Excerpts from book 3, Nanowrimo 2009. Unedited.
The birds of midnight flee the rain, confounded by the day-less sun. By lightning lit the cavern’s gate, with Daeken’s rod a-glow in vain. NO power runs from the staglamite. No mansion’s raised with rich divide. No guardians watch the crystal room. The terror’s seized the hall of man. Hear, the thunders spell out doom, the famished angels weak in hills, the mountains fall by candle light. The beauty of the statues woe. The eyes of gods most wet with smear, the elves of forests tortured green, the smile of lions wrong and doubt, the raven’s battered wing un-rested. Horses hooves, an injured mane, slowly mourning maiden’s wrath. The volume of the seraphs , wane, the cherubs sings the fall of grace. The saint’s are burdened in the church. Shadows weighed, afflicted souls. Heat gone silent, children weep. Mother’s pray with nervous tongue. Old priests tremble in the dark. Confession boxes up in flames, stained glass scenes now shattered , gone; candles burn with blackest flame. Moans escape the broken ground, madness claim the frightful nuns, stern, the songs through panic sung, doors of Heaven shut and meek. Blood now fills the crystal ball. Scare, immense, the seer’s heart. Fortune cards are blank and bleak, casting stones have turned to sludge. Invocations to the deaf, righteous swords returned to sleep. Shields of old reflect the soft, amulets lay in fields of ruin. 5 The black, cylindrical monument running through the heart of the city mall hummed like a beacon or a watchtower. Entranced, the people roamed the 9 stories worth of shops, spanning over the length of 3 foot ball fields. Polluted with stores. High fashion and food. Gold priced underwear, body mod shops, whores of respectable stature waited for the tourists, scones of German butter and shoes made from the skin of snakes. There was no place for the poor man here. The toilets were free to use of course. One could drink from the taps. but if one wanted free food. It would have to be scraps, like dogs waiting at the master’s feet by the dinner table of mahogany. The windows were free to be stared at. The women and metropolitan men who sauntered by could be stared at. Free eye candy. Visible panty lines. But other than that, everything else required power and pregnant accounts. So when the black monument decided to come alive, with that hum, certain shifts of reality were in order. For one. The business men lost their memories of their wives and children (if they were married) or lost their sense of negotiation. It was amusing at least, to see them showing off skin and dropping hints of sexual bribery. Spoiled children lost their two front teeth. Maids took on the persona of their Mrs, and seduced the husbands into giving them all their fortunes. The wives were reduced to the state of pets they abused and chained up in cages. Men of power wet their pants and soiled their gold priced underwear. It’s all boring really. The metamorphoses of the city mall denizens. One would expect such endings, such tragedies because it made mediocre sense. Because it was worth it. It was natural for the opposite, or the absent aspect to manifest and occur. For every obsession there was an equal and opposite connection. For one thing, no one committed suicide. That would’ve been too easy an escape. Cannibalism. Now that would have been the better outcome. Would it not? The poor man smiled at these thoughts. His deformed face lighting up. He touched the humming monument. The security guard came by and told him not to do that. And judging the poor man by the stench of his un-bathed body, the state of his tattered clothes, he was asked to leave. The women with diamond bra straps gave him a disgusted look. He had other plans for them. nodding, he left the city mall. Sure. Just fantasies. All those horrible things befalling the ignorant, the wealthy, the proud. But he believed one day the monument would do the exact things he thought about. He believed that the fantasists will have their day. That was the only true hope for the poor man, for when the world rejects such a species, such a species will reject the world. