Weltanschauung

Note: This is the first of the 12 Stories of Christmas I’ve challenged myself with. Check back tomorrow for another.

 

A man stood on the threshold of Ur’s abode; it was Genar, his tall, lanky frame made him appear alien to most people who regarded him, the extreme slenderness of his limbs often provoking revulsion and a nigh unbearable need to look away. To Ur, however, his visage was welcome, always.

Ur was a taxidermist of sorts, one belonging to a very particular specialization of the craft that focused on the taxidermist’s own body rather than that of deceased fauna. A very rare school now lost to the annals of history, what little evidence is left of the existence of this current lies with Ur, the last of the master craftsmen of the Hidden Ways, and a few scattered notes and diagrams that may be come by through no easy means.

It is a time of last things, thinks Ur to himself not for the first time in the past months. Many ancient, nearly timeless things have drawn to a close, leaving but a vestigial representation of their former ubiquity, the glory of halcyon days faded, corroded. A time of last things, things that will not come again, things that have been but will be no more, things – peoples, gods, religions, cults, universes – expiring and giving their ghost up to the origin, the Eye.

Ur, thus, was the last of an order which name is not spoken, nor written, but expressed with symbols of a script system that twists like snakes before the gaze that falls upon it and it communicates the essence of its meaning directly to the mind of the beholder.

Genar was paying a visit to Ur in order to watch and stand as a witness to the last work of the craftsman, who was working on the culminating opus of his life, and which would soon end as such. Ur enjoyed the company, even if Genar always asked, despite invariably getting a negative reply every time, about becoming Ur’s apprentice.

Ur could not even allow himself to consider the request, though he was sure Genar, if applied, would make a fine taxidermist himself. It was the nature of his final work itself that precluded the possibility of bringing someone new into the craft. Ur had to complete the work and simultaneously ensure that no other such craftsmen would remain thereafter. It was pivotal to enduring the success of a great many future endeavors.

Taxidermy, a Greek term that translates to arrangement of skin. The craft is relatively common in its most basic application, but Ur’s specialty is focused on the taxidermist working on their own body through the years and using it to tell stories of sorts. In Ur’s particular case, for his final work he was to give the enigmatic tools for some cosmological puzzle he did not even understand himself, but he understood what tools he was tasked with providing for the one that would come in time.

Ur toiled away under the curious, hungry gaze of Genar, sometimes for days on end without rest, carefully altering the nature of his corpus – which had previously displayed a great many different works – so as to change its architecture into a pattern that would communicate the necessary information to the one foretold. There was a certain amount of prescience in the craftsmen, some minor oracular abilities, that were tied directly to the work of the soon-to-be-extinct taxidermists.

Transmogrification by way of taxidermy is a painstaking process, one that requires a high threshold for pain, utmost control of biological process of the body, and a steady hand to ensure the best result. The craftsman has to convert sinew and bone into an architecture that mirrors the cosmos in a way, to portray a vision and awareness of the universe at large that needs to be conveyed with great eloquence into a language of dead-yet-preserved tissue.

Much like the current of the times, today would be the last of the work, the day Ur finished the crowning opus out of all his opera and simultaneously ceased to be. He was settled into place, as he had been for weeks already, allowing his living portions of body to slowly become inert, working on his own organs, removing, rearranging, trans-substantiating.

Over the recent days Ur’s craftsmanship had begun to take intelligible shape out of the apparent haphazard chaos that had preceded it, a form which even one who was not versed in the interpretation of the taxidermists’ designs would appreciate as a fine thing, a product of skillful, dedicated labor. Ur had modeled his body into a thing that, while retaining a semblance of the human form, anthropomorphic, was now a cosmogonic mosaic of former organs arrayed in a spiraling fashion that closed and narrowed into what was arguably the center of Ur’s body, a nautilus representing the real nature of the Universe or rather Multiverse for it is, in truth, multitudinous.

Genar watched on, and Ur could feel his beaming gaze, perpetually filled with amazement and wonder at what Ur produced. He had always found it childlike. There was no more blood left in his body, his life artificially maintained by arcane mechanisms, and the time drew near for even those artifices to cease their labor. He was done, now, and he could only exit the mortal coil with hope that it would be enough and that the one foretold would find his remains. In that, he trusted Genar to go forward with the final preparations and arrangements after his expiration. He really did wish he could have passed his knowledge on to Genar; he would have made a fine craftsman. Genar would have to settle for stewardship of the taxidermist’s legacy.

