Clarity is the key; it will open up the doors of perception and allow all things truthful and masochistic to pour in like honey.
There’s an old poem I remember from long ago; I dedicate it to you, 1107.
Sleep; child dream
Your death will break the seams.
Illusionary rhymes reign supreme
Pulsating within your bloodstream.
Sanity; misplaced,
You always loved the chase,
I’ve always given you my soul.
I have given you all;
My dreams, my black book,
My undesired teacher taught
How to dress souls
In pretty bows.
Will you witness,
My fabled, flawless
Theatre dreamer?
The masses have congregated
To pay homage
To the loathing of your
Segregated attitudes
That will make the malice mills
Turn wheels of burning greed.
Fly to the stars
Crawling on the carpet,
Jacked up on fleeting memories
Misrepresented companies.
Paranoid laughter
When the pavements turn to steam,
Your conscience cannot be redeemed.
It may sound bitterly extreme
In the grandest of schemes.
You find it hard to believe
This prophecy I did conceive,
Time is always out of place
When your memories
Have been erased.
Very apt, don’t you think? It has been a disturbing fable El Vagabundo Misterioso, maybe we could do it again sometime?
The constellations are shifting again, the turquoise aurora still swims with the galaxy and meteor showers rain upon the horizon.
The nights are getting colder and shorter, did the season really change so quickly or is the world changing because of our coexistence?
Half of me wishes we could play cat and mouse for longer, just so I can see what becomes of the Island, do you think it would crumble into the ocean?
Maybe it will be absorbed into a maelstrom of doubt.
I have longed to see you in the flesh, to gaze into those emerald eyes and see the guy who is on the opposite side of the spectrum.
In truth we are very much alike.
Exhale the emotions that stir and breathe in the emotions that freeze, rocks are easily influenced by time, especially when water manipulates something that seems like it could be indestructible.
It is a magnificent beast who climbs the mountains and drinks whatever water flows in its streams, the crispness of such fluid cleanses the mind from muddy thoughts and areas where darkness has penetrated.
If you cannot see, then why is it important to be alive? Sight shows us the world and what it has to offer us, without that ability to see, then who are you?
Just another freak hoping to survive in a world full of malformed imaginations.
Let us coax a reaction from the glutinous reptiles who observe from their sky scrapers in the City of Debauchery.
Come to my realm, 1107.
Act VI
Reaching Point
1
Thaddeus Melvin adjusted his goggles to long range audio sensitivity; in the dense woodland it was always wise to be attentive to potential danger. Especially travellers who are venturing out of their depth. The Moffatt Fields was a beautiful place, but there were still pockets of forest considered too dangerous to venture into. For Thaddeus it was home, though he never stayed in one place for longer than a day. He built a fire and ate a meal of boar jerky and dragon fruit; there was an abundance of wild boar and fruit in that particular part of the forest. Near nightfall he dug a hole in the ground to sleep in and covered it with a frame made from tree branches. His own private spot under the earth. Above, the turquoise aurora penetrated through the canopy of trees, it blazed across the raven marquee and filled the night sky with an eerie beauty.
A magenta light flickered on his screen, it had picked up a sound; sensors read a gunshot somewhere just beyond the edge of the forest. He felt certain it had something to do with the man he was waiting for, the one with the eyes of Emerald pearls.
He reached for his water skin and tobacco, then decided to take some of the jerky he had prepared.
A gunshot, distant, but a distance he could walk. To a layman the forest could be perfidious; leading an unsuspecting victim into a bog full of flesh eating swamp eels. But Thaddeus knew the right paths to tread, therefore finding it easy to navigate through briar and bog. The goggles hadn’t picked up anything else, he hoped he wasn’t too late, prophecy had a way of being a sarcastic cunt with a smarmy grin, poisoning the thoughts of gullible souls eager to molest their dull existence into something exciting.
A clearing.
