Short Stories/Poems

[Sekot]

So the Thirteen Kings who sat upon their thrones in the Hallowed Room decided that the end of the world had come. They had grown tired of their positions deep within the core of the world, had grown tired of the responsibility. They threw their crowns to the ground where they burst into flame walked away.

The monarchs became flies. Pestilence. They lived on their former subjects. And saw it firsthand the ruin they had brought. But they found that they could not return to the Hallowed Room. It was shut. Eternal.

And so we were left to ruin. Convinced that we must erect our own kings upon burning pyres, but they too faltered under the immense weight.

It is no coincidence that the most threatening questioning to our existence, the most threatening and impossible question, is the first question we utter as children. They are the great philosopher kings.

What would happen if we put them on the thrones instead?

[Sekot]

The world, this moving thing...it moves too slow. I have seen these stars and I have grown bored with them. They are so plain. Introduce to my vision a new escape, a new impossible glimpse into the unbeyond. Un. A word meant to denote a contrary thing. The unsense. The nonsense. Is there a difference? It is to undo, therefore the unsense is to do undo the sense.

I want these stars to undo themselves. To be come unstars. To encapsulate the drunken state that I find myself running through the undeniable entrance found at the end of the world.

Agartha whispers at the center of the realm. We say everything is true but find ourselves scrapped against the last stages of insanity for that was all that was left to us. All that was left. We were taken beyond our will.

Do you understand? Any of it? Anything that I have written here? I have wrapped myself in a blanket of Filth in a tired sheet of NIGHTMARE that I must constantly relive in my own arrogance. I am aware of my own shortcomings. I can see my own horizon, indeed I have overtaken it.

Ask me about the death of the universe and I will show you the death you personally crave for there is no death to the unbeyond. There is no death period beyond the shimmering glass of our own perception. Whispers in the breeze speak of the moving machines hidden underneath the immovable space.

All spaces are movable, we need only erect the destructible corpse upon the vestige and whisper sweet prayers to the gods of immortality if they were too keen to exist. Caught in the infinite web I strive to move my many strands.

Trapped, I will bite myself until I bleed the reality I wish to see.

[Sekot]

I am enraptured by my own self unable to express the laughing voice that echoes in my head. I find the undeniable truth to be a falsehood and my world is turned downside up.

Which way was up again?

Fire and water and earth and stone and blood and I will crave the power to end the ceaseless trap that has circled around me until the world itself could not breathe. I have trapped myself in ym won darkness and I have long ago known that there was no way out.

[Kaez]

Jul 16, 2012 18:29:45 GMT -5 Sekot said:

The monarchs became flies.

Butterflies.

[Sekot]

I circle my own stage, watching in fascination as horrors cross the path. These horrors that I created, beyond simple monsters but the evolution of the monster into a devourer of life and death. They amble, they shamble, they prance and trot. They slobber and they slather and they bleed and they cry all while laughing through uncountable rows of teeth amongst an infinite maw. They are the dream feeders and the nightmare shitters. What they leave behind is the stuff of legend.

I shall lead them across the cityscape. My breath is ice, my touch is flame. Above the sky grows dark with clouds that glow like the color of Mars. A deep ambient drum shatters our conscious thoughts and assembles the unscape. I have forged my path down the route of psychological horror. If only you could see what I see.

Mountains themselves come alive. Mountains. Piles of dirt. Not some metaphor for golems. Actual mountains. And they are furious. Furious at everything. And so full of spite. They choke ash, ash from the multiple dead that line their hills. So many bodies to feed upon, so much dirt to spew. We step upon the graves of our fore-parents. And they collapse. And we are swallowed by those angry mountains.

Even the prettiest of flowers will try to kill you. The world has turned against you. And there is no more escape. No more.

And I stop twirling about my stage and take a long look at those horrors. They cease their play and look back at me. And together we speak in countless invisible tongues. Our words are smelled on foul breaths that speak of sulfur and mint.