Time had been long in the place where Ur had once lived and plied his singular trade, and time has a curious way of distorting even the most well-meaning of hearts and gestures, to both the benefit or detriment of those involved, oftentimes independently from their intentions or actions.

And so it was that the body of Ur was sold by a debased Genar, who in his lonely stewardship had become plagued by a disease of the soul, one that gnawed away at his sense of duty and morality, and eventually his sanity as well. The taxidermist’s legacy traded off for scraps of the very craft secrets that had procured Ur’s final state.

What future Ur had envisioned and endeavored to honor was now jeopardized – lost, perhaps – and Genar? His bizarrely shaped body had transformed from what it once had been in those better days when Ur still lived into something only vaguely related to humanity in some primitive, and atavistic animality that was relegated to the dreams of small children who in their innocence were less shielded from humanity’s ancestral memories. Genar had toyed with the tools and what little remained of Ur’s ancient trade, effectively becoming a perversion of that lost craftsmanship, an abomination, a base affront at nature itself.

The one foretold by Ur had yet to arrive, and if they ever did, they would have to contend with Genar’s terrible, gnarled form and his even more twisted mind. They would not find Ur’s body there, no. What will become of the future Ur saw once, we might never truly know.

The 12 Shorts of Christmas

Admittedly absent form the blog for a good while – what with all this obnoxious editing and re-writing of my novel – I figured it was time for some much needed literary recreation. All the intensive self-examination that accompanies reworking a novel has me in a haze that can only be cleared up by going on wild storytelling tangents and non-sequiturs, the kind that keep the creative muscles fit and spry, if you will.

In keeping with the holiday spirit from a consumerist, Judeo-Christian standpoint – or rather flavor since I hold neither view personally – I will be posting 12 short stories everyday – one a day -, starting tonight and ending on they day after Christmas (I started late, shut up!).

Hope my dribble is still to your liking! Happy holidays!

To Catch a Kraken

Note: Been absent from the blog for a few months now (three or so?), but I’ve been working on my novel, editing and rewriting for the most part. Here’s a little bit I’ve recently gone over that I feel especially happy with if not proud of… I distinctly recall the process when writing it, and having just gone over the copy with minimal revisions, and feeling a slight rush reading through it, I can’t help but be compelled to share it. I hope those who happen upon these words get some enjoyment out of them.

 

Mind, this is a bit of a segue in the novel, not necessarily spoiling anything in the “awesome, super-original” plot. 😀

 

Jasper, an Odhinist monk, stood on the prow of a seafaring ship, looking out into the open ocean. He was on pilgrimage and soon to engage in the final act that would render him one with Yggdrasil.

   

The ship, a runic relic said to have been sailed by Odin himself, crewed by none other than the lone monk, was near its destination, now. It was steered mentally by those trained in such disciplines of the mind. The monk began to strip naked, shearing his hempen travel clothes. His pale, slender body was covered in tattoos. Despite his slight frame, his toned physique spoke of highly developed functional strength and agility.

   

As the ship slowed at Jasper’s mental directives, approaching the appointed coordinates in the water, he removed his eyepatch, revealing a sunken pair of eyelids sewn together with thick, dark thread. Completely naked and shorn of hair, he dove into the water.

 

When setting out on pilgrimage, every monk makes their way to the Northern seas. Their purpose, to seek out the Kraken. Having passed the initiation and communed with the All-father, he who begat wisdom, at the beginning of their journey as Seidhr, so too must they seek out that which will end the world and commune with it.

 

Seeking the colossal creature is not easy, though it is perhaps the simplest part of the journey. A maelstrom must be located, one which must be probed mentally, psychically, for the resonance of the ancient creature’s thoughts.

 

Many have often thought, erroneously, that the Kraken resides underneath the better known, habitually occurring vortices of Moskstraumen or Saltstaumen, but the truth is that the Kraken moves rather actively, and its telltale vortex will not likely be spotted twice in the same spot in a generation. A pilgrim may very well spend months alone at sea, following the psychic effluvia of the ancient squid, without actually chancing upon a whirlpool.

