It's hard to unlock a door, but even harder to know when to lock it again.
For the past 10 months, almost. I was having the best time of my life.
But something escaped from that tranquil scene.
And for the longest time, I was trying to recapture it.
But you have to know when to let it go.
If you do, you grow a little more.
Thank you, Emily Price. You're one of my best friends, when you're not running on empty and irritable as sin.
I'm not gonna let you get away. You're one of my best friends.
But even you admitted I needed someone better.
Thank you, Heidi. You helped me see that it wasn't fair for me to try and keep something half dead alive.
You just need to let it go and try again with the knowledge you have now.
Thank you, both of you.
(Oh, and Heidi, if you're reading this at some point. Let me know how those cubs are doing!)
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Friday, 26 March 2010
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Little Big Day Out!
When my editor came to me in my cell, and asked me to write a travel piece, I said "You're not Timothy! I'm Timothy! Where are my steamed hands?!"
After a healthy dose of anti-psychotic medication, he asked me again and I said "Where do I start?"
He said I could go anywhere in the British ISles and talk about whatever I liked. With such an open invitation, I thought about what sort of place I would call a british paradise...
And then it hit me! In a book I'd read as a child, it talked of a magical land where strange creatures roamed the lush, green fields, and where men in huge suits took up the bolts of lightning from the hands of dead gods to make power for we mere mortals.
When I suggested this place, my editor told me it was a fantastic idea, and signed a week release form. I hurried home, trying to resist the temptation to molest birch trees along the way, and packed my bag with everything I'd need for my pilgrimage:
- Toothbrush
- Medicated toothpaste
- Fashionable undergarments
- Bell bottom jeans
- Sequined waist coat
- Afro pick
- Sun cream (Factor 20)
- Edible thong (For the train ride)
I hopped aboard the train, making sure my mittens were on tight, so I wouldn't start anymore fires.
The sign pinned to my coat said this:
"Please look after this bear. He bites small children and animals"
The guard, while making sure not to get his hands too close to my mouth, took my ticket, punched it, and left me alone in the first class car (Though I later found out I had no business being there.).
Aftr 5 changes, 6 muggings and a few cups of cold tea, I read the sign of the incoming station:
SELLAFIELD
I had arrived!
* * * * *
As I was wheeled from the station in my Lecter-cart, I saw all the wonderful sights that Sellafield had waiting for me. Flying cars! External combustion engines! Cream cakes! The beach! Unicorns fornicating with busty Goblins!
I later awoke in my hotel room with a hypodermic needle coming out of my neck, and a not e from the hotel management saying that I was speaking in tongues about flights of fancy and other such rot. They didn't have a tranquiliser, but gave me a shot of blueberry jam to the cartaroid artery, which had the same effect.
A few minutes of vomiting later, I left the basement penthouse I had been booked by my editor and went in search of adventure!
...there wasn't any in stock at the local supermarket! What a bust!
I walked along the beach instead.
The long, slightly oozing sand road became my friend over the 3 days I spent in Sellafield. It showed me the natural beauty of the indiginous wildlife, including a new species of crab that knows the entire score of "The Marriage of Figero", but nothing lse. After the final number, the creatures spawn a sack of eggs, numbering in the hundreds, and die on the spot. Those lucky enough to be in the chorus, survive to learn how to breathe and eat.
The feeling of sand between my feet was wonderful. The town should be praised for it's clean beach! It's natural properties are astounding! Even now, I never bump my feet into anything in the pitch blackness.
I was also lucky enough to be in town long enough for the summer carnival! Which began with the running of the sheep, due to most of the bulls being incredibly huge and agressive.
I, along with several other young men, were chosen to be in the event itself. We were herded into a large pen by a halfcaste man, who I later came to know as Shep. As we waited, the sheep was brought into the opposite pen. It had a garland of flowers, weaved by the women's institute, around each of it's heads. Each head was eating another's garland.
The time was nigh! We awaited the starter's pistol. Unfortunately, the local area authority wouldn't allow any sort of firearm to be fired, for fear of something they called an "84 cockup". So the starting pistol was replaced with a large gentleman having his genitals slammed into a vice.
The agonising scream came and we were off! The sheep was in hot pursuit! One man leapt into a rubbish bin for fear of being savaged by the creature, another threw himself into the Windy Scales, the local pub, and upon the mercy of the landlady. He was never recovered.
Yet another tried to climb up and over the wall surrounding the local nuclear power facility, but the wall consumed him before he even reached halfway up.
It was myself and another man left. My compatriot tried to bargain with me as we downed a gallon of beach sand, asking if I'd distract the creature while he ran on ahead. I told him I wanted a fair race, so kicked him in the cobblers and ran for home.
By winning, I was allowed my pick of the women in the town, those being the laws of the land.
I picked out my sweetheart and we spent the rest of the weekend in the throes of romance and the ocean (My hired dingy struck a roack and we had to swin back to shore).
When I arrived back at my inner London townhouse, my doctor told me that the asylum didn't allow pets. I told him she was a citizen of the realm and my worthy foe in battle, come concubine.
She bleated in agreement.
After a healthy dose of anti-psychotic medication, he asked me again and I said "Where do I start?"
He said I could go anywhere in the British ISles and talk about whatever I liked. With such an open invitation, I thought about what sort of place I would call a british paradise...
And then it hit me! In a book I'd read as a child, it talked of a magical land where strange creatures roamed the lush, green fields, and where men in huge suits took up the bolts of lightning from the hands of dead gods to make power for we mere mortals.
When I suggested this place, my editor told me it was a fantastic idea, and signed a week release form. I hurried home, trying to resist the temptation to molest birch trees along the way, and packed my bag with everything I'd need for my pilgrimage:
- Toothbrush
- Medicated toothpaste
- Fashionable undergarments
- Bell bottom jeans
- Sequined waist coat
- Afro pick
- Sun cream (Factor 20)
- Edible thong (For the train ride)
I hopped aboard the train, making sure my mittens were on tight, so I wouldn't start anymore fires.
The sign pinned to my coat said this:
"Please look after this bear. He bites small children and animals"
The guard, while making sure not to get his hands too close to my mouth, took my ticket, punched it, and left me alone in the first class car (Though I later found out I had no business being there.).
Aftr 5 changes, 6 muggings and a few cups of cold tea, I read the sign of the incoming station:
SELLAFIELD
I had arrived!
* * * * *
As I was wheeled from the station in my Lecter-cart, I saw all the wonderful sights that Sellafield had waiting for me. Flying cars! External combustion engines! Cream cakes! The beach! Unicorns fornicating with busty Goblins!
I later awoke in my hotel room with a hypodermic needle coming out of my neck, and a not e from the hotel management saying that I was speaking in tongues about flights of fancy and other such rot. They didn't have a tranquiliser, but gave me a shot of blueberry jam to the cartaroid artery, which had the same effect.
A few minutes of vomiting later, I left the basement penthouse I had been booked by my editor and went in search of adventure!
...there wasn't any in stock at the local supermarket! What a bust!
I walked along the beach instead.
The long, slightly oozing sand road became my friend over the 3 days I spent in Sellafield. It showed me the natural beauty of the indiginous wildlife, including a new species of crab that knows the entire score of "The Marriage of Figero", but nothing lse. After the final number, the creatures spawn a sack of eggs, numbering in the hundreds, and die on the spot. Those lucky enough to be in the chorus, survive to learn how to breathe and eat.
The feeling of sand between my feet was wonderful. The town should be praised for it's clean beach! It's natural properties are astounding! Even now, I never bump my feet into anything in the pitch blackness.
I was also lucky enough to be in town long enough for the summer carnival! Which began with the running of the sheep, due to most of the bulls being incredibly huge and agressive.
I, along with several other young men, were chosen to be in the event itself. We were herded into a large pen by a halfcaste man, who I later came to know as Shep. As we waited, the sheep was brought into the opposite pen. It had a garland of flowers, weaved by the women's institute, around each of it's heads. Each head was eating another's garland.
The time was nigh! We awaited the starter's pistol. Unfortunately, the local area authority wouldn't allow any sort of firearm to be fired, for fear of something they called an "84 cockup". So the starting pistol was replaced with a large gentleman having his genitals slammed into a vice.
The agonising scream came and we were off! The sheep was in hot pursuit! One man leapt into a rubbish bin for fear of being savaged by the creature, another threw himself into the Windy Scales, the local pub, and upon the mercy of the landlady. He was never recovered.
Yet another tried to climb up and over the wall surrounding the local nuclear power facility, but the wall consumed him before he even reached halfway up.
It was myself and another man left. My compatriot tried to bargain with me as we downed a gallon of beach sand, asking if I'd distract the creature while he ran on ahead. I told him I wanted a fair race, so kicked him in the cobblers and ran for home.
By winning, I was allowed my pick of the women in the town, those being the laws of the land.
I picked out my sweetheart and we spent the rest of the weekend in the throes of romance and the ocean (My hired dingy struck a roack and we had to swin back to shore).
When I arrived back at my inner London townhouse, my doctor told me that the asylum didn't allow pets. I told him she was a citizen of the realm and my worthy foe in battle, come concubine.
She bleated in agreement.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
My Top Ten Gang Names.
10 - The Sons of Dr. Brain.
9 - Weekday Warriors.
8 - V for Vaginas.
7 - The Tribal Cheeks.
6 - Menstralcycle Maulers.
5 - Slash and Drop.
4 - The Chocolate Hostages.
3 - Granny Grabbers.
2 - The 65th Bvd Pussylickers.
1 - Hell's Angles.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Smilers.
There was no need to be offensive.
You just wanted attention.
You got it, and it made my blood boil.
* * * * * *
For a long time now, I've hated organised religion.
My father beat (Not literally) this into me by the way he used to scream obscenities at the Jehovah's Witnesses. Sometimes it was fun, but other times I just used to run away, try to disassociate myself from him.
I used to hate doing anything with him. Everything was littered with a racist or xenophobic pretence and subtext. Even over dinner he used to complain about migrant workers and the church. He used to say the words "The Papal State" more than "I love you".
I never used to put any stock into what he said, until I saw what he was talking about as a clear picture, not as a string of randomly offensive phrases.
We were at the funeral of a distant relative, someone's uncle or brother. And brother. I wasn't paying attention as my father grimaced through the entire ceremony. I looked over to the group a few plots away.
They were smiling.
They were burying a person, and they were smiling. I couldn't wrap my head around it.
Now, I know why. That's they way they are.
It's still a freakish prospect to me. Maybe that's why I became a writer, a journalist. To ask questions about things I never understood.
So why am I still confused about myself?
I smile now too, like they did. Just to get through the pain and confusion.
It's the sweetest torture to know you don't care, or at least have no desire to listen to someone else's problems.
The smile is cold, and full of regret.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
150.
I thought I'd take a little time to just talk.
To my 1-3 readers, thank you. I started this as a means to an end, a place to write my thoughts and insane ideas down for future reference, or to entertain someone who came across it accidentally.
To my best friend, my other half. You're my consistant reader, always checking up on this place. Like so many other areas of my life, you make this place worthwhile. I've always said if just one person reads and likes my work, I'm satisfied, I'm happy. That just adds to you making me the happiest and luckiest Hector in the world (no matter how long you take to do things or get distracted for).
To anyone else who finds this place. Thanks for looking in. It doesn't take a lot for me to do this, in all honesty, but it takes a lot for me to say I'm ever proud of my works. Most of these are just badly cobbled together pieces of prose and poetry, so... Yeah. Hopefully you'll find something here that'll keep you coming back.
And let me know if you want to see anything more of a certain subject.
As for me? I'm gonna keep working at my dream. I want to write stories, but I'm no novellist, nor a poet truly. I'm a guy who comes up with nutty ideas and plasters dialogue in between reels of description.
I'm gonna have that future I dream of, one day. With the people and places within being real.
It's a long road ahead, but I've got strong legs.
T.P.
To my 1-3 readers, thank you. I started this as a means to an end, a place to write my thoughts and insane ideas down for future reference, or to entertain someone who came across it accidentally.
To my best friend, my other half. You're my consistant reader, always checking up on this place. Like so many other areas of my life, you make this place worthwhile. I've always said if just one person reads and likes my work, I'm satisfied, I'm happy. That just adds to you making me the happiest and luckiest Hector in the world (no matter how long you take to do things or get distracted for).
To anyone else who finds this place. Thanks for looking in. It doesn't take a lot for me to do this, in all honesty, but it takes a lot for me to say I'm ever proud of my works. Most of these are just badly cobbled together pieces of prose and poetry, so... Yeah. Hopefully you'll find something here that'll keep you coming back.
And let me know if you want to see anything more of a certain subject.
As for me? I'm gonna keep working at my dream. I want to write stories, but I'm no novellist, nor a poet truly. I'm a guy who comes up with nutty ideas and plasters dialogue in between reels of description.
I'm gonna have that future I dream of, one day. With the people and places within being real.
It's a long road ahead, but I've got strong legs.
T.P.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
White Knuckles, Black Clouds, Red Head.
I woke up to my sides aching for no reason.
Just stiff, and tight.
A light throb.
I try to stretch it out, but end up passing gas and making it worse with a tightening crunch.
I sit and wait for my schedule to begin. 4 hours of purgatorial time-wasting.
No motivation to work.
I get to my lecture.
All goes well until my pitch.
For some reason, I'm nervous.
Maybe it's the eyes focused upon my, from all angles.
Maybe it's the tongue in my mouth being cracked and torn.
Or, perhaps it's my throat feeling like a black pepper and steak snadwich, tightly packed and itchy.
I leave feeling frustrated.
"A lack of clarity".
I want to hit someone.
I wish someone would try something.
I want to explode.
My legs ache.
Why I stand in a twisted act of charity, I have no idea.
I want to pass out.
I'm not even tired.
We are thrown off of the train.