She was a witness to the unraveling of the world. Dearest Adrian you were given a gift. A gift that would, of course, prove your undoing. How shall you fight this gift? How shall you walk the path that you did not choose? Poorly, I imagine. Your descent will be slow, hallowed, and damning. The demons clamored for your fall, and they will be sated.

But upon your path, you shall lay the breaches that tear open the world. The unraveling will occur by your hand, though you will have no knowledge of it. The night sky will soon see light and the Silence has grown loud. Come with me into the depths, into the dark, where these monsters dwell. There is no going back. You were made Witness.

So Witness. Watch. Observe.

Do I have any qualms for destroying my characters? I feel for them, somehow, and to watch them..fall produces mixed feelings. I created that path for them, but would they have chosen differently if I was not their god?

What a cruel and impossible liege I have proven myself to be.

[Sekot]

She was whispered to in the void. How did she become my favorite?

He was dead. Was reborn. A horror. A construct made of wrath. So bright was he that he unraveled himself, turned upon himself, and so created the very void she stood within. He is the avatar, the sharpened focus. She is his Voice. She speaks in the Silence. What will come after?

And above them lords the worshiper of the Void. An everchanging matrix of desire and flesh. Mortal and god, impossible and real. The catalyst for the meeting of Voice and Being.

He was already dead. Long ago. What he does now is merely an attempt to satiate the widening gulf. To put everything into place, and then to purposefully poke that wobbling tower. To watch it crumble.

She was Witness, Voice, so many titles, but merely a concept. She too is an avatar. The discordant unconscious voice that attempts to scream from the depths of the mind only to be silenced. She speaks in dreams. You can guess where this going.

So what we truly have are two beings, two thoughts, two ideas made manifest. Even the puppetmaster is not entirely aware of this truth. Though she believes herself to be the manufacturer of this ideals, they have merely bubbled forth out of the countless aeons. She can capitalize upon their fruition, but will merely accelerate a process that was a long time coming.

The city is burning and the Dawn has come.

[Sekot]

Mars threw himself on his own spear. The field ran with black blood. It washed over the corpses, over the not-quite-dead, and choked them. It filled their crevices and seeped into their bones and they rose unsteadily to their feet. Their heads were raised upward, asking salvation, before they turned their backs to their king on the hill.

Venus shattered her own mirror. Her face changed. It became contorted, her jaw lowering and lowering until it reached her breast. Her eyes were eaten alive, her hair aflame. Her maids in waiting watched in twisted fascination as they slashed their bodies in sacrifice. Her screams drowned themselves out as she scraped at her face with her claws.

Jupiter himself fell inward, collapsing into nothingness. Nothing more than empty space.

There once was a man who asked to enter the hallowed halls of my mind. A man. A woman. I let them in, for I was not at the door to greet them. One would think it smart to not enter a home with an open door. But they were curious. And I was desperate. And so they came. Into the room of rooms. Into the dark space.

They saw it. It was revealed to them. While they did escape, the filth that swam about tainted their thoughts, collapsed upon them and they too succumbed to the maddening cripple.

I was there, at the beginning. I witnessed the rise of the ivory towers. I saw the clouds flee in terror for nothing before had touched their lofty perches. It was then that I made a pact with those who came before that I would tell their story at the end of the world. But, as time has passed, there remains no end in sight, and these towers multiply. Infinite Babel.

The Emperor atop the tallest tower called to me. He wanted to hear the story. It was known that I was the keeper, and it was known of the curse. But in his limitless arrogance, he would have me tell it. Even if he had to rip it out of my mind.

And so he did. But what he took with it was released, briefly, as an image. Of Mars. Of Venus. Of Jupiter. The true finale, my liege, is that we will not go gently. In fact, what the gods fortold was merely a fairy tale. The Beast came and went, frightened by what he saw. The precursor, the original Babel, crumbled because it went so high it saw the future.

And poor Icarus. Icarus too saw the end. The labyrinth was the scream of Icarus as he plummeted. Daedalus too went mad scribbling and scratching until he found the secret at the end of time.