 

Jasper swam out a hundred feet away from the boat, which now sat relatively still. The semi-sentient vessel would wait for his return or, should he perish in his trial, return to the enclave whence they came. He began to tap into the runic wisdom, casting charms to strengthen his body against the currents it would be subjected to in the maelstrom and to be able to breathe beneath the water’s surface.

 

Once ready, he continued swimming until he felt the currents begin to pull him and move his body in a circular orbit counter-clockwise. Each revolution drawing him closer to the center of the funnel with increasing speed. He remained calm and focused, secure in the knowledge that he had the necessary wisdom and abilities for the task ahead. Knowing full well that he had died once before, when he had sacrificed himself to the All-father nine years prior, he was consumed by the yearning for what lay beyond the veil. Death, if it came, was welcome.

 

The ocean swallowed him and the downdraft propelled him at great speed toward the depths, where the most colossal of earth’s creatures lay in wait. Down through the water, beyond the sun’s reach, surviving pressures that would have otherwise torn his flesh apart, until the mental secretions of the Kraken became so strong that he forgot himself for a spell. Such was the enormous presence, the most ancient mind of the planet, so all-encompassing that lesser individuals were dwarfed and robbed of their sense of self by it’s relative proximity.

 

This was one of the greatest dangers of the pilgrimage. The vast majority of pilgrims who failed were lost in this manner, their minds consumed and absorbed by the Kraken. Amalgamated, assimilated into the massive intelligence.

 

Jasper, his mind swimming in that of the Kraken, which far outreached the confines of its colossal body, struggled to hold on to a minuscule sliver of self. He raged with a tiny speck of determination. He writhed and shook with a liliputian memory of power, and he vibrated until the intensity of it grew, returning to him his awareness. Every bit took superhuman effort. Every expanding inch of psychic awareness was a battle. Jasper did not let up until he had established himself an individual in the humbling presence of the world’s future ender. He had earned the right to stand, as it were, before the Kraken and retain the privilege of individual self-awareness and subjective experience.

 

Having regained control of himself and thus his body, Jasper continued his descent in the darkness. In his mind, however, the Kraken’s presence burned bright. Countless feet into the ocean, the bioluminescence of the mile-long tentacles began to manifest itself. Jasper could not help but be awed at the majesty of appendages as one reached out and took him, gently sheltering him without actually touching him, and it brought him down before the very being he had sought.

 

Hundreds of feet in front of him was the unbelievably enormous body of the Kraken, neon-white with other neon hues swimming below its skin’s surface like liquid crystal; blues, reds, yellows. A massive eye, easily half a mile in diameter, regarded him and his diminutive form. How he must look before such a creature, he wondered.

 

The strange and ancient intelligence of a creature as old as the ocean greeted him in strangely subtle ways. Psychic caresses and gentle attentions from a being that could destroy him with a mere thought buffeted him.

 

It is here that the Pilgrim is again tested, though failure at this stage is subjective, and death often comes as a consequence of the Pilgrim’s own thoughts.

 

To be welcomed into the bosom of the Kraken’s mind is to experience the universe in a potential state. Here is a creature that must lie semi-dormant for ages, tasked with the destruction of the very world that shelters it, yet fraught with the very protogenic soup of creation. It is the dream of the Kraken.

 

There in the mind of the Kraken, the seed of a mortal’s mind can produce an infinity of things, brought into existence there and only there, for the Kraken to witness and consume. In doing so, the Kraken, perhaps, compares the mental emanations of the Pilgrim against unknown criteria. Perhaps, it simply seeks to amuse itself. What is known is that the colossal proto-god takes what those in its presence produce and then expands upon the proto-oniric creations. It reacts with its own, logically-projected coherent creations, sequentially following in some evolutionary path of the original seed provided by the Pilgrim, and lets these all run free for a time within its mind.

 

A wise, mentally agile and steadfast Pilgrim will react in turn and immerse himself into the play, joining the creations in a dream-ballet, until some form of order or balance has been struck. This can be by harmoniously coexisting with the creations and all that follows, or by vanquishing them in some manner. An unapt Pilgrim will fall prey to the creations and be summarily consumed, forgetting themselves absolutely.