Leaves on the track?
Either way, there are delays.
Sorry for the delay to your service.
What about YOUR service?
I refuse to explode.
I help the confused.
I have a conversation.
I can never let loose.
It seems like forever, but we're off again.
What seems like an hour is really 10 minutes.
I'm tired of it.
I get back to my car.
I sit, breathe and vent my anger.
I turn up the radio.
War of the worlds inside of a microcosm.
A bosom.
The sky is gray.
The rain is soft.
The mist is comforting.
Why does bad weather bring out the best in me?
The anger all but passes with the generations of reptiles in my automatic lover.
Left in the smoke and mist.
I get to my sanctum.
The childish mementos.
The familiar settings.
I long for one single thing.
I long for a comfort from afar.
I want her to be here, and to hear my roar in the quietest tones.
But she isn't.
Last I heard, she was running for earthy apples, or a singular one.
I can't blame her for not being here.
I'm the one who walks through life doing nothing about the routine and fucking ritual.
I just...
I want to be in a new situation.
An omen?
I had a dream.
I was suspended and afraid of falling.
I was crying on brittle wooden pegs.
I was crying for help.
I like to think the mystery saviour was you.
I know it was you.
It had to have been.
Dreams are special to me.
I don't have them often.
When I do remember them...
They're usually of you.
So I'll be here, for you and me.
The routine isn't bad if I get to spend even a minute with you.
So I'll keep walking and raging inside.
Because I have only a few more steps to go before my road opens up to the field of view.
I have my future ahead of me.
I'm just not sure of the way to go.
Maybe I'll stop and smell the roses.
Just for a while.
My rose.
Just stiff, and tight.
A light throb.
I try to stretch it out, but end up passing gas and making it worse with a tightening crunch.
I sit and wait for my schedule to begin. 4 hours of purgatorial time-wasting.
No motivation to work.
I get to my lecture.
All goes well until my pitch.
For some reason, I'm nervous.
Maybe it's the eyes focused upon my, from all angles.
Maybe it's the tongue in my mouth being cracked and torn.
Or, perhaps it's my throat feeling like a black pepper and steak snadwich, tightly packed and itchy.
I leave feeling frustrated.
"A lack of clarity".
I want to hit someone.
I wish someone would try something.
I want to explode.
My legs ache.
Why I stand in a twisted act of charity, I have no idea.
I want to pass out.
I'm not even tired.
We are thrown off of the train.
Leaves on the track?
Either way, there are delays.
Sorry for the delay to your service.
What about YOUR service?
I refuse to explode.
I help the confused.
I have a conversation.
I can never let loose.
It seems like forever, but we're off again.
What seems like an hour is really 10 minutes.
I'm tired of it.
I get back to my car.
I sit, breathe and vent my anger.
I turn up the radio.
War of the worlds inside of a microcosm.
A bosom.
The sky is gray.
The rain is soft.
The mist is comforting.
Why does bad weather bring out the best in me?
The anger all but passes with the generations of reptiles in my automatic lover.
Left in the smoke and mist.
I get to my sanctum.
The childish mementos.
The familiar settings.
I long for one single thing.
I long for a comfort from afar.
I want her to be here, and to hear my roar in the quietest tones.
But she isn't.
Last I heard, she was running for earthy apples, or a singular one.
I can't blame her for not being here.
I'm the one who walks through life doing nothing about the routine and fucking ritual.
I just...
I want to be in a new situation.
An omen?
I had a dream.
I was suspended and afraid of falling.
I was crying on brittle wooden pegs.
I was crying for help.
I like to think the mystery saviour was you.
I know it was you.
It had to have been.
Dreams are special to me.
I don't have them often.
When I do remember them...
They're usually of you.
So I'll be here, for you and me.
The routine isn't bad if I get to spend even a minute with you.
So I'll keep walking and raging inside.
Because I have only a few more steps to go before my road opens up to the field of view.
I have my future ahead of me.
I'm just not sure of the way to go.
Maybe I'll stop and smell the roses.
Just for a while.
My rose.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Bo-ho.
Bo-ho was an ogre.
Bo-ho was a small ogre.
Bo-ho was the SMALLEST ogre in the ogrelands.
He was about the size of a tall human. Most ogres are double that size.
Bo-ho was laughed at all the time by the other ogres, as well as bullied and used as an Ogreball for the Ogreball games.
He hated being an ogre.
So, Bo-ho left the ogrelands and went into the human world.
He came to a town called Humblepie, where the men were proud and the women were pretty.
Bo-ho took a job as a blacksmith.
All was fine until the Baron of Humblepie came into the town to collect the taxes from his people.
Bo-ho had never paid taxes before.
When the Baron demanded taxes from Bo-ho, Bo-ho slammed a handful of TACKS into the little man's hand.
Bo-ho was banished from Humblepie.
Bo-ho came to another town, called Whirlygig, where the men were smart and the women were smarter.
Bo-ho took a job as an inventions tester.
Bo-ho liked that job, lots of things went BOOM!
But one day, the Lord High Scientificer asked Bo-ho to help him build an airship.
Bo-ho couldn't read the plans.
Bo-ho left the town at midnight, full of shame.
Then Bo-ho came to a small town called Drizzlewood, where the men were meek and the women were shy.
They were scared of Bo-ho.
Bo-ho hid in a cave at the edge of town, sad at their reaction.
One night, he heard bells coming from the town...
A monstrous Hydra was attacking the people of the town!
Bo-ho jumped into the town and attacked the creature.
Their battle lasted for 7 days and 6 nights, until the creature fell by Bo-ho's hands!
Bo-ho was a hero.
Bo-ho was happy.
What do we learn from this story?
Learn to read, do your taxes... Boring.
Fuck up a Hydra? You're a real hero, a man's man.
At least to the meek.
EPILOGUE
Bo-Ho still couldn't read, but no-one laughed at him because he had a huge fucking sword.
Monday, 15 March 2010
A Special Education
Why is the special kid in that ridiculous helmet?
He's not special. He's spastic needs.
Be that as it may, why the helmet?
You know what's under there right?
His brace?
Right, the huge brace that keeps his swollen head from falling to the side and snapping his brittle neck.
So the Dalek helmet hides that?
2 more reasons.
Oh?
One - He's retarded like crazy. He loves Doctor Who.
A given. All retards like Doctor Who.
Two - He's fucking ugly to boot.
Too true.
Oh man... Here he comes.
*HEY YOU GUYS*
Oh... Hi, Richard...
Yeah... *Snort*
*WANNA PLAY BASEBALL?*
Uh...
Sure, buddy - Go get us 2 bats and wait for us behind the school.
*OKAY!*
...
I love being an asshole.
But you donate to charity right?
Of course, it evens itself out.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
A Nature Lesson.
The greatest ironies in life all originated from nature.
From this fish here, presumably a Salmon, finally reaching the spawning pools after days of tireless swimming... Only to get swallowed whole by this crafty motherfucker of a bear.
Irony, in itself is all about timing.
Timing is how this bear was in the right place at the right time, and the Salmon was in the opposite.
So the next time you think something is ironic, or notice the irony in something.
Think of this Salmon.
HE'S FUCKING DEAD FOR THE SAKE OF NATURAL IRONY.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Straw.
Bernie?
...
Are you asleep?
...Yes.
Oh. Sorry...
No, Jack... Just... What do you want?
I was just thinking...
Harmful process, Jack.
...Why are we here?
Huh... Good question.
Don't you know?
Not really... I know just as much as you do, that being what were are and what we do.
Scarecrows... To...
Scare crows.
To scare crows. But, I mean, how do we know that?
I...
And why don't we stop?
That's simple. Move your arms.
I can't.
Exactly. Neither can I. We are our occupation. Forever.
Well, why don't we just stop scaring crows?
But... That's what we're built to do! We can't stop!
Who says?!
Well...
Exactly. I'm going to be a Cookfly.
Cookfly?
Yep. I'm going to sit outside of the farm kitchen and stop the flies from getting onto the farmer's wife's pies and things...
That's insane. If you can't move, how can you do that?
I'll find a way. I could hop over there in the rain.
Whouldn't that be a bit brash? Surely you'd need to work up to that position... That and you can't wave your arms to get rid of the flies.
Oh... That's true...
Though you have a point. We can't be this all of our lives... I personally don't know anything else.
Well, what do you know?
Theological philosophy and how to scare crows.
Hm... You could be a Scareatheist?
*Rim shot*
...
Are you asleep?
...Yes.
Oh. Sorry...
No, Jack... Just... What do you want?
I was just thinking...
Harmful process, Jack.
...Why are we here?
Huh... Good question.
Don't you know?
Not really... I know just as much as you do, that being what were are and what we do.
Scarecrows... To...
Scare crows.
To scare crows. But, I mean, how do we know that?
I...
And why don't we stop?
That's simple. Move your arms.
I can't.
Exactly. Neither can I. We are our occupation. Forever.
Well, why don't we just stop scaring crows?
But... That's what we're built to do! We can't stop!
Who says?!
Well...
Exactly. I'm going to be a Cookfly.
Cookfly?
Yep. I'm going to sit outside of the farm kitchen and stop the flies from getting onto the farmer's wife's pies and things...
That's insane. If you can't move, how can you do that?
I'll find a way. I could hop over there in the rain.
Whouldn't that be a bit brash? Surely you'd need to work up to that position... That and you can't wave your arms to get rid of the flies.
Oh... That's true...
Though you have a point. We can't be this all of our lives... I personally don't know anything else.
Well, what do you know?
Theological philosophy and how to scare crows.
Hm... You could be a Scareatheist?
*Rim shot*
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Canvas.
Every brushstroke I make is wrong.
Every twist and turn of my wrists, fingers, and the brush in my hand is imperfect and flawed.
I keep moving, spiralling into a deeper state of agony as I see a nightmare pour onto the blank slate before me.
I wear my expressions on my sleeve, seeming utterly enraptured by the next magnum opus that falls out of me and onto the equally plain canvas.
The truth is, I feel nothing for the work.
All of the passion in my body, once hot and all-empowering, pumping the vitriol through my fragile form - Gone.
Simplistically and really gone.
I have no idea where it's hiding, or if it still even lives on within the darkest part of my metaphoric corners.
All I can do is work on finding it again.
Or cry to myself, admitting defeat.
Pride is a sin. So is envy.
Envy over those once in my sphere, like some metaphysical pantheon, now lifted from the unsafe chambers of adolescence. The old guard, changed, but never replaced for God knows what reason.
I see them, talking, wining and dining off of their thickly stacked wallets. I see them feel safe and comfortable with their tiny lives, knowing that they know, deep down, they're already dead. Dead to the dreams and wishes from their childhood.
It's entropy. Oroborous. A never ending cycle of despair and anger, without any trace of hope of happiness.
So why don't I sell myself off like a whore, as they have chosen to do?
I'm better than them. All of them.
I feel a different fire inside of me. A dark fire. Reversed, sucking in the joy and sorrow in my veins as fuel, instead of burning all around it indiscriminately. It's focused, never going out of control.
Pure, dark, rage.
A rage that I keep stored away in my soul, twisted and tortured, not just by my own admission.
Mammy and Daddy loved to know what was going on in my head. The docs and throbbers poking through my grey matter with sharp fingers and words. Always the same diagnosis, just in a new disguise.
Suddenly.
My muse comes to me, in flashes of golden greens. The shapely hip, the full bosom, the Venusian face. A beauty beyond all imagination.
She understands me. she knows my needs and fulfils them. The takes me into her and whispers:
"I know you. As you will come to know me."
I wrestle with my negativity for her. I fight the beasts within. All to see her look to me and open herself up, beckoning me in from the madness.
She does look to me, but she is transformed. A child of rage and envy. A beauty, to some far-gone patient of termination. A release. A guiding light.
A dark light. Crimson sickness pushed onto me by my own hands.
Imperfect hands.
I take my brush and make my stand, a defence, a shield to block the possibility.
Apathetic defence.
She peels it back and consumes it, as only sickness and hunger can. Chewing upon my person with grinning fangs, slowly becoming charper, hooking into me.
I'm addicted to her pain.
She makes me tick, tick, tick.
I hear the clock as I awake to a blank canvas once more.
The cycle begins again.
I weep.
I take up my brush.
Everything Brushstroke I make is wrong.
And it's the only comfort I know.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Anti-thesis.
I've never liked writing essays.
And I'd do anything I could to avoid them.
Not great for an Cambridge boy.
I was a student under Professor Homer. Good man, incredibly smart. Professor of Physics and Chemistry. So naturally, when he asked me to assist him in the lab on some extra-curricular research, I jumped at the chance... I liked the man, and it beat writing about atomic mass and fusion mechanics.
He was, for want of better terms, an Alchemist and a dreamer. He loved theorising new methods of testing the atom to it's fullest potential. I couldn't understand why no-one else wanted to work with him.
Maybe I was as mad as he was...
On the first day assisting him, I was drenched in toxic waste. It was a test of a new polymer he'd developed - "Homewrap", he jokingly called it, due to it being "Safe as houses". He was right. Nothing got in. It was fantastic. It could have revolutionised safety in hazardous areas, it was lightweight, incredibly durable, and could be customised easily for working conditions different to science - I said he could have even sold it as jumpsuits for the motoring industry. He laughed, and said it was a good idea, but I could tell there was something... off. I'd rattled him with what I'd said, my praise of his genius...
He let me take a sample of it home. A real show of trust. I could have taken it, and the notes he'd made me take to the nearest patent office and taken it for myself... Why didn't I? Respect. He trusted me, and I wasn't the type to do so.
Not back then.
Now? I can be a little... Dishonest. But I like to think I'm a good guy.
We worked together on really out there concepts, like an atomic kettle, like a pressure cooker for dark matter, and other such substances. We used it initially to make water, iron and carbon balls.