The demons would rather stay in hell.

[Sekot]

We sat at the end of the world, us together. We laughed as we shared drinks underneath the cloudless sky. Together we could see the end of the horizon. We could watch as the clouds themselves rolled up and up. We laughed at the audacity of such storms to threaten ourselves.

We ran through the forest thick in the darkness of night. The owls followed on our tails, beckoning us to keep going even as one by one they fell underneath the Coming.

Passion lacked any meaning. What we shared was the endless spirit of time. We watched the rise and fall of mountains as we danced under the supernovas. We were together. And that was it.

We were together.

Were.

And so my anger boils forth. Spilling like froth from my mouth. I watched him as he was devoured by the Coming. And so tired was I of the future that I met it at the past and so rendered the present null.

I created a void.

Together we were meant to be so how dare you try to tear us away. I claim the heavens as my field of battle. The angels themselves trembled underneath my gaze. I rivaled gods. Together we were meant to be and together we will remain.

We laughed underneath the stars. Such sweet laughter. Happiness is certainly forged, but it helps when there is always others to add to the process. An island can only remain so long before being swallowed by the horde. A host of islands can become more than enough to defeat that Coming.

The Inevitable.

But so wrought with grief was I that I knew I could challenge that end. The Inevitable has no hold over me. I brought heaven to its knees. I wrapped myself in a coat of flame and rode the bow as it pointed straight down. My eyes were alive. They were alive.

The crest is rising. The crescendo is reaching. And the climax has come. Hear all their voices screaming at the pinnacle of ecstasy. Reaching up and up. To touch the mountain peak where the clouds do not go and we can talk to the stars.

We were gods. Together we walked across time.

I pierced the veil of hell and stole the demons and made them into the vanguard of my eternal army. I rode the hounds of nightmare and the steeds of dreams and all those who slept saw me crossing nothing.

Were we ever together? Or is this just a false memory? A flickering image that replays over and over, planted by some person that would see me broken.

I dig through the nothing, seeking to claim the impenetrable stream of endless thoughts. I am an alcoholic, I am a deprived defeated dessicated soul that was wrought with holes made by my own hand. I am the wrathbringer, the tortured thing, the angst-ridden boy. All because he was taken.

Therefore shall all tremble before the whispers of my own coming. I will meet the end and I will taste it between my teeth as I rend it apart. I will devour it whole and crash through the other side where we will meet again.

And we will laugh. And our laughter shall bring forth the tears and we will be witness to the new beginning. I will not, cannot lose this battle or the ones to come.

[Sekot]

And so they sang to me. They sang and sang. Their voices filled the spaces. They tried. For there were many spaces. All of them dark. But still they sang.

They sang one song. Over and over.

That one day. One day in the future. In some distant future. I might be able to speak. And when I speak, as if anew, that there would be someone there to listen.

What do I want? This question that keeps rolling around and around and around in my head. What do I want? What do I want?

Over and over and over. The constant, infinite sound of the waves rolling across the beach only to be pulled back out again. That they might taste freedom upon the sands for one brief moment, and then have it so cruelly wrenched away from them. That hurricanes are just a natural rebellion against the order of things.

They sing to me over and over and I cannot get them out of my head. That I might one day speak and someone will be there to listen. Not merely with words but with my body. My mind is trapped. Has run out of ways to speak. There are only so many words. And not all of them are spoken with mouth and tongue.

They sing that one day I will speak and someone will listen. And that i will not hate them for their listening. that i may love them. and then that i may love myself

that they may be able to finally stop my dancing and that they may finally stop my spiral and that they may finally stop my writing and that i may not hate them

thatimaystop hating

if i scream loud enough i may just be able to drown out their song

if i cry long enough i may just be able to forget

We are good dancers. We learned how. You have to give us that. We learned to smile. We learned.

We learned irony.