 

Jasper carefully controlled his mental emissions, measuring all that formed in his tiny mind, allowing pleasant concepts and emotions to flourish, eliminating any hint of darkness or unpleasant ones that might escape into the Kraken’s proto-oniric sphere.

 

Out flowed color that sped away from him like a puddle of paint spilling across a listless surface in time-lapse, a light-yellow that faded into the massive consciousness of the Kraken and, in return, out burst a prismatic display of colors that reached Jasper.

 

The monk split himself mentally, images of himself fanning out, each one to meet a single color as it reached his small sphere of consciousness. He returned the chromatic volley and split each color into even more hues.
The dance continued for untold ages, eternities dilating into oceans of colors even Jasper did not comprehend. It was there, he realized, that he must end the performance lest he lose himself in the multitudinal rainbow. Instantly devising a way to conclude, he homogenized the chromatic ladder that fanned out across the proto-oniric space, touching them in one deft movement and reaching into their source.

 

Just as it had begun, in a featureless void, so the panoply of colors evolved into a void-like homogenous dream-substance. The original void now a substratum beneath the mind-breaking dreamscape. Jasper, having brought himself to the point where he almost lost himself amid the psychic excretions, had masterfully seen his trial to completion.

 

Floating still within the now womb-like warmth of the Kraken’s mind, the afterglow of their psychic exchange engulfing him, he began to realize that he had triumphed where so many would fail. Slowly, a subdued sense of elation suffused him.

 

In the sweet languor permeating his mind from the exertions of the trial, he came to realize that he had not only survived, but that he had actually touched the ancient one and that, in doing so, he had been given another gift.

 

A seed had been placed within Jasper in exchange for that which he had placed within the Kraken’s mind. He had been given a gift that would perpetuate his existence beyond the comprehension of his currently human form.

 

With the strangest sweetness he had ever experienced foremost in his mind, he parted ways with the Kraken, not unlike parting from a lover’s embrace, rising meteorically to the surface. His runic drakkar, his semi-sentient boat, still waited for his return. He noted, in passing, just an afterthought, that it was now well into the night. He looked up at the sky and noted with wonder that he could see even more stars than he ever had before. The firmament was quite literally aglitter, studded with the most beautifully breathtaking display of luminous bodies he had ever bore witness to. It was like he was looking at all the night skies the Earth ever bore witness to. He smiled.

 

He swam back to his ship and boarded, not bothering to dry himself off or put on his discarded clothes. Physical elements were not an issue at that point.

 

Stepping into the inner chambers of the ship, he noticed that something was different. A small pool of water had appeared next to his bunk, where he had slumbered in his journey to find the maelstrom. It was an opening that now appeared there, as if it had always been a part of the ship, its walls decorated with countless runes. He understood at once what it meant.

 

The gift he had been given exacted one final price; his consciousness would soon leave his human body. He walked over to the small pool and began to heave dryly, his stomach contracting violently. He was only barely aware of there being pain, but his consciousness was already migrating to a new vessel.

   

    Only a few violent seconds later a small, pale thing exited through his mouth and fell into the small pool with a plopping sound. It was a tiny, white octopus with neon-blue spots, no bigger than a baby’s hand.

 

    Jasper’s consciousness, now housed inside the small creature, watched from the pool as his body plummeted to the floor next to the pool. He felt a small tinge of sadness, nostalgia at the loss of his human form, and wondered if he would lose his sense of humanity in turn. He would find out soon enough, he supposed, but would he be conscious of it?

 

    The semi-sentient boat would return to the enclave, carrying the newly spawned child of the Kraken and Jasper’s human corpse. The Odhnist brotherhood would think their brother dead, like those who had brought such specimens before him, and give the Kraken’s blessing a home in their runic pool.

 

    One day, in a not-so-far-off future, Jasper would outgrow his corporeal octopod form, becoming something else entirely, to swim in a sea of dreams. An ocean in a plane far removed for humanity’s awaited him.

 

Lil’ Tommy

Idle hands, goes the saying, are the devil’s playground. Playgrounds are full of children, normally. Children, it might be argued, are the very definition of idle. So it should be no surprise to us, though it is rather peculiar, that a child should be the cause of great trouble.

The town of Pleasant Springs, idyllic and picturesque – quaint, even – could not have foreseen its doom when the nights bore sweet dreams and the flowers of spring were in bloom.