I had enough notes on that to write my entire thesis. But... I still avoided doing so. Homer promised me credit for it, in place of wholesale documentation. That was good enough for me.
He introduced me to his colleagues, a real wild bunch. Doctor Lovell was a psychologist. Miss Amberin was a business guru. And Professor Maxim was an engineer. All really, incredibly smart. I felt like a sore thumb, but I absorbed so much information from them, it was insane. I loved listening to them argue about things.
Homer also introduced me to the ASM - Anti-Superhuman Movement. Some doctor gets the power to blast a beam from his little finger, destroying buildings and killing people worse off? That's not fair. They need to be regulated...
The Prof wanted to create a power suppressant, a bracelet that stopped the flow of unnatural elements in the human body, stopping the explosive reaction within the body. It's all physics.
He just needed a test subject.
This is where I honestly started to be scared of the man. He was intense. He was obsessed by EVERY one of his projects... Even the finished ones.
One day, it changed.
I came in, and found him suspended from a device. He was inside of the kettle, or at least a new attachment. He asked me to be the random element. He told me to push 3 of the god-knows how many buttons on the panel... There must have been close to 40 buttons...
I saw he was in the Homewrap, a jumpsuit of the stuff, with no sleeves.
I pushed number 9. Something viscous and black poured into the kettle, as it slowly began to move.
I pushed 23 - My age then. A huge amount of some sort of green dust began to circle him...
I sealed his fate with 16. He was showered in, what I later discovered was, moss. Common moss.
The kettle whirred like crazy. We was in agony, bleeding into the mix and glass.
When it finally stopped, we was... Alive. To say the least for that miracle.
He was green. Literally green, like the moss. and covered in sores that oozed black and green sludge.
He stepped out of the kettle and put the inhibitor bracelet on...
Nothing.
A complete failure for the bracelet.
But a success for him. He was a living spreader of the disease called Harmain - The one that ate through the New Forest - The sentient bacterium.
Yeah... I should have stuck to with the essays...
Now what? For me, I mean.
I got my degree, fine... But I made him into a monster.
So I became the opposite. The antithesis of the organic disease - A cure.
Chalk white and yellow.
The cure.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
E' gas s'em
My boy... My beautiful boy.
Grandpa...
Don't be sad for me boy, I'm fine.
But...
No buts. You're a smart boy. I'm so very proud of you. Your mother and father would have been so too. I've been proud to take care of you for all of these years. So very proud. You were a little Hellraiser! Full of it! You remember the time you turned the dining room into a fort? Oh... How you cried when we made you put it back as it was...
I remember... I remember you building me another outside, out of the old wood and garden furniture... It was the middle of November!
Ah... But you still played in it...
Yes... And you caught the flu.
Flu, Schmu... It was worth it to see you smile.
...Gran-
You know... All I've been able to do here... Is think.
I know...
Remembering the good times, and the bad. It's amazing how much we do in our lives... And how much is done to us...
You mean...
Yes. I was one of the lucky ones. So many of our people were lost to the war... But...
Grandpa?
My boy... There is something... Whether I didn't remember, or chose not to, or... There is something you should know...
What?
In that place... we were a desperate people. When we weren't working, we were dreaming of freedom. I know that sounds too much of a generalisation, or just plain-
Shh... go on. I know.
You don't, that's the point... And I'm so happy you don't. All I can tell you is my part in the story.
Of course.
I was a rock mover. I moved rocks. Not much else to the job description... I moved them from one pile to another. They worked us to the bone, made us weak. Either you worked, or you died. Those that snapped, died anyway. Sick? Dead. These was no happy medium, only the darkest shade of shadow. We used to talk as we worked, just to keep each other sane. I was in there with...
Hm?
I don't remember his name... It was earthy... Had a real hock to it. used to have to spit every time I said his name... Well, the sweat did that too... Anyway, he and I used to dream of being on the other side of the fence. He was a scholar, he knew a lot of things. He'd been a student of some really strange men... Makes Genesis P.Orridge look like liberal.
Who's...
Never mind... He was a strange man, a man of the earth, but rejected it. He resented the work the guards made him do. He was always talking about what we'd do when we got out, like he knew it was coming... I used to stifle my laughter. He warned me "Miky!" That's what he used to call me. "Miky, you have to be ready! I'm going to get out of here!". I used to play him off and get him back to work... We weren't being made to talk... He was a strange one.
Did you meet after you got out?
No...
Why not? I thought a lot of survivors-
A lot of us? There weren't as many as they tell you. And we never wanted to meet to discuss the old days. Anyway... If I couldn't remember, I never would have taken to the idea.
Ah.
I'll skip ahead... We were there a while. That and... there isn't much all to say. It was monotony. Torture without the violence.
There was violence. I know that much.
A lot of it occurred behind closed doors. Not saying it all did... I've seen my fair share of men fall into the dirt...
I'm sorry.
Never apologise for something you weren't alive for.
Well, I'll be sorry for that...
Heh. My boy, never compromise yourself for others... It leads into dark areas. We did something in that man-made Hell. Something dark.
What?
We sold ourselves... Parts of ourselves...
For what?
Freedom.
How?
We compromised our beliefs.
I don't-
We made a deal. In exchange for what we loved, we were given an out. A free pass from Hell.
Who did you deal with?
A terrible power.
The guards? Commanders?
...No...
Then-
You have to understand, I'm not a bad man. I'm... We were desperate. We needed an out. I was close to the break, we all were...
You're not making any sense.
No... But matters of devilry and pact never make sense.
Devilry?
We sold ourselves to the Tulpa.
Wha-
It was... Like a Golem. You remember that story?
My favourite...
Yes... It did as we asked... But it was pure blackness and bloody earth. There was no servitude, just platitude and the sharp, biting fingers as he pointed to us... He told us we would have our wish... For a price. there always is. For anything.
Jesus...
Don't... Ah, you're a big man. Talk as you like...
What did you give?
One of us gave his legs. He was an athlete, almost made it to the Olympics... The one the Fuhrer was at... Another gave her soul... One gave his heart and soul... My friend? He gave his mind, thinking he couldn't make him an idiot...
What did you-
the athlete had his legs blown away by the guns, in the smoke and chaos. Gone. Bloody stumps. But he lived... The deal was set.
The others?
The lady, Miriam... I think. She went to Paris... Fell in love, and became a dancer... But her eyes were dead... Even back then. I don't think that ever changed, even when she lived her dreams.
How do you know that?
She had the look... She was one of the "Special Projects"... She was just a child...
No... How do you know about Paris?
I have my ways... The other who promised his heart and soul... Well, he became a very rich man... But lost it to a younger woman... Murder, some said...
And your friend?
He was... He was admitted to an asylum as soon as we were rescued. Shellshock, survivours guilt, whatever the doctors could throw at him... Never saw him again...
...You haven't said what you gave.
...Your father was a strapping man...
No...
I never intended to fall in love... But it happened... I forgot when I held him in my arms... The Tulpa didn't...
Please, no...
The car... no-one knew how it came to fly off of the road... But I knew, like a flash of infamy.
For... No.
It was a miracle you survived. An angel must have been watching you... And with you, I had my chance at redemption.
Is that all I was? Redemption? The last chance of a desperate man?!
We were all desperate... And I never compromised my ideals. Never again.
...I... I can't be here...
No... you're right. Go. Be happy... I deserve this... All of this.
...
I feel you... Mnmezzer.
*Growl*
I know... But he had a right to know...
*Laughter*
I know... Take me... I deserve it all...
Inspiration Station.
It seems a while ago that I went on an introspective rant about myself...
God, I can't even remember why I was so low.
Rest assured though, the train is picking up steam... A lot of it.
Not to the level where I'm a fucking miracle worker, I'd never be that motivated. That's John Paul II territory... Not that he was incredibly active, but you get it right? About devotion?
7th of March. Today. I make this promise. I'm gonna get back on the saddle, attached to the horse of metaphor, and ride into the almost-daily sunset.
...I need to watch some more westerns.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
With a chin support and a cocked eyebrow, I talk about myself.
I had a huge diatribe here about how awful and awesome I am.
Blogger is a cunt.
I talked about how much of a loser I am - Which is partially true, but for other reasons than what I was saying. I was selling myself as a self-actualising and self-fulfilling failure of a man, who had no business even dreaming for a good life.
WRONG. I came to see that after a phone-call to a friend.
I'm a good man.
A damn fine man.
I have some much going for me:
- Constant and undying support for whatever I do from my family.
- A form of creative genius that cannot be put onto paper.
- And the most wonderful girl in the world. I say it all the time, but it's never stopped being true, I love you, Babe.
I was writing for the sake of activity - and Introspection is easy with the wrong motivations.
I'm a helper. A defender. A guardian.
I'm a reliable man. Though I say that more often than I appear to be so.
I remember starting this post with "I do stupid things..." and attributing it to Gluttony for approval and praise.
Bollocks! You were writing for the sake of venting and application.
You're a glutton, and a sloth. Sure. But you're charitable, temperate, caring and kind.
I said, a while ago, to that special someone, that I'd start believing the hype that people said about me.
I am now. I've been slow in doing so, but now? I'm running, and no amount of stitching, cramping or vomiting will stop me. Colour me green and orange.
Fuck... I hate Blogger for being so damn picky. I really wanted to show how much of an idiot I can be!
A blessing is disguise? Maybe...
I remember the ending though:
I'm going to live to this creed:
Aspire, Actualise, Ascend, Acclaim.
That's what they'll all see in my footsteps - Words in chalk on my road of life! My human way!
People will look to me - the dynamo, the alchemic kettle of emotion and surrealistic integrity - And ask me who I am, and I will say this:
I'm a damn fine man.
And if you don't like it...
Fuck Off.
(There... Vented and turned about. My usual cocktail on a night where I just bob in the water.)
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Once More with Feeling!
Play it again, Benny!
Boss... My arms hurt...
Play it! I need to hear this one more time!
The gears are so stiff... arrgh...
Keep it turning, greasemonkey. This cacophany must be heard at the right speed!
Is that why you're using it? Or is that... Hurgh... why you're using it on them?
Both! This music was passed down to me by my grandfather! And from his grandfather before! It's a generation of timpany whistles and mechanical symphony!
And... What does it do to them?
Brings them into my world, Benny. It makes them mine to control.
Why not a recording or something? That's a lot easier on me at least...
Stupid, selfish simpleton! It must be harmonic - Speakers cannot do that! Will not do that! And besides, you said you wanted some exersise...
Yeah... But not just my friggin arms and shoulders...
Hush up! Here comes the accompaniment!
Those whistles are so loud...
They have to be to pierce the defences of the human mind... Like a sonic infection. Crawling up the ear canal and cutting into all of that dull grey matter, turning it cotton candy pink!
You're a poet and a scholar, Mr. Pinkerton.
Please, Benny... Call me Paddy!
Okay... Paddy... So, who are those people down there... There are kids and adults there...
they're nobody special! Some may think they are, but, oh no... Nobody is special. All just drones, you see... Living their lives like insects and carnivores... they have no idea how much FUN they're missing out on!
So... you want to cause chaos?
No! Fun! Fun isn't like Chaos! Chaos is destructive and violent... Fun is constructive! Warm! Exciting!
So... this music'll make them have more fun?
In a way... It'll free them from their inhibitions!
Is... is that Governor Swifton?!
Well! So it is! Looks like he got a flyer too! Just like the mayor! and there is police chief Redfield!
My god...
And with the loss of inhibitions, comes the loss of sensibility! Insanity!
Paddy...
Mr. Pink to you, right now, Benny boy. Keep playing! Keep those bells and whistles rolling!
Boss... My arms hurt...
Play it! I need to hear this one more time!
The gears are so stiff... arrgh...
Keep it turning, greasemonkey. This cacophany must be heard at the right speed!
Is that why you're using it? Or is that... Hurgh... why you're using it on them?
Both! This music was passed down to me by my grandfather! And from his grandfather before! It's a generation of timpany whistles and mechanical symphony!
And... What does it do to them?
Brings them into my world, Benny. It makes them mine to control.
Why not a recording or something? That's a lot easier on me at least...
Stupid, selfish simpleton! It must be harmonic - Speakers cannot do that! Will not do that! And besides, you said you wanted some exersise...
Yeah... But not just my friggin arms and shoulders...
Hush up! Here comes the accompaniment!
Those whistles are so loud...
They have to be to pierce the defences of the human mind... Like a sonic infection. Crawling up the ear canal and cutting into all of that dull grey matter, turning it cotton candy pink!
You're a poet and a scholar, Mr. Pinkerton.
Please, Benny... Call me Paddy!
Okay... Paddy... So, who are those people down there... There are kids and adults there...
they're nobody special! Some may think they are, but, oh no... Nobody is special. All just drones, you see... Living their lives like insects and carnivores... they have no idea how much FUN they're missing out on!
So... you want to cause chaos?
No! Fun! Fun isn't like Chaos! Chaos is destructive and violent... Fun is constructive! Warm! Exciting!
So... this music'll make them have more fun?
In a way... It'll free them from their inhibitions!
Is... is that Governor Swifton?!
Well! So it is! Looks like he got a flyer too! Just like the mayor! and there is police chief Redfield!
My god...
And with the loss of inhibitions, comes the loss of sensibility! Insanity!
Paddy...
Mr. Pink to you, right now, Benny boy. Keep playing! Keep those bells and whistles rolling!
Sunday, 14 February 2010
The Bound Man.
The Bound Man walks the earth, searching for the Key, or the Bladed Hand.
The Key is hidden, stolen away by the Pregnant Mother to taunt him.
The Father sits upon the Throne of Mysteries, looking down upon the Pregnant Mother with shame in his eyes.
The Mother sits to the side of the Father, not looking at anything, her eyes blinded long ago, devoid of emotion.