[Sekot]

He was calmed as he sat enveloped in the cool black of midnight. He could see nothing and so kept his eyes shut. But he did smell the scent of grass at night, heard the sounds of buzzing insects and creatures big and small rummaging through the forests.

Tearing at the fabric of this rudimentary scenery is a dream, just on the fringes.

He lay back, the countless blades of grass caressing his bare skin. The cool night air clung to him, breezed gently across him. In the forest he heard the countless leaves brushing against each other in greeting and farewell.

Amongst the silence is a whisper.

He smiled at me and his eyes lingered for a moment too long. But I find that I might be merely expecting too much. My breath catches when he comes close. And he does it often. But at the same time I find...

I am surrounded.

The trees had stopped their gentle rustling and had grown still. No animal made a noise, the wind had picked up the slack but it swirled around the man rather than against him. Above him, the moon was staring back.

But still he was calm.

Though the night had turned, he went with it.

I fear the coming winter. I am truly afraid. But I made a promise to myself that I would not succumb to the thrusting forces that encircle me. There was never any light to guide this path, and slowly I am making my peace.

If God is there, let him hear my prayer: let me just hold his hand. Any hand. Let that stare not be misunderstood and let something go right, just this once.

Pierce the ever growing horde and forge a way out. I fear that I will have my own hands full at the battlements. We have prepared ourselves. Armed ourselves and said our farewell for yet another battle.

I do not know why he still found solace in prayer. I can hear his heart beat, I can hear it pound at a slower and slower pace. I have yet to find the well that provides the energy that keeps him going.

We are surrounded. The forest has emptied itself and the insects are gorged upon the flesh of the deceased. The smell of the night air has been replaced with that of putrid filth and rotting ideas. The moon is laughing at me.

We will respond in kind.

I have turned misery into the most absurd artform. Cyclical to the point of insanity. It stops being sad and starts being funny. We are a comedy, a troupe of laughing smiling clowns spinning grand old tales.

[Sekot]

Please tell me you can see their faces, the ones painted on the walls. Please tell me that you can see them and their accusations. I am...incapable of turning myself away, so transfixed by their garish caricatures. Maybe maybe if I placate them with stories they'll let me be.

I can hear them whisper, so many countless voices speaking at once. It is a whirring in my ears, indiscernible from any other. All I know is that they hate me, they hate me and what I am and what I was. But, try as I might, I cannot persuade them that I have changed. Maybe I haven't. Maybe I have cast the illusion upon myself.

Same faces, all the same faces. All speaking the same thing. Just a new face, make it appear amongst them, make it speak something different, just to let me know that I am not so alone. Alone. The word tastes like bile, it burns my nose and my chest.

I collapsed to my knees, choking up blood onto the stainless marble floor. I can barely see my reflection in the stone, in the puddle of bodily fluid, and the image is discordant. With great I effort I turned my head away, shut my eyes, and whispered a prayer.

But to whomever I prayed to, there was no response. My muscles burned, ached from overexertion. But still I had to continue forward, each breath like knives slicing through my insides. I had to stop, and so I did. I collapsed onto that marble floor and lay looking up at the ceiling.

Motifs of wars were written onto the canvases that draped across the roof. Gruesome battles fought, won and lost. It is not enough for me to merely see them, for the history and the emotional weight of the events are forcibly entered into my conscious. I can see in real time the horrors they faced. Both natural and super-.

From in the distance I hear the sound of a piano. The fingers are dancing across the keys, lilting and free. The piece is entrancing, encapsulating. I can shut my eyes and I can see the notes swinging before my inner vision to drive the horrors away.

But, it isn't long before the world rights itself and the images are back with accompanying music. They have redoubled their efforts and I am left shaking on the cold ground.

[Sekot]

I was given word today that a man I knew could no longer take this world and so gave in to it and the torturous vice of absolute nothing. He committed suicide. He took his life. He said he couldn't take it anymore.

In those words I hear the weight of infinity.

I received word today that a child believed herself to be a freak. That all the surgeries she had to undergo, and no matter how hard she tried to fit in, she was marked. And I heard this from her mother.