But the nights, they’ve grown eerie and never-quite-cheery, for the town hall’s with corpses festooned. The nightly rubenesques in their dresses paraded, dancing their bloated arabesques, to the tune of the call of the loon.

Lil Tommy, just seven, was toying outside, in the plaza near the town’s center. Through the air came the smell of the pies and the cakes, and the shops signed with ‘do not enter’.

To this Tommy thought ‘Bah!’, let them keep all their sweets, I will find my own way to be king. And swiftly he strode to the field’s very middle, the place of the old witches’ ring.

In the firefly-glow of the old field’s lawn Lil’ Tommy set down a few trinkets. Of the farmers he took token of promise, innocuous they’d thought Tommy’s game. In a circle, arranged, in a curious array lay the old buttons of old man Rickets, and the buttons of Pie Lady Donna, and the buttons of his teach Ms. Lane, everybody in town have given Tommy a button, a token, a promise thought tame. Even Mayor Hopstocket the man with the lockets of golden hair some called insane.

And the buttons had blood of pigeons and rabbits and foxes and ducks and dogs. And of cats and of lizards that lived through a blizzard only to be squashed like frogs (the blood of which also covered the buttons).

It was all quite singular, most peculiar indeed, that the smell of rot and sulphur should invade the sweet breeze.

And the darkness took form and it stood there ‘fore Tommy, who dwarfish did look in its shadow. But he called for a reason and called well he did, for the Devil ‘fore Tommy would do all he bid, but for only the souls of the people in town. The souls of the mild-mannered wicked and foul. All humans, said Satan, are tainted in truth. All women and men, even dogs, forsooth!

So there Lil’ Tommy did pledge to old scratch the souls of the women and men of Pleasant Springs. And pleasant no longer were any o’ the springs, for what ran through them after you’d rather not swim in.

For pies and for cakes and for candies galore,

For toys and for summer-like days evermore,

Did sell, Lil’ Tommy, the souls of the town

And now and forever he sits on that ground

On that very field, chubby and round

Without friends, without, cheer, but with nothing to fear,

Yet content with the sweets that he holds so dear.

Dichotomous

Zombie apocalypses aren’t as cut and dry as some would think. Ng wasn’t sure what to make of the situation himself. The movies and books and all the media that milked the Zombie genre for a century or so was hardly preparation for the actual end of the world… or the civilized world, at least.

 

There’s something to be said about dying: it’s easy to do. He had been taking care of his garden when he had been taken by surprise, and bitten, by Manuel, his Mexican neighbor. It hadn’t been pleasant, the bite, but he didn’t take more than a few seconds to die. It was a blessing, Ng thought, that the virus or whatever the hell it was that caused the state of undeath was so fast-acting, so effective, that people died and turned in the space of a minute, if that much.

 

Ng hadn’t heard about anything amiss on the news, certainly no mention whatsoever of an outbreak of any sort, and so he didn’t have much to go on when his body rose up on its own and his body – corpse, rather – shambled on and out of his front yard. This is where it all struck him as being singularly odd; he was watching his reanimated corpse from outside himself. That is, he was disembodied, existing extraneously independent from his recently-deceased body.

 

He tried looking at himself, at his own feet – not those of his corpse but, out of habit, at the place where, from his solipsistic vantage point, his feet would have been – and saw nothing but the grass beneath him. He was a… ghost?

 

Funny, he never did wonder what happened to the soul, assuming then, before this, that there was one, when a character in a film or book was zombified. Come to think of it, now that he thought about the word “soul”, he couldn’t be sure that there was a soul. Wasn’t that a bitch? Here he was, clearly an incorporeal entity, floating – he thought “floating” was the only appropriate term – in the air, and he couldn’t tell if there was a soul. That was just like the universe, after all; answer one question – is there an afterlife? Apparently, yes – and get a combo of a thousand more – is there a soul? Can’t tell, what about God? Dunno, what does one do for fun after one dies? Too soon to tell…

 

One question he was considering was answered quickly enough; Manuel’s ghost was floating over from his house to Ng’s and it was smiling at him. It was thinking at him, too, not talking, but thinking. Telephathy, huh? Who’d have thought…

 

Manuel was apparently enjoying the afterlife for the time being, he said as much after apologizing for his undead corpse’s actions, deeply ashamed, he said telepathically. No need to apologize, said Ng earnestly, there wasn’t much an incorporeal being could do to stop the shambling corpse that formerly housed it, after all.