The Behemoth lumbers in the footsteps of the Changling, seeking a good mel.
The Changling follows the Bound Man, seeking a good meal also.
The Bladed Hand moves across the Map, once the Guide, cutting it into agonising ribbons.
The Tempest moves wherever the Night Watchman goes, following him and raining down upon him.
The Sun and Moon spin across the earth, making the Deep and the Mighty tremble.
The Deep just wants to be left alone, but The Legion drink from him.
The Mighty sits alone, awaiting the battle.
The Legion madly run whichever way the deem appropriate, as long as the Catcher doesn't get them.
The Catcher works for the Bladed Hand, seeking blood for his lord.
The Starchild sits, crying rivers of crystal tears, his voice that of the gods themselves.
The Flame jumps through the Ancient Forest, burning it's back and front.
The Shield and Spear lie in the hands of the Jealous Knight and the Slothful King.
The Jealous Knight seeks to become King.
The Slothful King looks to slumber longer than the world has lived.
The Madman leads the legion into battle.
And the World spins slowly around these fated tragedies.
Only the Bound Man will survive, to sit upon the Throne of Loss and hold the Orb of Chance.
He is the most tragic of all.
A Sleeping Kiss.
This is for you,
the sleeper, as I stand and work around you,
Looking back at your still-life form,
Through watercolours and oils.
We met, so soon and yet, at time, so long ago.
Through the Lady, most eternal,
Born when humans asked "What if..." and "I could...".
She saw us.
And she smiled.
For hours on end, we talked and still do,
A disjointed prose and poetry,
That we alone understand.
We have our jokes,
We have sadness and anger,
We have worry. Some more than the other.
But through it all, I think,
I know.
That you are just as good or bad as I,
And yet existing as so much more.
We've had the times where we made each other smile,
The sad times too, as well as those times where we've been angry.
And yet, with those, and times where we both can't find the strength to deal,
We do, with a guided hand.
I once thought that love was for someone else, and I donated mine too often,
To see another soul fly.
I thought my life was one of satisfaction in a fraction I could assist.
Yet now?
All I think about is you and I.
I stand on the edge of the future, trying to look into the light,
To see where I might be going.
I never see the full picture.
But a hand comes and grazes my brow, and another comes, and places itself in mine.
You help me. Guide me.
I don't deserve the help, sometimes.
I act like a child, waddling in the darkness.
But everytime I say so,
You silence me, and hold me closer.
I'm a bigger man now,
With your help, your presense.
A helping hand, a caring touch.
A kiss, stolen in jest,
means more to me than food.
I'm not a subtle person.
I can be such at times.
I admit.
But the majesty of life isn't lost on me,
so though my words are often sprawling and thuddish,
they come with honesty and definition.
You see this,
And you laugh. In joy.
In time, in time.
I love you, I love you.
For all the things that I could do,
To make you mad and worry,
I'm sorry.
Genetic furniture in need of feng sui.
For all the things I do,
That make you happy,
I'm glad. So glad.
Just to make you smile.
And for all the things you do that make me happy,
Thank you. Thank you.
Thank God for you.
I never want to let you go.
All mine.
I never want to lose you.
For never and ever.
Thank you.
Happy Valentine's day, Otter.
I hope you let me know how much you like it.
the sleeper, as I stand and work around you,
Looking back at your still-life form,
Through watercolours and oils.
We met, so soon and yet, at time, so long ago.
Through the Lady, most eternal,
Born when humans asked "What if..." and "I could...".
She saw us.
And she smiled.
For hours on end, we talked and still do,
A disjointed prose and poetry,
That we alone understand.
We have our jokes,
We have sadness and anger,
We have worry. Some more than the other.
But through it all, I think,
I know.
That you are just as good or bad as I,
And yet existing as so much more.
We've had the times where we made each other smile,
The sad times too, as well as those times where we've been angry.
And yet, with those, and times where we both can't find the strength to deal,
We do, with a guided hand.
I once thought that love was for someone else, and I donated mine too often,
To see another soul fly.
I thought my life was one of satisfaction in a fraction I could assist.
Yet now?
All I think about is you and I.
I stand on the edge of the future, trying to look into the light,
To see where I might be going.
I never see the full picture.
But a hand comes and grazes my brow, and another comes, and places itself in mine.
You help me. Guide me.
I don't deserve the help, sometimes.
I act like a child, waddling in the darkness.
But everytime I say so,
You silence me, and hold me closer.
I'm a bigger man now,
With your help, your presense.
A helping hand, a caring touch.
A kiss, stolen in jest,
means more to me than food.
I'm not a subtle person.
I can be such at times.
I admit.
But the majesty of life isn't lost on me,
so though my words are often sprawling and thuddish,
they come with honesty and definition.
You see this,
And you laugh. In joy.
In time, in time.
I love you, I love you.
For all the things that I could do,
To make you mad and worry,
I'm sorry.
Genetic furniture in need of feng sui.
For all the things I do,
That make you happy,
I'm glad. So glad.
Just to make you smile.
And for all the things you do that make me happy,
Thank you. Thank you.
Thank God for you.
I never want to let you go.
All mine.
I never want to lose you.
For never and ever.
Thank you.
Happy Valentine's day, Otter.
I hope you let me know how much you like it.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Like a Nerf Gun in a Nuclear War.
The individual in a time of war is useless in comparison to the unified opposition. The individual must be prepared for the three inevitable fates of his kind:
1 - To surrender: Become the opposition, forsake his pride.
2 - To fight and to die with grit and determination.
3 - Forsake his pride as the individual and become a part of the unified resistance.
One exception are those of the Odinistic variety - The Individual who forsakes all 3 options and trancends his position to become a hero, a tyrant or a conqueror.
The Odinists who then unify as a resistant front become the winners of war. That is another inevitability of war.
Those who win the war, define the laws of justice and the power available to the people.
The Odinist also define what the people can take, even after the war and laws have ended and been defined.
-- Czao Meng, lore and laws of war, 5th transcript.
I don't trust Commander Fries...
Why not?
He's too damn confident, Max! He talk about all of this like he's seen it so many times before!
Well, have you even seen him out there? He's a clear veteran of war, the way he acts and moves. It's not just ego or bravado, Uri. He's a true leader.
I know... But something about him gives me the creeps... Do you even look closely at him when he's out there? When he's waving that sword of his around?
Well, I see him from the back...
Sure, leader on the front line... But look into his eyes and you'll see what I see... He's a shark, a pure predator. His eyes are dead... They're rolled up into his head.
A berzerker rage?
No... Yes... It's that and something more...
More?
He's... He's more than any of us... He teaches us to be like him, instead of letting us find our own way. We imitate him, but we're nowhere close... Hence why I have this.
Uri... A trench-knife? We're meant to use the broadswords!
Exactly! Are you or anyone else even good with that damn thing?!
Well, I...
Watch this.
*Schick! Swoosh! Swash! Chang!!*
Impressive... Could you teach me?
That's the point I'm trying to make! I'm not going to teach you because you may not be good with it! You may be as good with a staff! Or a crossbow! A rifle, or harmonica!
...I see. I... I think I'd like to try without anything... Unarmed combat.
There you go! You could be much stronger! So much stronger! Everyone could! If they just tried their own forms of combat, stopped following Fries like puppet soldiers...
I'm going to go and find something usable on the net... See you later!
Goodbye, Max.
...
He's an excitable one...
Oh... Commander.
*Thumph*
What's this, sir?
A book. I think you'd enjoy it. I see potential in you. Not as anything other than your own person.
Sir? You think the same way?
Yes... But these people... Understand this, Larman... They're just conscripts. Clay, incaple of being truly shaped. Too dull to stand out. In you, I see faults, and bubbles, and a shape like no other. Some need molding to be confident, and instruction to stand and fight. Men like you and I? We lead. We are those who are written about in the history books. The heroes of war.
...I see. Is that what this book is about?
You got that much from the title? You have intuition and sense...
I also don't like to be overly-flattered...
Haha... I understand. I'll leave you to your reading. Have it back to me as soon as you finish. I'd like to get your opinion on the highlighted sections...
And if I agree with you? I assume that's what you want.
I'll introduce you to some of my friends... Other individuals, above the rest.
1 - To surrender: Become the opposition, forsake his pride.
2 - To fight and to die with grit and determination.
3 - Forsake his pride as the individual and become a part of the unified resistance.
One exception are those of the Odinistic variety - The Individual who forsakes all 3 options and trancends his position to become a hero, a tyrant or a conqueror.
The Odinists who then unify as a resistant front become the winners of war. That is another inevitability of war.
Those who win the war, define the laws of justice and the power available to the people.
The Odinist also define what the people can take, even after the war and laws have ended and been defined.
-- Czao Meng, lore and laws of war, 5th transcript.
I don't trust Commander Fries...
Why not?
He's too damn confident, Max! He talk about all of this like he's seen it so many times before!
Well, have you even seen him out there? He's a clear veteran of war, the way he acts and moves. It's not just ego or bravado, Uri. He's a true leader.
I know... But something about him gives me the creeps... Do you even look closely at him when he's out there? When he's waving that sword of his around?
Well, I see him from the back...
Sure, leader on the front line... But look into his eyes and you'll see what I see... He's a shark, a pure predator. His eyes are dead... They're rolled up into his head.
A berzerker rage?
No... Yes... It's that and something more...
More?
He's... He's more than any of us... He teaches us to be like him, instead of letting us find our own way. We imitate him, but we're nowhere close... Hence why I have this.
Uri... A trench-knife? We're meant to use the broadswords!
Exactly! Are you or anyone else even good with that damn thing?!
Well, I...
Watch this.
*Schick! Swoosh! Swash! Chang!!*
Impressive... Could you teach me?
That's the point I'm trying to make! I'm not going to teach you because you may not be good with it! You may be as good with a staff! Or a crossbow! A rifle, or harmonica!
...I see. I... I think I'd like to try without anything... Unarmed combat.
There you go! You could be much stronger! So much stronger! Everyone could! If they just tried their own forms of combat, stopped following Fries like puppet soldiers...
I'm going to go and find something usable on the net... See you later!
Goodbye, Max.
...
He's an excitable one...
Oh... Commander.
*Thumph*
What's this, sir?
A book. I think you'd enjoy it. I see potential in you. Not as anything other than your own person.
Sir? You think the same way?
Yes... But these people... Understand this, Larman... They're just conscripts. Clay, incaple of being truly shaped. Too dull to stand out. In you, I see faults, and bubbles, and a shape like no other. Some need molding to be confident, and instruction to stand and fight. Men like you and I? We lead. We are those who are written about in the history books. The heroes of war.
...I see. Is that what this book is about?
You got that much from the title? You have intuition and sense...
I also don't like to be overly-flattered...
Haha... I understand. I'll leave you to your reading. Have it back to me as soon as you finish. I'd like to get your opinion on the highlighted sections...
And if I agree with you? I assume that's what you want.
I'll introduce you to some of my friends... Other individuals, above the rest.
Thursday, 11 February 2010
My Eternal Wrath and Scorn.
With anger and bile, you arose from the bed.
None so living, and not quite dead.
How could I have forseen this day?
The child I bore, a depravity.
You, so small and pale, were born from love,
Not sand and blood.
Yet all that comes from your mouth,
Is course and cutting.
Dirt and hate.
My intentions, while noble,
Proved to be a sheer and unabashed tragedy.
We, your father and I,
Could not have concieved you any other way.
Death, becomes life.
We took you in from the cold,
Out of the rust and stone.
We made you, as one only can,
When forming perfection.
Life, becomes death.
I do not understand it, why?
Why did you rise and tear us so?
Where did we go wrong?
We couldn't have known...
Questions without answers.
I cry, here now,
Out of ignorance.
Why were you born with such hate in your heart?
I cannot fathom your soul.
Soul of steel.
Why you could not tell us,
Why you awoke screaming in agony.
I cannot understand...
What can I do to soothe you?
Mother's milk.
I cannot feed you.
I cannot teach you.
I cannot love you.
If you are not here.
Shadows and shapes.
You ran from your womb,
In and under.
Through your safety,
Into darkness, into rain.
Misery and regret.
I do know this:
You were not born of human flesh.
I cannot touch you,
Without feeling your fear.
Your pain.
Your screaming.
Your hatred.
I want to hold you, my son.
As only a mother can.
But I know.
The embrace would bear no love from either side.
Is this how every mother feels?
Shame? Regret? Guilt? Fear?
What about Joy, in such circumstances?
I feel that too.
Joy to the world.
I see you yell, as a mother knows life.
I see you run, as a mother knows love.
I see you fall, as a mother knows fear.
All I see is my son.
My life.
My death.
My legacy.
None so living, and not quite dead.
How could I have forseen this day?
The child I bore, a depravity.
You, so small and pale, were born from love,
Not sand and blood.
Yet all that comes from your mouth,
Is course and cutting.
Dirt and hate.
My intentions, while noble,
Proved to be a sheer and unabashed tragedy.
We, your father and I,
Could not have concieved you any other way.
Death, becomes life.
We took you in from the cold,
Out of the rust and stone.
We made you, as one only can,
When forming perfection.
Life, becomes death.
I do not understand it, why?
Why did you rise and tear us so?
Where did we go wrong?
We couldn't have known...
Questions without answers.
I cry, here now,
Out of ignorance.
Why were you born with such hate in your heart?
I cannot fathom your soul.
Soul of steel.
Why you could not tell us,
Why you awoke screaming in agony.
I cannot understand...
What can I do to soothe you?
Mother's milk.
I cannot feed you.
I cannot teach you.
I cannot love you.
If you are not here.
Shadows and shapes.
You ran from your womb,
In and under.
Through your safety,
Into darkness, into rain.
Misery and regret.
I do know this:
You were not born of human flesh.
I cannot touch you,
Without feeling your fear.