There was a clearing at the edge of the forest, a vast field; the Moffatt Field. Discovered by an explorer known as Velmon Moffatt many years ago, it was famous for its long, lush grass and Magnolia X Wieseneri flowers. Thaddeus remembered when it was a sacred place where monks used to engage in Holy Communion and talk to the Gods, now it was deserted, though it never lost its beauty.
The Moffatt Field was never affected by the changing seasons, the grass never withered nor did the Magnolias ever fade. But it wasn’t entirely true for the turquoise aurora borealis caused the land to bloom ablaze with an unearthly presence.
Coughing.
He heard the coughing before he saw the man.
The man was unharmed, the same couldn’t be said for his horse; it lay dead with a bullet hole in its head. An expert shot.
Tiny blood spatters on the man’s hand, something was amiss. The coughing persisted so Thaddeus offered his water skin and the man drunk deep.
Bones scraping along a tiny grain of truth: those emerald eyes, longing, looking at the aurora, seeing deep within the cosmos. Burning through the perception of reality like a hot butcher’s cleaver slicing through raw meat; searing, stabbing, cultivating a sense of foreboding.
2
His hands were peppered with rouge, confusion warped his train of thought and the sight of his own blood sent delicate bumps flowing on the surface of his skin. He coughed again and saw more of that fiendish maroon liquid.
A caged bullfinch crushed beneath the weight of a vineyard, where wine flows like the virgin Mother’s blood. Trapped in its elusive expertise, the bullfinch swallowed the gallons of wine and flew to freedom over a herd of marsupials languishing in a vat of broiling candle wax.
Our vices become naught but a fragrance, brought on by a breeze to trigger memories from a past soaked in perfume.
How peculiar it was to be taken by such an affliction so far into his journey, the veins of suspicion ran far throughout the land. A blind man sauntered along a rocky path, the first sign of life in that exquisite, but desolate place:
“A fellow traveller, ah can smells ya from way over yonder,” the blind fellow said. His eyes were cloudy, like milk being poured into water, he looked to be in his 70s and in his left hand he bore an ivory cane.
The Guy replied:
“What is your name, old fellow? Are you local to this land? Or do you seek stranger climes?”
“Mah name is Bartholomew Ashwood and ah am a wandering man, though ah cannot see, ah live within mah own mind. The reason ah walk is because mah body needs to experience the physical struggle of taking on a long journey. Lemme ask you a question young feller; why would you wanna go piss on a fish? It just don’t seem natural to wanna go take an aquatic animal from its habitat and evacuate your bladder on it. Ah maybe old n’ blind, but ah knows what’s right and what is wrong. Jim jam thank you ma’am, I’m going home with a leg o’ lamb.”
Mad.
Bartholomew was a stark raving lunatic, years of being lonely, on the road and blind must have sent the poor man insane.
Twitching.
Bartholomew was squ
irming and muttering to himself, his white eyes moved back and forth spasmodically. The Guy moved forward a few inches, next thing he knew he was lying in the grass with a sharp pain throbbing in his chest, the blind bastard had kicked him clear across the ground, but how?
“Now, try not to delude yourself with hope on these quests sugar, ah ain’t your friend and ah certainly ain’t here to trade bullshit stories. I be needing me some meat, fresh off the bone with a cup o’ blood to wash it all down with. Tasty. Ah will kill you and carve up your flesh for supper, might even make some jerky for the road. You ain’t nothing but a spit o’ Human, lost out here looking for some salvation but instead finding only damnation.”
Bartholomew’s eyes turned as black as a well of tar.
The Guy breathed a sigh of relief, he had finally met someone who hadn’t heard of him or his exploits, whatever this creature was it was still blind, but still an agile bastard. The goggles and shooters were tucked away in his sack, which was attached to the saddle on Heliodorus. He stepped sideways and saw a blur, then felt a hand connect with his stomach, once again knocking him to the ground.
“What in the cosmos are you?”
“Ah do say, aren’t we the dim one today? Ah am a Bush Dweller, we are a rare species and only travel alone since we would probably eat the company we keep if there are no victims around. We eat the flesh of Humans, from the meat we are nourished and from the blood we are enlightened, our minds become opened to the ones that dwell beneath the earth, in the caverns of infinity where monsters lurk in the shadows waiting to rise once again to claim their seats upon the mountains.”