In those words, I hear silent screams.

When I look up into the night sky, I wonder if maybe all those stars may just be laughing at us.

How many Faustian bargains would it take to right the world?

[Sekot]

You hear that old beat and you're takin to a new place, a new space. A story setting reliving the dreams of children with candy canes and spice. We are driven forward upon the starry bridge meant for the gods so that we may ourselves become crowned with glory.

We sat atop the stars and laughed and joked. Our lives were the envied of the universe. We dreamt of nothing for everything before us was ours. That old beat that brings you back that makes you alive in the stream of the unconscious thought.

We brought down the moon for it laughed at us and we danced with the sun underneath the twirling planets of yesteryear. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Where was time in all of this? Forgotten I think. Time is a fickle beast afterall and we need not pay it any heed.

A trickster a clown a jester would seek to entertain and would paint the walls of the halls with his blood. We were vengeful in our drugged out heads, in our cloudy eyes we saw lust. Beautiful faces that beckoned everyone to our beds.

We sat atop the stars and laughed and cracked jokes. We brought down moons and danced with suns. We were alive in every sense of the word until our own bodies broke. And then we broke free of those, riding the clouds of ecstasy higher into the cosmos of infinity.

What we saw we may never repeat for even then we could not comprehend the unraveling of everything. I can remember their smiles, the jokes, and I can still laugh.

We rode across the beaches atop many legged steeds. Under azure skies that lied and against the oceans of oil. The sand itself was glass, reflecting all the light possible until we were blind. It was fun, more than that, it was.

We danced with suns and sat upon stars we laughed as we brought down moons and cracked the bridges made of glory until ourselves were shades of power. To feel the unraveling of the self is to feel the delightful blinding release of everything the mind had to offer.

[Sekot]

Watching a man dancing. The subtle fluid motion that never stops and hits that beat every single time. The quick fast strike and twist strike and twist shoulder pop and roll. Man. Boy. Lover. Father. Brother. Life. Living.

The hard and quick the snap dragon punch lilting flower groping vine swinging heartstring. Up and downs through the valleys like Pocahontas in that one Disney movie fast as a wind and slow as water. Wants and needs all in the motion in that stupid dumb waste of time that extends the belief in afterlives and immortalities.

No matter what they say we are amongst the stars we are the pale blue dots significant points of light amongst the vast array of webwork crafted by artisans hyped on drugs and strung out on poisons. Degradation debasement amongst the filth where life is purest and undistilled.

We are here our own gods. He is the dancer the god the lord and the savior the mirror image Jesus breakdancing and dancing contemporary on the street corner. Buddha doing ballet with the infinite hosts of souls pirouetting in the background. Muhammad ballroom dancing with his jazzy whore of Babylon.

We are saying praise Allah in the tastes of our tongues and singing choir to the Gods in our sighs and exhalations and the push of air from the fluid swift strike pop and lock and drop my legs my body it is water and I am the leaf in the wind.

Life is of course precious beyond knowing and everyone deserves to feel it in the gyration in the sweeping motion and without a care or conscious or thought left to think.

Step step beating hearts step step step clapping hands clapclapclap. Ride that high to the tip of ecstasy, let it hang there for a painful moment where all your senses are blinding and just hold...it....there

andthendropitsohotthatthegates of Hell itself are thrown open.

A child dances like he was born without the ability to stop and that his bones are made of jello he is amongst community strengthened by the bonds tied to cultural bones long forgotten except in the words passed between generations. The expression of thoughts and feelings all in the body an explosion of information that has no possibility of other expression.

The old woman looking at her old dancing shoes she kept since she was a queen upon the stage and in her head she can still see the lights and hear the applause and she can feel the gentle feel of the rushing wind as she performs like no one has before.

We are angels and demons and nothing at all. Pump that fist who gives a shit just do whatever will make you smile because we're all doing the same.

[Sekot]

Time to lose my mind.

There is absolutely nothing I can write here.

I am at peace with sound.