Your pain.
Your screaming.
Your hatred.
I want to hold you, my son.
As only a mother can.
But I know.
The embrace would bear no love from either side.
Is this how every mother feels?
Shame? Regret? Guilt? Fear?
What about Joy, in such circumstances?
I feel that too.
Joy to the world.
I see you yell, as a mother knows life.
I see you run, as a mother knows love.
I see you fall, as a mother knows fear.
All I see is my son.
My life.
My death.
My legacy.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
High Way.
These nigh-immortal scars...
On the body of the land...
They join us across the magnificent expanse on this earth...
People, like my mother and father, considered the earth to be a sentient being... Capable of feeling pain, pleasure and disappointment.
If it did, I'm sure it would be disappointed in us...
We pollute it, and harp on about how we intend to save it, but it's too late now... No matter how many plastic bags we DON'T use, the world is doomed.
Do you know why they called them highways?
Because they are disconnected from the earth... Joined, but not a part of it, like the other roads, and pathways...
Long after this world dies, the highways will still exist. Mankind will take to the road.
Hell, we spend so much time on the roads anyway, being on there permanently wouldn't be such a bad thing... Only problems would be food and water.
The roads weren't made to grow food, or to hold water... And the earth will be too barren for anything to exist off of it for long.
Anything that would grow would be a dark, corrupted and disgusting abomination...
Why?
The world isn't going to end with war, or nuclear disaster...
It's going to stop. Dead. The core will slowly cool, bringing about a new ice age over a process of hundreds of years...
Anything that could be grown will be tainted by the mother earth's corpse... And the waters will run red and black...
How?
Ours is a world in balance... Barely. Between science and the extraordinary. Before the plane was invented, we used to dream of being birds... that fuelled them to fly. Now? We just see them, and it's mundane. Normal. The same with the deepest oceans being home to monsters and beasts of ungodly burden. The same with space, the light and dark void where the god's danced out of sight and in mind.
All gone is the magic of this world.
As soon as we hit Mars and discover there is nothing there but rocks and water - We'll all die a little more inside. We'll go further...
Jupiter. Saturn. Uranus. Neptune. Pluto. X.
We'll get there eventually... And with each advancement... Our own mystery-less world will die a little more... None will stay upon it's boring surface... Heading out to pastures new... Boldly going where none have gone before...
But if you never come back, you've never really been anywhere... Terry Pratchett said that... I don't remember which book, I read them as a kid... With my Pops.
He always told me to never take anything at face value - There will always be secrets...
He died. And he revealed all of his in a catholic confession. I never forgave him for that...
But I'm gonna stick around...
I'll make new secrets. New fables about this world for those who DO stick around. New rumours, stories, folk tales... But then someone will screw it up with religion, heh...
...
I'll keep walking the scars of the land... And the disjointed veins and arteries of the delta hubbed heart...
Why?
Because they're there.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Offbeat and In bed.
Off day. I'm going to curl up in bed and wonder where the good times have gone.
All but one person I've been in contact with today has been in an off mood, including myself.
Is it just me? Did I drag a black cloud around behind me?
If we all sat around moaning, nothing would get done.
Thank you to that one special person.
Goodnight, and Godspeed.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Ontoroph.
The Ontoroph is a huge, stag like creature that inhabits dark areas, especially wooded sectors and areas with running water.
The Black Forest can be considered such a place where it may be found, as it is generally a european animal.
As cubs, they are around 6 feet in height, able to leap to double that in order to reach vegetation and to avoid hunters/escape natural pitfalls.
The adults, are around 12-16 feet in height, though females are generally smaller. Their complete jump height has never been truly defined, as their leg strength and supernatural agillity makes it impossible for people to even see them, let alone catch and/or tag them. Set, hidden cameras and rare human contact has lead to the evidence we provide here.
The antlers are a twisting mess that begin to grow in adolesence. Yet, they grow almost symetrically. As adults, they are gnarled and sharp, for combat and to attract a mate, like real Stags and other horned animals.
Many folk legends surround the Ontoroph. One says that they were the personal hunting prey of the Slavic Gods, until a breeding pair escaped into the wild underbrush where even the Gods were unable to follow.
Another says their blood was able to cure mortal wounds. Ground up Onto antlers were supposed to be able to make the living dead and gravely ill sleep once again.
Are we to believe that any truly exist today?
If we view the Transtly Tape: We see some ...Thing, move within the tangled trees of Sherbein Forest, a place where the beasts were said to be vibrant. It moves slowly, deliberately. We then view the lens upon the camera shake, and we hear a gutteral roar...
A predator for a mythical cryptozoological being?
It isn't uncommon... the Grana were huge worms that fed upon the Turkish Lamassu. The Roc of Native American legend were hunted by the Mist Wolves, the Noraa.
So, what we may see is a huge carnivorus entity, capable of digesting an entire Onto, horns and all.
I suggest a study of the area for any huge indicators. A cordon and a step by step search.
PAPER O: Dr. Cameron Maddy.
Request DENIED.
The Black Forest can be considered such a place where it may be found, as it is generally a european animal.
As cubs, they are around 6 feet in height, able to leap to double that in order to reach vegetation and to avoid hunters/escape natural pitfalls.
The adults, are around 12-16 feet in height, though females are generally smaller. Their complete jump height has never been truly defined, as their leg strength and supernatural agillity makes it impossible for people to even see them, let alone catch and/or tag them. Set, hidden cameras and rare human contact has lead to the evidence we provide here.
The antlers are a twisting mess that begin to grow in adolesence. Yet, they grow almost symetrically. As adults, they are gnarled and sharp, for combat and to attract a mate, like real Stags and other horned animals.
Many folk legends surround the Ontoroph. One says that they were the personal hunting prey of the Slavic Gods, until a breeding pair escaped into the wild underbrush where even the Gods were unable to follow.
Another says their blood was able to cure mortal wounds. Ground up Onto antlers were supposed to be able to make the living dead and gravely ill sleep once again.
Are we to believe that any truly exist today?
If we view the Transtly Tape: We see some ...Thing, move within the tangled trees of Sherbein Forest, a place where the beasts were said to be vibrant. It moves slowly, deliberately. We then view the lens upon the camera shake, and we hear a gutteral roar...
A predator for a mythical cryptozoological being?
It isn't uncommon... the Grana were huge worms that fed upon the Turkish Lamassu. The Roc of Native American legend were hunted by the Mist Wolves, the Noraa.
So, what we may see is a huge carnivorus entity, capable of digesting an entire Onto, horns and all.
I suggest a study of the area for any huge indicators. A cordon and a step by step search.
PAPER O: Dr. Cameron Maddy.
Request DENIED.
Thursday, 4 February 2010
From the Valley, My Son... They Come.
You never knew your grandfather, Thomas... He was a good man.
You've never mentioned him before, Dad...
I know, and for a good reason... But, you're old enough now to understand. He was a miner...
Everyone around here was... Even you.
Mhm. But he was around when it was a prosperous trade. None of this Thatcherite bollocks. Back when it was a man's trade! Real work! God's honest work! ...Not like today... No more real mining, none of the black stuff, or the ores...
He was the head of the boys, back then. Respected, well-liked, and a man of solutions. They all lived in the little estate near to the mines...
The abandoned one?
...Yes. Now it is. It used to be a happier place. Me and the rest of the kids of your gramp's generation used to play around it... Not like today's estates, where the kids keep the adults in their homes, and shank the people who go by...
Not everywhere is like that, Dad.
I know... But it's the image we see today. Just proves I need to stop thaking things as I see them...
What do you mean?
You'll find out... Anyway, we all used to play around there, and we all knew what went on with our dads... Well, one day, there was an accident. Tam... I mean, Mr. Harrison, as you know him-
My chemistry teacher?!
That's the one. Tam. His dad... He was caught in a cave in... They tried to pull him out, but the floor was weak below as well... It was a chain reaction, it went down for 3 floors... As they tried, when the rocks were falling, to stop him being injured... He was pulled apart, it was that violent a slide...
Jesus...
It was awful... They gave him a set of... Well, a fully false lower torso for the funeral. All the miners were buried up on the mountain - They boys dug the grave as well... All in the community.
Tam cried his eyes out for weeks... They were really close, his dad, that weekend was going to take him fishing... If he'd survived.
What does this have to do with grandad?
I... I'm getting to it.
Are you okay?
It's hard to recall... I haven't forgotten, but... It's a hard story.
Well, the safety men had to go in and see what needed to be done to make the mine safe again... It was a simple enough thing, all that was wrong was the gaping holes in the floor... It'd take a bit of time but, it was going to be alright all told...
The work began to unblock the tunnels... The mine was rich with coal. We couldn't afford to have it blocked off for long.
One night... There were noises. Long, deep, gutteral bellows... Like a huge beast, in pain... Or very, very angry.
Are you serious?
Deadly. No-one slept that night... And... When we woke up, Daisy was missing. She was Gary's sister.
Gary... Maxell?
Yes... She was a nice girl, loved walking in the woods, and looking at bugs... Well, as kids, that was boring, especially to boys... But she was nice...
How old were you all?
About 11... Daisy was 9.
What did you all do?
We couldn't do anything, us kids. Gary's dad, Marvin... He went on the rampage, started accusing people of taking her... He was like that, paranoid. He loved Daisy...
I guess I'd be like that...
But... Marvin LOVED Daisy.
...Oh.
Yes. We didn't find out until years later... Gary told me and Frank... He used to beat their mother as well. Paranoia.
After he was calmed down... We all searched. We kids searchd the places we thought she would be... Her normal places. The woodland paths, the pond, the playground... The safe places. She was a safe girl...
Did you-
No. No-one found her. The adults looked in the unsafe places... We found a scrap of nightdress at the main road... The main road was what linked up the estate and the town. A fairly long distance between. 30 minutes or so, at worst, by car. So, by foot, it would have taken hours to reach town. No-one would have gone by foot.
Then why was there a scrap by the side of the road?
Exactly. Everyone knew it wouldn't have made sense. If there was a car, it would have been at the bottom of the estate.
But she was a safe girl... She wouldn't have followed anyone she didn't know...
Then what happened?
Some nights later... Marvin said he heard her yelling outside, on the wind. She was yelling for Gary, and Ruby, their mother. I think it was harder for him to hear her NOT calling for him, rather than hearing her out there.
Anyway, we all heard her, us kids... Calling. She wanted to play...
What the hell?! Are you kidding?
...It kept happening... she was haunting us.
Revenant. That's what they called her. Like a ghost, but dangerous...
We didn't need to hear that our friend was like that. To us, she was just lost... Maybe she'd gone blind, and was lost. Scared...
They turned to my Dad. He'd help them out... He was as lost and scared as they were.
But he figured it out. The main road went past us as well... To the mine. That awful, fucking pit. We all made our way up there... It was a long way, and it lead to the Warren Gorge, a huge valley, all riddled with ventilation holes and other mine shafts. But the main shaft was like the mouth of a beast, scarred into the rock.
Dad...
We found more of her nightdress as we walked up the path to the track. We knew something had gone wrong...
We... We all heard the voices. More and more of them. We heard Lucy... And Tam's father. They were calling out to us... My father heard another man... He'd died in a blast when my dad was just starting out... Others heard men who'd just up and disappered... Nobody connected the dots... All died or vanished in the mine... There was a lot of blood in those rocks... Like a gullet. Fueling the fires...
With each man who'd died... It awoke something great and terrible... A beast, a demon who wanted more blood, more loss, more tragedy.
Are you-
We ran that night... But vowed to come back... One day, to kill it. To stop it forever.
...Did you?
No. We didn't go to it. It came to us.
What?
It was collossal. A huge, 4 legged beast. Hewn from rock and decaying flesh... It towered over the night skyline, under the moon. It was utterly titanic. It roared... the earth shook... We ran. It drew some of us in... Just from it's voice... the sounds of souls on the wind.
But...
We ran, son. We had no other choice.
Your grandfather never forgave himself for those who were lost to the beast... No-one dared to go back. We brought out the estates, just so no-one else would go into them, or develop them... No more loss. No more beast. It'd sleep forever...
He never forgave himself... One night... Dad vanished as well... But there was nothing on the wind...
We found a note later... He was going to seal the mine. Even if it was his last act on earth...
For all we knew... It was. There's nothing in that grave in the town, just the headstone...
So... What? Did he succeed?
We never went back to look.
But...
What?
I hear him sometimes... On the wind... He's trapped in there... The beast hasn't got him... I know it... He was too strong.
Dad... From what you've said...
He can't be dead... Well, I know he's... But not like that. He can't be...
He was a brave man, Dad.
Son... David... Never let anyone near that god-forsaken mine... It's too much for even God to handle...
I won't.
It comes out of the Valley... It'll come one day... I know it... I hear it on the wind... I hear them all crying... Crying...
You've never mentioned him before, Dad...
I know, and for a good reason... But, you're old enough now to understand. He was a miner...
Everyone around here was... Even you.
Mhm. But he was around when it was a prosperous trade. None of this Thatcherite bollocks. Back when it was a man's trade! Real work! God's honest work! ...Not like today... No more real mining, none of the black stuff, or the ores...
He was the head of the boys, back then. Respected, well-liked, and a man of solutions. They all lived in the little estate near to the mines...
The abandoned one?
...Yes. Now it is. It used to be a happier place. Me and the rest of the kids of your gramp's generation used to play around it... Not like today's estates, where the kids keep the adults in their homes, and shank the people who go by...
Not everywhere is like that, Dad.
I know... But it's the image we see today. Just proves I need to stop thaking things as I see them...
What do you mean?
You'll find out... Anyway, we all used to play around there, and we all knew what went on with our dads... Well, one day, there was an accident. Tam... I mean, Mr. Harrison, as you know him-
My chemistry teacher?!