The Guy had heard enough, he inhaled deep and held his breath, and lunged. He Slammed into Bartholomew and made the creature howl with disdain. The Bush Dweller began to batter the Guy’s side with his cane and then he felt the young traveller’s fists pummel his face.
El Vagabundo Misterioso was launched 7ft into the air and landed on his back with an agonising thud, before he could gather his thoughts and lift his body back into standing, the creature was upon him, hissing and drooling.
“Ah wants me something full of flavour, young travellers are the next best thing to virgin girls, ah am sure your blood will go down like a fine wine, mellow, yet with a subtle kick,” he produced an outlandish blade that had incomprehensible scripture engraved into the glistening metal. The Guy knew death was lingering somewhere in the trees, but it wasn’t leading him to Valhalla just yet. He closed his eyes.
Bartholomew lifted the blade and brought it down with force.
Grass.
He felt his fist slam into the grass, he let out a yelp. The dagger was gone, and so was his prey. Disorientation clutched at his spine, climbing slowly up into his brain, where did the young traveller go? The Bush Dweller was about to curse the demons of the under earth when he felt something cold and metallic being forced into the back of his skull. How could it be? It was not possible. The last thing he felt before he pathetically died was the blade sawing into his skull.
The Guy pulled out the knife, threw it onto the rocky path, he then opened his arms and kept his hands flat. With potent physical strength he brought them together, crushing the creature’s skull into nothing but bone fragments, flabby brain and blood. A flashback of Remer Blake erupted in his mind. His abdomen was violated by heinous cramps; it felt as if a psychotic baker was brutally kneading his stomach like dough. Without warning he began to vomit violently, buckets of bile erupted out of his mouth and all over the corpse before him.
Brief inter-dimensional travel was something he had not wanted to resort to, but the situation called for something theatrical, considering how the Bush Dweller had deceived him into believing he was nothing more than a frail, old blind man. For a blunt moment in time, the Guy transported himself into the void, then back into reality. Such a process was a traumatic experience that could cause extremities such as madness and death, or lesser side effects like sickness and migraines. Luckily for the Guy, he only suffered sickness, even if it was a distressing experience.
After another episode of coughing and discovering blood in his spittle, the Guy mounted his gelding and took flight.
On top of a hill he saw the field, the one he had sought after for so long; the real Moffatt Field. It was still a decent ride away, but through the UV goggles he could see the magnolia flowers swaying in the breeze, seductively inviting him with all of their sensual intricacy. The sky was a heavy set grey, like liquid metal waves rolling across the heavens, but the turquoise aurora found cracks in the clouds and seeped through, creating aquamarine light to drip down the sky like wet paint. The rusty leaves on the distant forest trees hummed with an infatuated essence, the Guy took the reins and spurred Heliodorus toward the lavishing field. It was a place where Gods came to rest their weary bones, and a place where mortals came to die.
3
The lights shine on, and all around life stands still to be in awe of the unnatural wonder. Going free with drug pouches and tobacco in the mouth, bitter and chewy with hints of bad intentions and foolish conversations. As the sun went down, the lights spun and thus did the stars appear and pierce the sky; eternally beautiful, but always failing to protect the vulnerable. An over turned horse cart lay in the grass decaying and it housed nocturnal animals that began to appear for the nightly hunt. Broken promises asked the missed appointments the significance of time management, sometimes etiquette slithers out of Humanity’s range to deliver poetic justice to dedicated philanthropists. He felt it was best to avoid righting his wrongs and concentrate on ruling the empire of His mind. Barbaric bats occupied the skies feeding off the exotic fruits and insects found in the Moffatt Fields. A group of ill-educated gypsies had made camp somewhere off in the east, the Guy strapped on his goggles to observe their gathering. The travelling folk seemed to be suffering from hallucinations, while ignoring their purpose in life; they talked in profound pseudo-babble, casting the constraints of life’s foibles asunder into the wind. Their language was a hybrid of Arabic and Mandarin, but the Guy understood them word for word. He decided it was a harmless group of people, too whacked out on psychedelics to notice some stranger eavesdropping on their mind altering experience.
