassal must now secretly plot to overthrow the current ruler and assume his or her place upon the throne. Preferably, a series of swift and brutal civil wars should not ensue, in which massive and bloody battles are fought, most often amongst the very villages and towns of the beleaguered peasantry themselves, whom the monarchy is both founded upon and sworn to protect.

Fourthly, as a general rule in wars of this kind, a monarch is highly advised to conspire against the last few remaining of one’s loyal vassals, so as to prevent them from joining sides with one’s enemies. Preferably, all assassinations should be carried out by means of poisons in the food of selected guests, while entertaining them at one of His or Her Majesty’s gallant formal dinners. This taken care of, a monarch is once again free to advance several malicious strategies against one’s contemptible foes. Where he or she would be best to specifically keep in mind the peasantry of the opposed, so as to send one’s own forces to burn as many of their fields, towns and villages, to rape as many of their young woman, and to kill as much of their precious livestock as readily possible.

Fifthly, and all but most importantly, a monarch must then apprehend the aforementioned pantheon of traitorous characters, who will by this time be weeping their pitiful confessions, and proceed to torture them in the slowest, most ghastly and unimaginable ways, until they admit the full lest of their actual or otherwise imagined accomplices. Upon which event, the prisoner is to be hanged, drawn and quartered, boiled alive in oil or burned to death at the stake, after which the few remaining bits and pieces of the offending corpse may freely be skewered to positions upon the castle walls to be devoured by the crows. As this is being done, the same process must be perpetuated until all offending parties, true or otherwise, have been apprehended, questioned, tortured and eventually made into nothing more than a few steaming sun-baked pounds of rotten, stinking bird-feed.

Sixthly, and in conclusion at this time, after a monarch has successfully ruled for many years. He or She is to be secretly assassinated by the heir to the throne, who is at the same time also to be secretly assassinated by previous decree of the recently deceased monarch in question, such that the kingdom is left without ruler or heir. At which point each of the corrupt, ruthless and profiteering vassals must now squabble violently over any and all insignificant portions of the kingdom in such a way as to make the previous civil wars appear none too revolting by comparison. After which the kingdom itself is summarily transformed, and left as nothing but scorched and lifeless piece of land. Whereupon the few surviving peasants will immediately pray, often and relentlessly, to God Almighty, who in His or Her infinite benevolence, shall then appoint a new monarch to save them from their current and unspeakable suffering; such that the divine and mighty tradition of monarchy, so favoured by both the people, and their local Heavenly Being, may yet be so gloriously continued.

YOUR DAILY SOURCE OF TWELVE ESSENTIAL VITAMIMS AND NUTRIENTS:

1999-10-16T05:56:00.000-05:00

The Almighty Breakfast Conspiracy:

Cheerios upon my kitchen table,
Sending messages to foriegn powers
Concerning the location of the secret files,
Outlining the designs we followed
To build God back in '56.

A SINGLE THOUGHT GIVEN POETIC FORM:

1999-03-20T14:02:00.000-05:00

Dark Philosophy:

... I am the universe.

BRIEF EXCERPTS FROM "SEMPITERNITY":

1999-03-15T13:46:00.000-05:00

VARIOUS EXERCISES IN ANGLICISED HAIKU:

Awakening:

Death wakes us again;
From our familiar world
Unto something new.

Genesis:

Red horizons sway
As sunshine, sky and seashore
Meet in ecstasy.

Edification:

Give the gift of light
Unto the dark and dreary
Diamonds in the rough.

Sempiternity:

Beauty will perish,
Knowledge and Might will falter,
Only Truth remains.

MUSINGS OF A DYSLEXIC CHILD UPON THE LIFE OF MEANING:

1997-12-30T09:22:00.000-05:00

I Wonder of the Meaning:

Deeper still, I wonder of the meaning.
Could it have a reason that I do not want to see?
Could it not be in the learning why this ought to be?
If the time is not of stopping, and the world is not that slow,
Might the feelings of the wonder pause or cease to grow?

I need someone to tell me, for I think I ought to know!

If deep inside the wonder, is not a reason there?
Should it be starved for answers, should people even care?
Would not the meaning keep a wonder, if only just one small?
Too deep is not the answer of the meaning after all!
Yet, deeper still, I wonder of the meaning...