That's the one. Tam. His dad... He was caught in a cave in... They tried to pull him out, but the floor was weak below as well... It was a chain reaction, it went down for 3 floors... As they tried, when the rocks were falling, to stop him being injured... He was pulled apart, it was that violent a slide...
Jesus...
It was awful... They gave him a set of... Well, a fully false lower torso for the funeral. All the miners were buried up on the mountain - They boys dug the grave as well... All in the community.
Tam cried his eyes out for weeks... They were really close, his dad, that weekend was going to take him fishing... If he'd survived.
What does this have to do with grandad?
I... I'm getting to it.
Are you okay?
It's hard to recall... I haven't forgotten, but... It's a hard story.
Well, the safety men had to go in and see what needed to be done to make the mine safe again... It was a simple enough thing, all that was wrong was the gaping holes in the floor... It'd take a bit of time but, it was going to be alright all told...
The work began to unblock the tunnels... The mine was rich with coal. We couldn't afford to have it blocked off for long.
One night... There were noises. Long, deep, gutteral bellows... Like a huge beast, in pain... Or very, very angry.
Are you serious?
Deadly. No-one slept that night... And... When we woke up, Daisy was missing. She was Gary's sister.
Gary... Maxell?
Yes... She was a nice girl, loved walking in the woods, and looking at bugs... Well, as kids, that was boring, especially to boys... But she was nice...
How old were you all?
About 11... Daisy was 9.
What did you all do?
We couldn't do anything, us kids. Gary's dad, Marvin... He went on the rampage, started accusing people of taking her... He was like that, paranoid. He loved Daisy...
I guess I'd be like that...
But... Marvin LOVED Daisy.
...Oh.
Yes. We didn't find out until years later... Gary told me and Frank... He used to beat their mother as well. Paranoia.
After he was calmed down... We all searched. We kids searchd the places we thought she would be... Her normal places. The woodland paths, the pond, the playground... The safe places. She was a safe girl...
Did you-
No. No-one found her. The adults looked in the unsafe places... We found a scrap of nightdress at the main road... The main road was what linked up the estate and the town. A fairly long distance between. 30 minutes or so, at worst, by car. So, by foot, it would have taken hours to reach town. No-one would have gone by foot.
Then why was there a scrap by the side of the road?
Exactly. Everyone knew it wouldn't have made sense. If there was a car, it would have been at the bottom of the estate.
But she was a safe girl... She wouldn't have followed anyone she didn't know...
Then what happened?
Some nights later... Marvin said he heard her yelling outside, on the wind. She was yelling for Gary, and Ruby, their mother. I think it was harder for him to hear her NOT calling for him, rather than hearing her out there.
Anyway, we all heard her, us kids... Calling. She wanted to play...
What the hell?! Are you kidding?
...It kept happening... she was haunting us.
Revenant. That's what they called her. Like a ghost, but dangerous...
We didn't need to hear that our friend was like that. To us, she was just lost... Maybe she'd gone blind, and was lost. Scared...
They turned to my Dad. He'd help them out... He was as lost and scared as they were.
But he figured it out. The main road went past us as well... To the mine. That awful, fucking pit. We all made our way up there... It was a long way, and it lead to the Warren Gorge, a huge valley, all riddled with ventilation holes and other mine shafts. But the main shaft was like the mouth of a beast, scarred into the rock.
Dad...
We found more of her nightdress as we walked up the path to the track. We knew something had gone wrong...
We... We all heard the voices. More and more of them. We heard Lucy... And Tam's father. They were calling out to us... My father heard another man... He'd died in a blast when my dad was just starting out... Others heard men who'd just up and disappered... Nobody connected the dots... All died or vanished in the mine... There was a lot of blood in those rocks... Like a gullet. Fueling the fires...
With each man who'd died... It awoke something great and terrible... A beast, a demon who wanted more blood, more loss, more tragedy.
Are you-
We ran that night... But vowed to come back... One day, to kill it. To stop it forever.
...Did you?
No. We didn't go to it. It came to us.
What?
It was collossal. A huge, 4 legged beast. Hewn from rock and decaying flesh... It towered over the night skyline, under the moon. It was utterly titanic. It roared... the earth shook... We ran. It drew some of us in... Just from it's voice... the sounds of souls on the wind.
But...
We ran, son. We had no other choice.
Your grandfather never forgave himself for those who were lost to the beast... No-one dared to go back. We brought out the estates, just so no-one else would go into them, or develop them... No more loss. No more beast. It'd sleep forever...
He never forgave himself... One night... Dad vanished as well... But there was nothing on the wind...
We found a note later... He was going to seal the mine. Even if it was his last act on earth...
For all we knew... It was. There's nothing in that grave in the town, just the headstone...
So... What? Did he succeed?
We never went back to look.
But...
What?
I hear him sometimes... On the wind... He's trapped in there... The beast hasn't got him... I know it... He was too strong.
Dad... From what you've said...
He can't be dead... Well, I know he's... But not like that. He can't be...
He was a brave man, Dad.
Son... David... Never let anyone near that god-forsaken mine... It's too much for even God to handle...
I won't.
It comes out of the Valley... It'll come one day... I know it... I hear it on the wind... I hear them all crying... Crying...
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
If Looks Could Kill...
I'd be strung up to the lamp post behind the charity worker by my intestines.
The Witnesses would set me on fire.
Every Big Issue seller would have me explode for no reason the police would be able to find.
That twat who gives me a look for sitting at the back of the bus would have me beheaded by a tree.
And the surly waitress would crush my head between her fingers, as if no-one would notice.
But, adversely...
The charity worker would be choking on his UNICEF or Greenpeace pamphlets as I stomp on his head.
The Witnesses would be burning for using a little kid to try and stagger people into listening to them.
The Big Issue seller would explode into cancerous cells.
The twat on the bus wouldn't survive the trip.
And the surly waitress doesn't notice me flicking her head until the neck breaks and she falls like a sack of King Edwards.
Why am I sounding so socio/psycho?
It's an odd turn of phrase... Never thought about it before...
What would you do, if your look could really kill?
Me?
1 person would die. That one guy who I hate with a passion.
Then I'd go blind.
An eye for an eye.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Messages from myself to me in the future.
I've often written messages to myself in the future. I have no idea when I really started doing it, but I end up writing stuff for myself either so I don't forget something important, or to not lose anything.
In the past, I've said things like:
"Never forget Kingdom Hearts or Love Hina!"
That was in my yearbook, right at the back. I'd gotten heavily into both of those during my school years. Love Hina came along just at the time I was beginning to consider women as companions and lover rather than just something that has longer hair. I remember picking up the first volume in Ottakars, as it was then, during my work experience period at Thorntons. I bought it and tried to get my head around the printing, and panel layout.
It started my love affair with Manga.
"I want to learn what must be known!"
Schwarzwald. The black forest. Also the name for an antagonist in "The Big O". The man was an enigma, talking about wanting to seek knowledge and uncover secrets - the truth that must be known. That appealed to me on a deep and dark level. It could have been what made me such a deep thinker, or what made me look at people and see them for what they are - Greasy slabs of meat that somehow are sentient enough to consider their condition. That phase passed. I grew to like those slabs. Love some of them like brothers. And some as lovers.
I knew what the soul was. That's what was missing before. I could never consider the soul of the person to be important. I was all too logical, except when it came to acting and drama.
"Voyeuristic Intention"
A simple phrase from "The Time Warp". Everyone I knew at the time of writing liked the Time Warp, and Rocky Horror. Hell, I was considering dressing as Frankenfurter for a costume contest... Silly youth.
It's an odd set of words. The intention to look at people without them knowing. "He peeped in on her nude body with voyeuristic intention". It's a dark set of words, or even comedic at some times. It added to my love of the written word.
Why am I writing all of this?
I often think about what I'd say to myself if I could go back in time at any time. Just on a whim. Good prospect for a script, huh? I keep thinking about the premise, and all that occurs is:
"This guy can go back in time and advise his younger self on how to get happy, but he keeps making things worse."
Or words to that effect.
Would it really make things worse to see how your life turned out? I mean, you could see that the path you were on with anything leads anywhere...
But then, what's the fun in knowing where you're going? It loses substance, becoming a predetermined event.
Or... You get cocky and complacent about it. Never really working because you know what'll happen, and everything will work out okay.
No.
Never going to happen.
Nothing is set in stone.
The future changes with each movement we make. A slip here could lead to fame and fortune, as well as pain and anguish.
So... What do you do?
Put in another way. Leave a massage to you in the future. Let them know how things were, for better or worse. How they used to be.
That's why I save conversations that mean anything to me. A lot of them now...
So I can see into the past without the haze of memory and age.
Sure, I still forget things. But I know a lot as well.
And this is what I know right now:
"I trust myself too little. I'm working on that for myself and other people. I don't want to be lonely all of my life."
If Future Me (FM) gets this, he'll get his ass into gear and get over himself.
"You have the love of many different people. I believe in what they say about me. No-one is out to get you."
"Luck is part Opportunity, part Preparation, and a whole lot of Confidence."
"You once said you wanted to be like some people - Bonnet, Kaufman, Billington, Smith, Kinniku. Are you like any of them yet?"
Always good to throw in a question like that. Keeps me on my toes, or it will do.
Lastly:
"Never give up on yourself. You get bored, then depressed, then paranoid that way. Go out and breathe in deep. Look at the people and know that no man is your enemy. You are your own master."
Covers the bases.
To the few readers that I may have, and some that I know:
"Everything I do is in the name of a higher power I keep within myself. It may change it's name occasionally - Temperance, Love, Compassion, Wisdom - But it's all me. Thank you for being with me along the way."
...Jeez. Me of 5 seconds ago sure was melodramatic. That looks like a suicide note!
Guess it's up to me of 5 second from now to make it better:
"Thank you. I love you all."
There. That sums it up nicely.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Crap Flares.
Dena... What are you wearing?
What's wrong with this?
Well... It's a 70's party.
Yeah! I'm looking forward to it!
No... Well, lets go from top to bottom.
What do you mean?!
Well... The "Afro".
What's wrong with it?
I can see how you've tried to form it... Since your hair doesn't tend to curl, you were thinking you could make one out of a block of sponge.
Yeah! It worked!
Well, the shape is accurate... But it's the rest of it.
How so?
Well, you didn't have a block of sponge did you?
No... Just-
-Just kitchen and bathroom sponges. I can see how you tried to make a pick out of loofahs. I'll admit, that's creative.
Right?! It's pretty awesome.
Mhm... But it's all wrong. You didn't even try to spraypaint it one colour. Blue, green and yellow.
The can of paint was off... I was thinking it could be a rainbow afro.
...Right.
What else is wrong?
Well, the boobtube.
Yes?
It's meant to be fabric. Not plastic. Even if you wanted plastic, that's the late 70's, not disco era...
Semantics, semantics.
I mean, aren't you uncomfortable?
A bit. I thought that was the style.
...Beyond tights, boob curtains and afgan scarfs... you know dick about fashion, don't you?
Not really. But At least I tried...
Are you okay?
No... Up until now, I was coping with the flares.
...I'll call an ambulance.
What's wrong with this?
Well... It's a 70's party.
Yeah! I'm looking forward to it!
No... Well, lets go from top to bottom.
What do you mean?!
Well... The "Afro".
What's wrong with it?
I can see how you've tried to form it... Since your hair doesn't tend to curl, you were thinking you could make one out of a block of sponge.
Yeah! It worked!
Well, the shape is accurate... But it's the rest of it.
How so?
Well, you didn't have a block of sponge did you?
No... Just-
-Just kitchen and bathroom sponges. I can see how you tried to make a pick out of loofahs. I'll admit, that's creative.
Right?! It's pretty awesome.
Mhm... But it's all wrong. You didn't even try to spraypaint it one colour. Blue, green and yellow.
The can of paint was off... I was thinking it could be a rainbow afro.
...Right.
What else is wrong?
Well, the boobtube.
Yes?
It's meant to be fabric. Not plastic. Even if you wanted plastic, that's the late 70's, not disco era...
Semantics, semantics.
I mean, aren't you uncomfortable?
A bit. I thought that was the style.
...Beyond tights, boob curtains and afgan scarfs... you know dick about fashion, don't you?
Not really. But At least I tried...
Are you okay?
No... Up until now, I was coping with the flares.
...I'll call an ambulance.
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Gordon Knows Some Creepy Shit.
Gordon... What's it like to suck a dick?
Hm... Well... Wait, hang on, why do you ask?
I just don't know, and I know you're gay and all...
Thanks for being so ...Mature. Tactful.
Look, I'm never going to do it, so I just wondered.
Alright... Well, it's like... Eating a pork pie.
...You don't... Chew, do you?
Are you fucking high, Terry?
You said eating! And PIE! The only part of that that even sounds sexual is pork.
No, you don't chew. That's dismemberment. And gross. I mean you have a mouthful of meat and skin. It gets wet, and hot. And you eventually have to chose wether you like it or not - Spit or Swallow.
Is that it? Just the feeling? there's no emotional connection?
Of course there is... If it's with a person you love. If it's just some guy, you're choking on cock for a quick fix.
Ah... I knew if I asked, I wouldn't be able to understand it.
Then why make us both uncomfortable by asking, if you knew that asking would leave you just as clueless as before?!
I just wondered.
Tch...
...Wouldn't it more be like trying to eat a chip shop sausage?
Only the black ones, bro. Only the black ones.
Hm... Well... Wait, hang on, why do you ask?
I just don't know, and I know you're gay and all...
Thanks for being so ...Mature. Tactful.
Look, I'm never going to do it, so I just wondered.
Alright... Well, it's like... Eating a pork pie.
...You don't... Chew, do you?
Are you fucking high, Terry?
You said eating! And PIE! The only part of that that even sounds sexual is pork.