 

So who turned you? He asked Manuel. Maid, he said. What about the children, Ng asked with genuine worry. Out of town with the wife, said Manuel, with some relief, though they both knew it might be a toss-up whether anyone would survive this, the proverbial hitting of the fans by the world’s vast reserves of fecal matter.

 

What do you say we go over and enjoy the Hendersons’ getting eaten, Manuel suggested with a peevish smile under the thick, black mustache. Sounds like fun! With a disembodied chuckle, Ng and Manuel made their way down the street to the uptight Hendersons’ ostentatious house. Ng thought it would be something to see what the posh family made of the afterlife. Manuel quipped something which Ng didn’t quite catch until the end – yeah, apparently telepathy can be misheard, er, misreceived? He said it’ll be fun to watch those gringos running for a change.

Them’s the Breaks

It’s a funny world, this one. Things humans subject themselves to under the guise of civilization, strife born of the terrible prevalence of ego and desire, the subscription to concepts and norms set to perpetrate the status quo that keeps the mighty on top and the commoner down in the mud. Great injustices start with small ones, quite often, and that is one of the many tragedies of this world. So many injustices start out cruelly only to become blessings in disguise… but then, well, what does anyone know about anything at all?

***********************************************************************

There was something wrong, Jonas knew. For years he’d felt this oppressive sense that all he ever did would fall to pieces. His life up until his fifties offered no evidence to counter this assessment of his own accomplishments, or lack thereof. He was washed up, a failed architect who at one point in his life had been poised to make something truly great of himself. Projects of magnitudes colossal lined up, sudden connections to influential circles, visions of abundance and wealth… they had all come to nothing.

He would often blame himself, for who else was there to blame? God? Ha! No, it was nothing from fanciful fabrications of the human collective – he would think often; nothing but his own folly. He had been foolish often, and had committed the same mistakes over and over, as if he couldn’t help it. He often wondered what was wrong with him, what made him be that way, why, when it came to defining moments, he always made the wrong choice.

But now there was this, this… this new piece of the puzzle, one that had never before been considered in seriousness…

His fourth wife was next to him, Clara, mother of his three youngest daughters. They were there with him, as well, in the living room of their home of twenty years. With were his children from the previous three marriages, three more daughters, one for each failed partnership. The only one that was missing was his firstborn child, his only son, Robert.

It was fine, however, he was busy with his own family, his own failed marriage, his daughter, his job… he was very diligent and had to take care of a lot of things and couldn’t make it, but it was not necessary for him to be there.

The parish priest sat at a tall chair opposite the large sofa where Jonas, his wife and his progeny sat. It was time to begin the cleansing. Another woman, a purported witch, was next to the priest. She held a felt pouch within which was rock salt, spices, and another component which she had been rather taciturn about discussing.

No matter, Jonas thought, there was a time to question and a time to follow blindly. This was the latter.

It had come to his attention, and that of his immediate family, that he had acquired, through his years of philandering and terrible decisions, a curse. An erstwhile lover, jilted, bitter, had threatened him once, wanting him to divorce from his then first wife. He had, like many men before him and since him, held onto his marriage and deflected his mistress’ please to marry her by saying, falsely, that his wife would not accede to a divorce no matter how much he asked. This created a long episode of harassment against his then-wife on behalf of his mistress. He had been a coward, he knew, but he didn’t help one woman or the other.

Somehow, despite the duress in those days, his wife eventually was with child, that which would become his son Robert. At the news of this, his mistress had gone positively berserk, the threats escalating to a maddening degree, eventually forcing Jonas to act and cut her off. But his mistress would not leave without the last word, and she said she would curse him and his descendants. His lineage would come to dust, it would be nothing, and all his efforts and creations would also come to nothing.

He had lent this no ear, no mind, as would any reasonable person. But the years had been unkind in great part with Jonas and his children. Perhaps, it really was a curse. He knew he himself deserved it, certainly, but not his children.

In church just a few days earlier he had become distraught, racked with paroxysmal convulsions that would not relent. This was the culmination of a long period of depression, of finding no avail or succor in anything or anyone. He had been looking down a dark tunnel with no light at either end, and that apparent attack during mass had been the beginning of an end.