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ 8 cellophane. A sickening sound as it twists and turns around the body. Rolling on the floor. Enjoyment. The camera rolled. Sweat and plastic. Squeaking, satisfying cellophane. Chemical madness. She ate plastic. Believed in the world of the wire. Preferred the touch of rust and of dignitaries, who loved cellophane. Now was the time. The room was draped in the bubble wrap, a cousin to the cellophane. It was the duty of the maintenance crew to ensure the right temperate, the right lighting for the occasion. The orders for the night were crucially varied. Light had to stream from a flood lamp, at intervals of 3 mins, 2 minutes, 5 minutes and back to 3. Hot and loud and melting the plastic. The falling goop would cast a moving shadow. And it would be filmed, by the 8mm cam mounted in the unobstructive corner, as the soft malleable plastic poured out onto bare bodies, made from a clay resin. The small man, who had ordered it, took elaborate photographs of the dissolution process of the staged room. Sweltering heat from the lights. Unruly. A ceiling camera shot movement zoomed in from above. Careful documentation of the sweat droplets sizzling somehow onto small metal plates around the floor were made. Another worm’s eye camera caught the small smoke as the splash evaporated. The small man made sure not to step on the hot plates. He was just careful enough to let the right amount of perspiration fall. At exactly ten minutes to midnight, the door of the closet had to open, and a midget, suited up as a baby seal would have to roll out onto the bubble wrap floor, bursting and popping. These sounds had to be recorded. She would have to make baby seal noises. That was the most difficult part. “Try your best.” The small man had said. He was wielding a hunting knife in one hand, a condenser, multi directional mic in the other. Without further ado, he unhooked the 8mm camera that was running from the corner. And frantically did close up shooting of the baby seal getting trapped in the melted plastic. He wanted to recreate an earthquake, a rude and meticulous murder. He slashed bags of sand hanging from the chandelier and signified rain of the desert. His narration would proclaim the inverse universe, and how the dried sand was anti=thesis to the seals’ desperate need for water. The final scene was a black out. And with night vision filming, the small man artistically captured the slashing of his forearms and the spaces between his toes to signify, in his story, the possession and sale of seal meat. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ We ran out of drugs on the fourth day. No pushers made their way to this desert inn. We roamed in the sun like starving animals. Staring up into the great kingdom above awaiting omens. The boring merchants marched past. Never knowing the pleasures we had indulged in, now lost. They asked for mediocre things like coins and food. We could only offer mysticism. We gave them our shoes for they were to walk farther than they needed to. No cities held close to their hearts these things they seeked. Good luck to them. no night time would come. This we were sure of. So we sprawled without clothes on the burning sand, the pain searing into our minds offering glimpses to lost worlds and closed off dimensions. Soon enough, the older ones in our group died. We took apart their flesh and bones and made ritualistic houses out of them. stacking their loins and stretching their skins for shelter. We were not fazed by such madnesses for it was a way of life now in the era of one thousand one hundred. We sat around ice fires, made from base magic, semen and sweat. We reserved the blood to create vultures, so it could go off in search of drug pushers. We sat around telling tales. We had heard, from the passers by that there were worse places to be than here. We heard talk of a man and a woman, who no longer had bodies but could remember the days of flesh. We could not imagine what it would be like, to be them. They were still alive. For they were deemed immortal by the gods of this un-world. Thankfully, we praised the dry earth that the un-world was not fully expressed in this quarter of the desert. It was said by a passing mad woman that the desert itself was a talisman against the madness of the unworld. From her we heard the story of the poor husband. Who witness his wife give birth to eels, excreting her organs before she comitted suicide into a pool as deep as the tallest sky scraper of our times past. We heard he offered himself to the scavengers of the north, those unstately men who would rape the nuns and set the priests on fire. But they would have nothing to do with him. So dejectedly he abandoned the sanctum of the scavengers. Attempting yet again for an umpteenth time to kill himself. And failing miserably. For it is heard that he too is an immortal, Who shall wander the lost lands of the one thousand until he has reahed our farthest shores. We asked the mad woman if we would get a chance to speak with him. She looked into her cracked crystal ball but saw only blood. She stayed with us that day. Offering us her body for wisdom. Only a few of us made love to her for the others could not muster enough strength and courage to fuck a witch.