No, you don't chew. That's dismemberment. And gross. I mean you have a mouthful of meat and skin. It gets wet, and hot. And you eventually have to chose wether you like it or not - Spit or Swallow.
Is that it? Just the feeling? there's no emotional connection?
Of course there is... If it's with a person you love. If it's just some guy, you're choking on cock for a quick fix.
Ah... I knew if I asked, I wouldn't be able to understand it.
Then why make us both uncomfortable by asking, if you knew that asking would leave you just as clueless as before?!
I just wondered.
Tch...
...Wouldn't it more be like trying to eat a chip shop sausage?
Only the black ones, bro. Only the black ones.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Life.
Life is a string of connected, mundane and very much annoying incidents.
There's no denying it.
But we keep going. Be it for a spiritual or biological reason. Hell, I'd even say there are some esoteric and possibly paranormal reasons why we get up in the morning with the amount of shit we end up dealing with in life.
I don't often quote from the bible, but there once was a man called Job. He was a faithful worshipper of God, and was incredibly happy with his life. Bear in mind this is the Old Testament, so something bad was bound to happen to him sooner or later. God tested Job's faith by raining tragedy, after tragedy, disaster after disaster, down upon him. Job lost his home, family (And from what I remember offhand, there were a lot of people in that family. Job was a "Bizzay" man.), and his life to the tests from God Almighty.
He never gave up. And God rewarded him for it. He went through the pain, suffering and sorrow, believing absolutely in God and his mercy, stating the equivilent of "God has a plan."
Is this why we never give up? Our faith in the unseen forces?
I say not. Don't get me wrong, I'm not an Atheist, all power to you if you belive or don't believe. I'm an agnostic. Covering the bases. Not really satisfied with believing in anything until I see what'a there for myself. If I were to die, and be stood at the pearly gates - I'd be severely impressed, give ol' St. Pete a nod and go wherever he sends me.
It's all too easy to be swept away with life, as if it were some demented, never-ending rapid river. We try to keep up with the flow, taking control of the pace so we can get along fine.
I say, go with that flow. Concentrate on keeping yourself on the surface, not with exhausting yourself in the current, getting sucked under for trying.
Anyway, to get back to the subject. these disaster often happen around each other - Negativity breeds negativity, opens us up to every minor annoyance, and magnified into a grand scale attack against our fibre. We break under the strain more often than not.
Once you're down, it takes such a long time to get back up. All the energy is gone from your body, you just want to hide away from the world and all of the trouble it could bring you. You want to be safe.
You can do that, sure.
But not forever.
You could even be one of these people who seeks physical pain to cope with the pressures of life. And I can say - All power to you. It's your body.
Your body, your choice. [EDIT - I was being hypocritical to try and condemn self-harm or physical release and then say "Your body, your choice".]
And sure, giving in to emotions and/or hurting yourself may be a quick fix, but it's just that: a quick fix. those boughs will break again soon enough, moreso due to how badly you get back together. And down will come rock-a-by, baby and all.
So, what do you do?
Get up.
Simple as. I've advocated this to many people in the past, and it's never done me wrong.
Get up and walk.
You'll never get anywhere sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, take time out, sit a spell, analyse what made you so sad, angry or depressed. But you have to be strong.
Be strong. Pervererant. Temperant.
Get up and face the problems you have head on. You have to deal with problems before they grow, breeding secrets and lies.
It may seem dark now.
Very dark.
But beyond the darkness is a subtler shade of black, or white, or grey.
Things are going to get better. And you knows things may get worse.
You need to get up and walk through it. Deal with it the way you know how. If the path is broken before you - Jump, or go around again. If there is a wall in front of you - Break it down, with your own hands.
You need to wake up, get up, and go!
Go and live the life you want! Wherever, whatever, whoever, however you want it to be.
Take the reins by letting it all go. Go with the flow until you find your way.
Your human way.
There's no denying it.
But we keep going. Be it for a spiritual or biological reason. Hell, I'd even say there are some esoteric and possibly paranormal reasons why we get up in the morning with the amount of shit we end up dealing with in life.
I don't often quote from the bible, but there once was a man called Job. He was a faithful worshipper of God, and was incredibly happy with his life. Bear in mind this is the Old Testament, so something bad was bound to happen to him sooner or later. God tested Job's faith by raining tragedy, after tragedy, disaster after disaster, down upon him. Job lost his home, family (And from what I remember offhand, there were a lot of people in that family. Job was a "Bizzay" man.), and his life to the tests from God Almighty.
He never gave up. And God rewarded him for it. He went through the pain, suffering and sorrow, believing absolutely in God and his mercy, stating the equivilent of "God has a plan."
Is this why we never give up? Our faith in the unseen forces?
I say not. Don't get me wrong, I'm not an Atheist, all power to you if you belive or don't believe. I'm an agnostic. Covering the bases. Not really satisfied with believing in anything until I see what'a there for myself. If I were to die, and be stood at the pearly gates - I'd be severely impressed, give ol' St. Pete a nod and go wherever he sends me.
It's all too easy to be swept away with life, as if it were some demented, never-ending rapid river. We try to keep up with the flow, taking control of the pace so we can get along fine.
I say, go with that flow. Concentrate on keeping yourself on the surface, not with exhausting yourself in the current, getting sucked under for trying.
Anyway, to get back to the subject. these disaster often happen around each other - Negativity breeds negativity, opens us up to every minor annoyance, and magnified into a grand scale attack against our fibre. We break under the strain more often than not.
Once you're down, it takes such a long time to get back up. All the energy is gone from your body, you just want to hide away from the world and all of the trouble it could bring you. You want to be safe.
You can do that, sure.
But not forever.
You could even be one of these people who seeks physical pain to cope with the pressures of life. And I can say - All power to you. It's your body.
Your body, your choice. [EDIT - I was being hypocritical to try and condemn self-harm or physical release and then say "Your body, your choice".]
And sure, giving in to emotions and/or hurting yourself may be a quick fix, but it's just that: a quick fix. those boughs will break again soon enough, moreso due to how badly you get back together. And down will come rock-a-by, baby and all.
So, what do you do?
Get up.
Simple as. I've advocated this to many people in the past, and it's never done me wrong.
Get up and walk.
You'll never get anywhere sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, take time out, sit a spell, analyse what made you so sad, angry or depressed. But you have to be strong.
Be strong. Pervererant. Temperant.
Get up and face the problems you have head on. You have to deal with problems before they grow, breeding secrets and lies.
It may seem dark now.
Very dark.
But beyond the darkness is a subtler shade of black, or white, or grey.
Things are going to get better. And you knows things may get worse.
You need to get up and walk through it. Deal with it the way you know how. If the path is broken before you - Jump, or go around again. If there is a wall in front of you - Break it down, with your own hands.
You need to wake up, get up, and go!
Go and live the life you want! Wherever, whatever, whoever, however you want it to be.
Take the reins by letting it all go. Go with the flow until you find your way.
Your human way.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Sunday, 24 January 2010
The Signal Mankind Was Looking For.
3 weeks ago... the sky was lit up with fire.
There was no warning, no reason or rhyme. The night's sky was awash with flames of all spectral colours. Red, orange, white, blue, green, black. All of the colours we could and couldn't imagine were in our eyes, looking up into the now locked off abyss of space. No-one took note of the new things we saw... We were too busy running and acting out of fear.
Me? I hid. I hid deep. Down in the sewers. a few of us did. There were five of us. In the cool darkness of the now dry sewers. We'd know if it was safe... The water would flow again...
It didn't. We were scared... We got to thinking. What if the fires had taken away all the water? What if we were slowly dying?
We had to go and see.
We looked out of the grates... Nothing. the world above was silent. No cars, no birds, no anything.
As we tried to leave our new home... We felt the heat... Some of us collapsed at the new sensation. This wasn't like anything we'd felt before... We could maybe consider this type of heat in the Sahara, or on Venus... We ran back inside... Trapped.
We couldn't leave... And our food was almost gone.
All of what I've said was a week after the solar flarestorm. That's what they call it now...
Benny, a man from up the road where I lived... He couldn't take it. He'd come down but... At the prospect of being entombed, he made a break for it.
In the light of the day, we saw him wither and burn. My sister, Dorothy, was never the same after seeing that. She feared leaving... And we were all hungry.
The fights began. Some of us wanted to go to the seaside sewer pipes, see if the ocean was gone. We knew it wouldn't be safe to touch, but just to see if we were the last in this brave, dry world.
The others? They wanted... Something else. Something darker. Myself, Dotty and Marcus. We ran from them.
We hid on the other side of town, in the back of town, the new town. It was cooler still there...
Much cooler.
We found another group who'd had the same idea as us. It was cool enough there to at least walk the streets, even for a minute or two.
But they didn't.
They'd... Seen someone walking the streets.
Something.
Sam, their leader, told me about it. They were on a food run, a local shop right on the corner, next to a sewer line. They went into the shop, got what they needed. What amazed me, first off, is that the national grid was seemingly still running - he talked about the fridges and freezers being on. Imagine, there was electricity up there. News, radio. None of it down with us.
Cut off...
Anyway, as they left - this was about 500 yards away. They saw it. a humanoid shape, bathed in fire and ash. Walking the roads. It saw them. It tried to run to them, but... They were quicker. The thing ran with an awkward gait, as if not used to it's own body. It was yelling a deep, gutteral yell, that enough would have frightened them, but... The whole package was something more.
We lived together. We worked hard to scrape something together. We had to take back the surface.
We managed to make it to a sewer access station, a maintainence byway. It had a small fridge, and outside was... a dry riverbed. Doesn't seem like much, but... It was enough to make me finally realise that there was no going back.
We scraped together as much technology as we could. We made "Cold suits" - reinforcement against the heat. Gunpowder was useless, we realised, even if we'd have found some. So we had to improvise, yet again. Like the cavemen, we made spears. Good spears, too. But not so effective in hindsight.
Myself and Marcus tested the coldsuits. They were great. Felt like a summer's day. Hot, but not explosively so.
It was quiet... Dead quiet. Except...
Huge, monolithic structures stood on the land. Easy enough to see without vegetation to hide them. We didn't know why we couldn't see them before.
Turns out... They were new. Brand new.
They were the prototype thermal towers, the first ones. Not so different than those we know today. Just... Fuller.
We investigated the towers. They were too hot to touch, and seemingly denser than any ore of metal we'd ever seen before.
Marcus made the mistake. He threw something at it. A rock, something small. It sounded off against it with a dull thud... And something moved inside.
They were bigger than Sam had described. Almost 2 feet taller tan us. They didn't attack, or even do anything. They woke up, fell from the towers and stood around us.
"Survivors." One said. "We've been waiting.".
The voices echoed in our heads... Telepathy. A new way to communicate.
A firey body to resist temperature extremes.
Huge statures.
Humanity had ascended. We'd had been left behind.
As they told us... I still can't believe it.
We managed to co-exist. Their technology and our... well, we had nothing, but they wanted to see humanity live again, as it was. they helped us, and we're grateful.
There was no warning, no reason or rhyme. The night's sky was awash with flames of all spectral colours. Red, orange, white, blue, green, black. All of the colours we could and couldn't imagine were in our eyes, looking up into the now locked off abyss of space. No-one took note of the new things we saw... We were too busy running and acting out of fear.
Me? I hid. I hid deep. Down in the sewers. a few of us did. There were five of us. In the cool darkness of the now dry sewers. We'd know if it was safe... The water would flow again...
It didn't. We were scared... We got to thinking. What if the fires had taken away all the water? What if we were slowly dying?
We had to go and see.
We looked out of the grates... Nothing. the world above was silent. No cars, no birds, no anything.
As we tried to leave our new home... We felt the heat... Some of us collapsed at the new sensation. This wasn't like anything we'd felt before... We could maybe consider this type of heat in the Sahara, or on Venus... We ran back inside... Trapped.
We couldn't leave... And our food was almost gone.
All of what I've said was a week after the solar flarestorm. That's what they call it now...
Benny, a man from up the road where I lived... He couldn't take it. He'd come down but... At the prospect of being entombed, he made a break for it.
In the light of the day, we saw him wither and burn. My sister, Dorothy, was never the same after seeing that. She feared leaving... And we were all hungry.
The fights began. Some of us wanted to go to the seaside sewer pipes, see if the ocean was gone. We knew it wouldn't be safe to touch, but just to see if we were the last in this brave, dry world.
The others? They wanted... Something else. Something darker. Myself, Dotty and Marcus. We ran from them.
We hid on the other side of town, in the back of town, the new town. It was cooler still there...
Much cooler.
We found another group who'd had the same idea as us. It was cool enough there to at least walk the streets, even for a minute or two.
But they didn't.
They'd... Seen someone walking the streets.
Something.
Sam, their leader, told me about it. They were on a food run, a local shop right on the corner, next to a sewer line. They went into the shop, got what they needed. What amazed me, first off, is that the national grid was seemingly still running - he talked about the fridges and freezers being on. Imagine, there was electricity up there. News, radio. None of it down with us.
Cut off...
Anyway, as they left - this was about 500 yards away. They saw it. a humanoid shape, bathed in fire and ash. Walking the roads. It saw them. It tried to run to them, but... They were quicker. The thing ran with an awkward gait, as if not used to it's own body. It was yelling a deep, gutteral yell, that enough would have frightened them, but... The whole package was something more.
We lived together. We worked hard to scrape something together. We had to take back the surface.
We managed to make it to a sewer access station, a maintainence byway. It had a small fridge, and outside was... a dry riverbed. Doesn't seem like much, but... It was enough to make me finally realise that there was no going back.
We scraped together as much technology as we could. We made "Cold suits" - reinforcement against the heat. Gunpowder was useless, we realised, even if we'd have found some. So we had to improvise, yet again. Like the cavemen, we made spears. Good spears, too. But not so effective in hindsight.