The priest that presided over the parish was an old, knowledgeable and experienced missionary who at one time dealt with the darker, more hushed subjects that the Holy See was expected to contend with, despite the efforts to change the public’s perception of it as an organization. He had immediately recognized the forces at work, or so he had told Jonas.

And that was why they were here: To rid Jonas, and in turn his children, of the undue consequences of his own folly.

***********************************************************************

Robert was tired. He was only thirty years old, but he felt a hundred at heart. He was jovial, often enough, and a kind person, but he felt a terrifying vacuous darkness inside. He often wondered, for good reason, if he might be a bad person.

He was, after all, his father’s son, wasn’t he?

He had not been the level of philanderer his pops had once been, but his evils lay somewhere darker, at times. These were not known to most, and he had certain impulses that could irrevocably change his life and that of those close to him beyond any point of redemption.

And now there was this thing, with his pops, the witchery, the church… he didn’t know what to make of it. This was not what he had ever considered to be the cause of his misfortunes… no, he had always blamed himself, and maybe his father and mother, naturally, but mostly himself.

At night, for the past twenty years or so, he would always lie there in bed, unable to summon the sandman, unable to turn off his mind. He would review his motivations, his wrong turns, and rights-turned-sour, and wonder at the horrible person that was his innermost soul. He was astounded, always, at how corrupt he could be, and how his corruption could spread despite his honest efforts at being a good person. But then, he would also question his own honesty, his own desire to be good… how could he possibly be sure? Did he really know himself? Could he, ever?

He had done regrettable things… to people… to persons who had at some point confided in him. He had taken liberties with affections, with trust, and for that he was now alone. He had chosen to be alone, knowing that he was, in some integral part of his being, broken. He forsook building a new family – he had bungled that one up, already, once – and donned the mantle of solitude… solitude with the sometimes bitter drink of loneliness.

All that was left to him was his daughter. That he hadn’t fucked that up, that was his miracle. She still looked at him with eyes of love, like he was the hero that could never possibly fall. That was all the light in the world, and it was all the light Robert needed. If only he could find a way to have more time to spend with her…

In the end, that’s all life is… regrets and struggle, struggle and regrets, and a few ephemeral moments of respite.

Who knows, maybe this cleansing or whatever it is they were doing at his pops’ place would yield something good for him, too.

**********************************************************************

The cleansing had been frightful. Jonas had felt his heart nearly give up on him and the toll the ritual had taken on his body had been dear. But he was now free.

He felt liberated, light, like a feather floating idly in the wind. He was, for the first time he could remember in decades, happy, at peace.

He hugged his wife and children, all his daughters, and was keenly aware that Robert’s absence was all that wasn’t right at that moment. No matter, his son, his pride – had he told him he was proud of him despite it all? – would eventually come.

He thanked the old priest, who was sporting a lukewarm smile, and shook his hand. He went to the witch-woman, who had been a boon in the ritual, and embraced her. Her look, however, the expression on her face, was sad. This puzzled him for a moment, but he wasn’t ready to dwell on it. He was hungry, famished! He would cook for his family. They were all together! This, he mused, was a good day.

**********************************************************************

Robert had been driving, going down the lane to the parking lot of his workplace, when the heart attack struck. By the time his car crashed against the wall of the building he was already dead. In a freak explosion his remains were burned to ashes. It was merciful that he wasn’t there to feel the fire destroy his body.

**********************************************************************

No matter what we do, in this life, in our dreams, in our hearts, we will all be dust. It’s quite pointless, to follow these accepted norms, this social contract, this net to keep us all down and docile.

And our mistakes, how do they take form? Do they become tulpas somewhere in our psyche? Do they become egregorial manifestations in the physical plane?

The sins of the father. The sins of the son.

Three-in-a-Day and Tweeting Away

Can A.M. Coverston (i.e. Me) write and publish three – that’s right, THREE – short stories in one day? We are about to find out!

On top of that, a Tweet Novella is launching today as well. I will write a few lines every day for a year and see where that takes me. Improv? Kind of. Crazy? You bet!

You can follow me on Twitter @brokenclavicle

Let’s see where this idiotic idea takes us!