Wednesday, February 24, 2010

The Dream (cont. and to be edited)

It was Monday night. As usual Adam sat sullenly at the bar contemplating the dredgery of the daily grind and ruminating the undiscovered horrors that would await him as he travelled further into the large bottle that was becoming his life. The co-workers he would normally have a drink with began to give him looks of disapproval when he invited them out to the tavern. He was often drunk and cursed them for being laymen without creativity, simply because they would not accompany him in his binges. He resented them for being the reason he had to drink alone.
Now and again he would see the fragile brunette sitting by the jukebox. Sometimes she was with men, always good looking enough to turn Adam’s pale green eyes a deep shade of emerald, shiny as the jewel itself. She didn’t always have company, at times engaged in a book of poetry, or some Shakespearian text, calm with her trademark red in hand. Wearing the face of lonliness well, it proved difficult to see her. She acted a fool with men, causing them to believe she was a phenomenal catch, but she would always break free from the hook, leaving without a word when her suitor went to get her another drink. Her beauty was tragic indeed. Her smudged mascara on her left eye from the rain could not be considered a flaw. Such a defect upon a face like hers only added to its perfection. She lived as a doll in a case that nobody was allowed to touch. Terribly afraid of being dropped to a shattering fate, she found contentment in her world of glass.
“I see you here, from time to time. You are always sitting in the same place. As if it was your vocation to be a reliable beauty, that others may admire your elegance.”
“Oh,” blushing, the girl dog-eared a page in her book and proceeded to close it and put it to her side. Adam was entranced by the shadow of the wine glass that fell gracefully upon her book of childish stories. The blood red reflection consumed the cover illustration, turning it’s pale colors into deep shades of damnation.
“I am a pretty puzzle, indeed. I like to have fun and yet indulging in words intrigues me just the same as romance. In fact, I must admit that I am far more dedicated to words than I am to others, men especially. If I were to give my heart to some silly suitor, he would claim to love me at first, but beyond this glamorous fa├žade lies an imprisoned soul. Most men should want to run when they are presented with it’s unpredictable intensity. What person truly cares for another? This Earth and the events that take place upon it are but a movie reel, and it’s inhabitants are a stellar cast indeed! What is the light of God but the light on the projector? And what is Time but a moving illusion? Every moment is a photograph in this grand charade! Emotions and concepts, intellect and ideas; delusions that fade as morning dew dries up in the strength of the afternoon sun. Things stop glistening. People don’t appreciate the rest of the day as it fades into the darkness. They are always waiting for the sun to rise. Nobody knows how to live through the whole day, how to get through the murder scenes, let alone love one another!”
She sighed deeply and sipped her wine, as if it would replace the agony she felt from such a dispirited picture of humanity with the calm apathy of nihilism. Adam was certain that she didn’t really believe such things. He was not as deep into the cave as she was, and was still able to turn around and see the light from the opening he crawled into.
“Haven’t you cared for another?", Adam questioned.
“Oh, I had loved someone once. It was so long ago that the memory has faded like the brightness of the paint on a wall after years of being beaten by the rays of the sun. The moments are dull and motionless in my mind, though I know that I was once alive in the glory of such passions.”
“I am the same as you, indeed, but hearing such an existential disertation from another is disheartening. It attempts to murder the soul!”
“Oh no! It is not existentialist for me to think these things. I am only looking for something real. Perhaps there is a soul out there that is able to live through the day.”
“Perhaps I am a soul that is able to live through the day?”
The brunette laughed heartlessly at Adam’s obviousness. “Oh, perhaps. Perhaps not. Now if you will excuse me, I haven’t the patience for men today, this is why I have the beloved world of fairytales to escape to.”
“In your pursuit of reality you fill your head with idle fairytales? You are a mystery indeed!”
“I assure you, my humble friend, that fairytales are as real as you and I.”
With these words the fabled Dorothy retrieved her book, hiding her face behind a cover illustration of The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Adam stared at her for some time as she tried to climb over the rainbow into Oz in an attempt to find the truth.
The old man was now without all five senses. A soft voice came from within him expanding like a wave coming into shore. It seemed to yeild the loud power of an explosion, though it was composed gracefully of notes he was certain did not exist in the waking world. His entire body broke from its stillness, vibrating acutely that he was certain he was experiencing a seizure. This shower of energy that seemed to come from above and travel down to his feet seemed as though it had gotten itself emprisoned in flesh. With great effort it had shaken off the corpse of the old man, taking his consciousness with it.
Sight was restored to him. It was difficult to tell which things he was seeing were real, and which were of the dream world. He knew that he was still in the forest, but from the ground grew strange plants he was unfamiliar with. The only thing noteable about them was their bright red color. The sun shone strongly, causing the canopy of various shades of green to take on a translucent nature. The flowers resided in the shade where there was not a sliver of light to alter their opacity. They were complimentary, as red and green are, but also clashed drastically in the absense of other colors. There was not a trace of yellow nor orange to marry the two opposites, that they may work together in a splendid display of light and shadow. And for this reason the red flowers seemed more like intruders, than guests in the emerald city.
The sun was momentarily tucked tightly behind a large cumulous cloud. In its hiding, the shade’s damp chill provided a desolate, yet charming ambience. Loud, cracking branches, complimented by the soft rustle of leaves, sounded in the distance. The first thing the old man thought of was The Wolf. Desperate to find his companion, he had forgotten the strangeness of all things that were happening to him, and without his body attempted to run far into the trees. Immediately he was transported deep enough into the forest that he could no longer see the edge of his property.
The soft sounds of an animal brushing against growth as it travelled through the forest were more audible now. The old man was certain he heard music faintly asserting it’s presence as a whistling wind whipped itself passionately through the treetops. As he floated closer, now compelled by the commanding nature of the noises which intrigued him, he began to see the source of this cosmic lullabye. Beyond the zephyr that played the wooshing leaves; past the low rhythmic chanting of a nearby brook, was a melody that should have been imprisoned in the past. It was the glue which held together the orchestra of the forest, and the old man had concluded that this was the stuff of the fabled faery music.
What he had seen was not to his liking. He had felt as though a malevolent force had ripped a forgotten image from deep within his psyche, holding it in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Overwhelmed with longing, his heart felt like a once still lake, in which a stone was dropped from the sky. The dull ache that spread out through his being from the initial shock of this unforgivable sadness pulsated like the rings which begin and fade, making room for new rings until the water settles. This phantasm before him was but a romantic poison with a beautiful name, causing a ruthless chaos that would never succumb to order’s reign. The chosen victim of a murderous Time quick to injure and slow to kill, the old man had no choice but to accept this suffering. The red flowers began to grow as the sun became eclipsed by the moon’s shadow.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A Murder