It is true a fallen angel can reclaim its wings after purging all of its sins, but Demons never fall. When they rise, it can only be for one purpose; Death. Eclipses fooled trophy emperors in past times, but the quantum revolution came along and baffled trophy ignoramuses into believing the Gods moved in sarcastic ways. A construct of our false pretences that obstructs our field of vision, blinding us all to the ways of the higher plain of existence. It was shut away, brought out, then locked up again to pass out of memory and focus. It is a dying tree of industrial fatigue, moved only by the leaves, of reality’s harmony.
Perverts wandering the wastelands of perpetual isolation was a crisis. Nothing could be said of the children who had escaped the Industrial Complex, maybe they were taken to some new hell, could be that their fate was already sealed; death was their token of doubt.
Bring me blues in a basket, so my conscience can hold the fort. Its suspended flows and narrowed thoughts, is espionage on my sanity.
The Guy was at the border of the field, he brought Heliodorus to a halt and took off the UV goggles.
Fate’s tendrils caress my body, coaxing me into a situation beyond even my control. Stepping into this field will trigger off a series of events, and the regulators of destiny will ship me away to another place, where history is just another oddity in an already odd universe.
He dismounted, led the gelding by the reins and walked into the Moffatt Field. The evening had a crisp chill and a dry atmosphere, he heard the grass rustling, it sounded like the crepitation of a veteran smoker’s breathing. The magnolias bloomed so sweet, oscillating in the zephyr; mementos of a bygone era. The aurora borealis burned stronger in that part of the Island, casting an eerie, but divine light upon the field.
The silence brought peace to the Guy’s mind. The
sounds of torture, gunfire and women on the brink of orgasm had once indulged his thoughts, now he was satisfied with the silence. He appreciated the subtle sounds: the occasional whickering from Heliodorus, the crunching of hooves in the grass and the sweet murmur of the wind. There came another fit of coughing, a violent one, in the blink of an eye he had turned hysterical, producing guttural chokes, crimson phlegm and unnatural wheezing. He hacked and spluttered and saw Heliodorus starting to grow uneasy, the gelding began to twitch and let out distraught noises. Pandemonium reigned supreme. The Guy clutched his chest and doubled over, his clothes were peppered with blood. There came a savage crack, then a gut wrenching thwack. Heliodorus fell to the ground; dead. The Guy tried to let out a cry but it was choked off by more fits of coughing, his throat felt dry like he had swallowed handfuls of sand, he could feel the lining of his oesophagus peeling away. The world span, the stars blurred and stirred with the turquoise aurora, creating a pallid light show that was enough to give a person cancer.
The Guy splayed out in the grass and coughed himself into a coma, remembering the faces of those he had met on his journey. Faces of the dead, the ones he had been sent to exterminate, they all laughed, they all pointed, they all held out their arms, ready to welcome him to the underworld.
4
Sometimes the most beautiful flowers yearn to be trampled on.
The dream had been quashed, the man had been broken and the purpose of his quest had been crushed to dust, like bones in a mortar, beneath the pestle.
There were two green doors; 2.09 and 2.05. The first belonged to a Professor Wolfram North and the latter was the property of a Professor Alberto Kaiser.
Notice boards filled with mathematical equations and literary pseudonyms stared at him indifferently, to the layman those sequences of letters and numbers would appear as gobbledygook. He saw the patterns and sentences breathing like a sleeping rhinoceros. Oh so deep and tender. Wolfram’s door opened and there he saw a slender lady of Egyptian descent undressing slowly, revealing her pert breasts, brown nipples erect due to the cool temperature of the moon soaked room. Her mound was moist and the clit slightly swollen, she was aroused and waiting for her favourite.
Underneath the Draconian Sky Page 16