Myself and Marcus tested the coldsuits. They were great. Felt like a summer's day. Hot, but not explosively so.
It was quiet... Dead quiet. Except...
Huge, monolithic structures stood on the land. Easy enough to see without vegetation to hide them. We didn't know why we couldn't see them before.
Turns out... They were new. Brand new.
They were the prototype thermal towers, the first ones. Not so different than those we know today. Just... Fuller.
We investigated the towers. They were too hot to touch, and seemingly denser than any ore of metal we'd ever seen before.
Marcus made the mistake. He threw something at it. A rock, something small. It sounded off against it with a dull thud... And something moved inside.
They were bigger than Sam had described. Almost 2 feet taller tan us. They didn't attack, or even do anything. They woke up, fell from the towers and stood around us.
"Survivors." One said. "We've been waiting.".
The voices echoed in our heads... Telepathy. A new way to communicate.
A firey body to resist temperature extremes.
Huge statures.
Humanity had ascended. We'd had been left behind.
As they told us... I still can't believe it.
We managed to co-exist. Their technology and our... well, we had nothing, but they wanted to see humanity live again, as it was. they helped us, and we're grateful.
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
I Love the Nightlife...
*TAK!*
Hmph. Same old slabs...
*TAK!*
Nothing ever changes...
*TAK!*
Except... The smell...
I've never been fond of this little town... People call it a city... But everything looks the same to me. Same bricks, same buildings, same streets, same old people... It never changes, the harsh light of day tends to shadow us all into an obscure mess of tone, in voice and skin.
"It's this fucking government"...
"Economic downturn..."
"Can't blame the tax-payer for this one..."
Everyone complains about the same things... As people did years ago. I've been walking these streets too long, you see. Yes, I know you can hear me - I don't care how... It's been a while since I've had such a captive audience.
Yes, I've been around for a while. I wasn't always here... In fact, when I was young, I did everything I could to get away from here... but what is it they say? "You've never been anywhere unless you have somewhere to go back to...", or something like that, read it in a book once.
It's quite rare for me to even get close to a book nowadays. Everything's digital. And my eyes are so full of sand and dirt, I can barely see. That's why I stick to where I know... I don't have to open my eyes... Then again, neither does anyone else.
Mind if I sit a spell? Well, it's all well and good me asking... You don't have a choice whether I sit or stand... Seemed polite to ask though...
Tell me... Who are you?
...Agnes.
Agnes. Lovely name. Your parents were traditionalists, no?
No. they were practical jokers.
...And I see their sense of humour was passed on to you... But sarcasm isn't that funny to a lot of people.
Seems as if you like it.
I'm not a lot of people. Who sent you to follow me? I've known you were there since Westbridge Way...
I can't tell you.
Hm... Then what CAN you tell me, Agnes?
I wasn't following you from Westbridge.
Really? I could hear the river...
West bridge Way hasn't existed for 83 years... After it collapsed.
Oh yes... What do they call it now?
Fairbanks.
Oh, yes... Since that's all that's there now... Too long ago... It was a nice bridge as well, I really should have remembered that the bridge was out long ago... I had to walk around it so many times...
How long have you been around exactly?
Hm... What year is it?
2014.
Then... I'm not too sure. I made a note of it in 2000... But I lost the note, you see...
I do. Why haven't you washed the dirt from your eyes? You've walked by the river, surely you've-
I can't.
...Why?
It's a long story...
I have the time. It's your time as well.
...True. Well... I made it across the water in my younger years... In the time of kings... To Romania. True Romania. As it was and should be. I stopped a while in the court of the Gypsy King, rightful and active ruler of Romany folk... And I fell in love.
With his daughter?
No. His son. Vori. He was... Beautiful... Fairer than any maiden I'd seen before I caught a glimpse of him... I saw him from the streets, looking from his window... He seemed so sad... That is how I came to be his vassal. I promised his mother and father I could cheer the boy up...
Did you?
Listen. The hearts of man are fragile, I say. I can hear it in your voice, you're cold to the air. So distant from the world. You're smarter than the rest, to disconnect from it all. Needless to say, yes. I did bring joy to the Prince... We used to walk the endless paths of the kingdom, talking about everything and nothing... In time, he grew to think of me as a brother.
But not a lover.
Exactly. The time came where I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. I told him of my desire... He was flattered, but...
I get it. Very modern values for so long ago.
The King didn't share those sentiments. He cast me out, proclaimed me to be a demon, come to tempt the next of his line into Hell... And so... One of the few times in my life, I had to run.
Run?
I ran. The Prince tried to follow... But he was just as damned as I was... Buried alive. From what I hear... I didn't stop until...
...Until?
I'm sorry... It hurts to remember... Can you answer me this?
What?
I know who you work for... Or at least, I can guess out of the 4 people or persons who would want me... Why are you in their employ?
...I have... Power. I wanted to be in control.
And are you?
Yes. I can fully control my powers now.
...I don't think you are...
What?
You may be in control of yourself, your corporeal body... But are you in control of your spirit? Your soul?
...
I thought not. You're a tool of another man. Be it Callaway, Jakobs, The Bearers of Adfter, or Mr. Sion's latest incarnation of the Temple Guard.
...You're good, old one.
Please. I'm calling you Agnes. Call me Friar.
...Friar. Why don't you touch water?
Oh yes... I was cursed, child.
Cursed? By whom?
I stopped running... Blind from blood and tears. I was in the middle of a Gypsy camp. Luckily, Rivals to the King and his bands... I was looked after, taught secrets and lies that would help me. I was quite the trickster. I could animate the inanimate at one point... the highest peak of their trickery... But they wanted me to lead them against the King... I could run... Run like none they had seen...
I see...
The same reason your controller has sent you to get me... He must think a lot of you...
...I-
I lead them into battle, of course. I couldn't say no. It was a massacre. Have you ever seen a legion of statues walk on the gates of a fortress? It's a real sight to behold... We raced up to the court of the royals... And there he was. The king. In battle with statues of his own family... The queen caught him in the guts with a broken rod of rule... and the Prince's statue... Broken, now repaired, beheaded his father...
So...
So. I was told to teach my gift to the NEW King. I refused, not knowing how, even to this day... They cursed me for my pride... I had no idea how it would manifest... Until I tried to cross the ocean... The storms... They kept me on the continent... so I explored every inch of Europe... And Africa... And Russia... Asia... But I had to come home...
Here?
Yes... The further away I got, the longer and harder the urge was to come home...
How did you get back?
Encased in Iron. I was forged into a block by a good friend of mine... He got me back home...
Why did you come back?
It's odd... At night, everything changes... The people, buildings, places... All so much more sinister, unique and filled with life... Some of which even you cannot see...
Why are you here?
Always walking... searching for the urge.
The urge?
The power... Deep, deeper than any of us can imagine... It lies below the city... Deeper and deeper each day... Hiding from the light, the darkness comes and goes with the rays above... The eye of heaven closes and the eye of the witch gives them passage to roam...
What?!
I lost my eyes to them years past... Too long ago... Iron kept me safe... the water tries to get me every day, it comes to me... So dry... thirsty... It'll kill me one day... Not now...
W-where are you going?
I have to keep moving... I pose no threat... Tell that to your masters, Agnes... I'm on old man... No shape to walk, but we have to... We all do.
Who is "we"?!
The Cursed...
Monday, 18 January 2010
Henburg Six. Six of Six.
THOMAS TUNNEY
I have just ended my meeting with Thomas. He refused me the liberty of recording our conversation, but in exchange he told me everything.
We were looking in the wrong place.
Louis Rand Patterson. He was a 37 year old office clerk for some no-name company.
He was the big boss.
No powers. No master plan. Just an idea.
Ideas. Plural.
He found a way to gather these unknown people together and soup them up to green-level.
Police reports. That no-name company dealt in patents and insurance, and went through the police reports of those they got in, but also had open access to all reports. That's insane, and I've found a reason to go to town, to the governor over it.
Patterson used the reports to find those with latent abillities, and recruited them, by hook or crook in one way or another...
Why?
Tunney aka Amox - Able to generate "Chaos waves" that disrupt the structure of focused intems and entities - Told me:
I quote:
"He was bitter. Something happened. The rest is history."
Later, he remarked.
"He had company counselling, can you believe the crap they put you through in corporate America?"
I contacted the company to find out about it, and they told me he was no longer with the company.
Or any company, for that matter.
As it was alluded to, he was dead.
He died in the hour of the breaking of the Barrel.
It was a huge distraction.
I found that the counselling had come from an incident six months prior to his death. He was suicidal, on all kinds of medication, but he stopped taking them. He tried to throw himself off of the roof.
Flashdancer, the pulsar woman... she saved him. Just passing by. Stood him back on the ground level, patted him on the head and flew off to Borneo to help against the Coral Giants... Big news...
Not to Louis though. As soon as she left, he had a full psychotic episode, tried to injure himself until the public stepped in.
He was arrested, fired, sectioned, and worse... All because he tried to end it all.
He held a grudge, played good little inmate and got released. He'd had the idea. And he maxxed out a lot of cards to see it happen.
All because of one, selfless do-gooder.
Don't get me wrong... I don't like the heroes either... For other reasons...
Anyway, he jumped off of the same building. He succeeded this time...
...
It's sad. But, I don't pity him.
He's going to go down in history. In world history.
First man to beat the heroes.
...Who'll be the second?
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Henburg Six. Five of Six.
HENRY JOEL WILKES
Henry sits behind the plexi-glass nervously. Without the suit, he's nothing special. The neural pathways and connecters make him stick out like a sore thumb. The shiner on his right eyes only makes his new found physical condition worse.
He's the only one who has managed to make it into general circulation, both on my reccomendation, and on the reccomendation of Deadlock, chief warden. It's more trouble than it's worth having a non-powered man in the bottom. After some unpleasentness with the more deviant members of the blacklist, Deadlock agreed.
"How did you get that black eye, Henry?"
"Some dick calling himself White Streak... Junkie fuck."
"Ah yes... Michael... I'm sorry."
"Not your fault... Ah, just hurts like hell..."
"Mind if I ask you a few questions about the suit?"
"Go."
"How did you get such advanced technology? I know Skymaster helped put it together..."
"He wishes."
"Sorry?"
"Sure, he HELPED. But it sounds like the guy is taking full credit... Right?"
"Yes."
"Wrong. All he did was find ME the right parts. I did the rest..."
"The bionic circuitry?"
"Yeah... I've had it all my life... Ever see the Invisible Man? Where he uses greasepaint or bandages to SEEM normal?"
"I see. So you were disguised for years..."
"They were crude, scarred lines before I got to studying real circuitry. They developed as I grew to understand them... and I had a little help..."
"How?"
"I... Shaped them. Myself. Wooden spoon, a scalpel and a lot of towels... It healed up pretty good."
"Ah... I see."
"And he helped me too."
"Skymaster?"
"No... The big man. The head honcho."
"Oh... Who was he?"
"I have a good tolerance for pain..."
"Sorry?"
"So when he tried to put me under... I managed to see his face."
"Could you describe it for us?"
"Quid Pro Quo. I want out of The Barrel. I want to be in Coffwood Max."
"If your information is accurate, I'll put in a good word. You seem sane enough, if you pardon my crude manner of speaking..."
"Pardoned."
He described the boss to me. He's a meek looking, middle aged man. Looked tired, or weary in some lights... We got all of the details.
As I went to leave, I forgot to pick up my phone. Henry pointed it out to me... When I got back to it... It's settings were changed, it's programming itself compromised...
Even if this information is accurate... Henry is too dangerous to be anywhere but The Barrel.
I must put across steps to counter this developed technopathy.
Henry sits behind the plexi-glass nervously. Without the suit, he's nothing special. The neural pathways and connecters make him stick out like a sore thumb. The shiner on his right eyes only makes his new found physical condition worse.
He's the only one who has managed to make it into general circulation, both on my reccomendation, and on the reccomendation of Deadlock, chief warden. It's more trouble than it's worth having a non-powered man in the bottom. After some unpleasentness with the more deviant members of the blacklist, Deadlock agreed.
"How did you get that black eye, Henry?"
"Some dick calling himself White Streak... Junkie fuck."
"Ah yes... Michael... I'm sorry."
"Not your fault... Ah, just hurts like hell..."
"Mind if I ask you a few questions about the suit?"
"Go."
"How did you get such advanced technology? I know Skymaster helped put it together..."
"He wishes."
"Sorry?"
"Sure, he HELPED. But it sounds like the guy is taking full credit... Right?"
"Yes."
"Wrong. All he did was find ME the right parts. I did the rest..."
"The bionic circuitry?"
"Yeah... I've had it all my life... Ever see the Invisible Man? Where he uses greasepaint or bandages to SEEM normal?"
"I see. So you were disguised for years..."
"They were crude, scarred lines before I got to studying real circuitry. They developed as I grew to understand them... and I had a little help..."
"How?"
"I... Shaped them. Myself. Wooden spoon, a scalpel and a lot of towels... It healed up pretty good."
"Ah... I see."
"And he helped me too."
"Skymaster?"
"No... The big man. The head honcho."
"Oh... Who was he?"
"I have a good tolerance for pain..."
"Sorry?"
"So when he tried to put me under... I managed to see his face."
"Could you describe it for us?"
"Quid Pro Quo. I want out of The Barrel. I want to be in Coffwood Max."
"If your information is accurate, I'll put in a good word. You seem sane enough, if you pardon my crude manner of speaking..."
"Pardoned."
He described the boss to me. He's a meek looking, middle aged man. Looked tired, or weary in some lights... We got all of the details.
As I went to leave, I forgot to pick up my phone. Henry pointed it out to me... When I got back to it... It's settings were changed, it's programming itself compromised...
Even if this information is accurate... Henry is too dangerous to be anywhere but The Barrel.
I must put across steps to counter this developed technopathy.
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