I had known what I wanted with pure and healthy heart, when I saw my ghost in a lake reflecting a pulsating sun. I turned to you and there was only a seed of light in your murky eyes, but it was enough to See. Still, in between two bodies, motionless as suicide slept a murderous distance longer than the face of Sorrow. I could have cherished this; important as lightning striking the ocean floor, piercing the molten center of the Earth, creating a merciless exit wound into black skies, beyond the circle that encapsulates us. My affection was deeper than blood red and quieter than death.

The crows began to surround me.

Peering through suffocating black feathers, I watched you toss a heavy stone into the water. The ghost became disfigured. It’s serene face bent upwards into a maniacal grin. Torn apart by greedy rings of water, it was sacrificed to soothe the lonliness of cold shores.

I turned again to you, and saw the sun set in the windows of your house. I could no longer See.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


The darkness was a veritable entity that had consumed a clean air, leaving her to breathe dust in the old wooden room. As in a dream, she existed as if just born, and was without judgement, memory or emotion. The faculty of her intellect was in tact, for she recognized the darkness, and formed thought through words. Her sight was blacker than a dreamless sleep, though what frightened her terribly was the absense of fear. In her right hand she held something soft, regarding it as a toy for her pleasure. It was fragile, like a flimsy bag filled with liquid. What it actually was she had no concern for, nor a desire to know. There was no way of deducing a recognizable object in the absense of light, and hence she was careless with the object. No triggers in her mind could prompt her memory to recall where she had come across such item, or who had given it to her. It served only her curiousity and provided for her a sense of amusement in an inexplorable blackness. This item was as everything else was, here and now, invisible, barely existant except in the experience of her tactility of the thing, and what she remembered vaguely as the kind of material that would be called gross, for it felt like disembodied flesh. It was bodily, unworthy of caution. She felt an inexplicable desire to destroy it. Her first instinct was to drop or throw it. She felt that this would call for some emotion of anger, which was a feeling she had failed to build up inside of her. A silent voice had for its own splendour, wished for her to squeeze the object. After having done this, she felt a small release of pressure where a puncture in the skin had formed. The liquid was warm and thin. Experiencing some small incling that this turn of events should have frightened her, she disregarded the brief second of alarm and again felt only a sense of curiousity evolving as the thing, with her hands, became wet with a familiar warmth of which she couldn’t quite derive a specific memory.

A proud light had made its entrance from around the corner. It began to bleed into the darkness like an angry monstrosity consuming what it deemed to be weak. “Hello,” spoke the voice of a wise old woman who had stepped into the room. “Hello?” With a soothing yet firm voice, looking down at the girl’s hands, with a perturbed and shaky voice the woman warned, “You must be careful with your heart!” For the first time the girl was terrified and saddened at the state of such vital organ she was now cupping in her palms. Her hand was red with blood that she had allowed to escape from her own life source, directionless and emblematic of a stagnant chaos.

I could not see what I was doing in the darkness! Without the light it seemed as if things did not matter. I never expected such curiousity, such willingness to destroy the only thing I could literally feel would result in such damage! I cannot conceive of how this had even happened! And who I was before this moment is a person I do not recognize. How ignorant she was! How very much without love or tenderness was the formless creature that was hidden in this darkness!

The old woman appeared again and spoke, relaying a strange warning disguised as a commonplace compliment, “You are very beautiful.”

“What is your name?” asked the girl.

“You may call me only Sister.”

The woman had morphed into a large doll made of cloth with a painted on face, and disappeared.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Nearly Complete

In order of appearance:
The Demiurge

New Images (In Progress)

In order of appearance:
The Tiger in the Darkness
Spiders advanced progress
A Murder