by A.R. Ispas
Fire is a living organism
Blood melted the snow in tones of crimson. Hector grunted as he pulled the knife out. Boiling sinew followed the blade on its way out. The Forest witnessed the act in silence, waiting for the fire to fade.
To live is to be chewed and spat out only to be swallowed again by the The Dragon of Agony and Shame. What is left then, if the dragon dies? All of Hector’s dramatized and romanticized past, so cruel and woeful, so dreaded and full of pain—so forgotten. Everything was dead—Hope, Agony and Shame—what was once human is now a ghoul in a boneyard of dreams.
Three breaths was all he had left. The first went by without a notice. Worms crawled inside his eyes. The second was taken in staccato. Worms slithered in his veins. The third was halfway through when an echo of life shouted and raged against the fading light. The end stopped being near. It was now, and forever, here.
Hector and the Curse of the Owl
Torn clothes stuck to his skin, failing in their duty to protect against the torrents. A miasma of wet leaves and damp wood was making his eyelids heavy under its fumes. Hector walked guided by hope. With every step the illusion was blooming into a mirage, then it blossomed into a firefly and finally into a solid crown of luminescence. The rose of hope rooted in his chest, lacerating his lungs with its thorns.
He reached the imposing facade of a manor. The outer walls stretched far, merging with the darkness and the rain. Hector saw that the lighthouse that guided him until that moment was in fact a round stained-glass window above the porch. It depicted a great tree, each branch embraced by the glow of a hundred amber fruits. An eerie warmth radiated from the glass, tendrils creeping over the sclera of the night. Hector hammered his fist into the front doors, scanning the edges of his vision. Naught but trees and rain. From inside, muffled footsteps and soon after a rather fancy lobby was revealed as the doors opened. A pale hand gripped the handle revealing a wedding ring covered in soot. He noticed a strand of hair falling over her left eye and his reflection in her right eye. A bald old man with golden brown skin stared back at him with hollowed eyes. Some drops of rain followed him inside. The woman hurried to close the door and beckoned him to follow. Her face, her voice, even her gestures, everything carefully crafted out of expensive porcelain. He noticed the iris of her eye erupting with twitchy red veins. They strolled into the main hall of the mansion, lit by an ornate candelabra. Beneath it, in front of a grand staircase, a stone mosaic was embedded into the floor. Three red circles—three red eyes—each with a bisected triangle inside. She made sure to not step on them. Hector looked into the circles eyes and the eyes circles looked back. Red. Glowing. Eyes inside—It was best to avoid them.
They ascended the grand staircase. On the wall now opposite to them and above the door from which Hector entered, hung a monumental painting depicting a mountain growing in the background of a forest which encroached upon a dimly lit wooden cabin emanating the same amber glow through its windows. Behind the mountain, a moon—a leering white eye—which covered most of the sky watched in silence. Reaching the second floor Hector met another imposing work of art. Stretched across the entire wall a tapestry depicted a pyramid-like structure forsaken into an endless white desert. From the tip of the structure a beam of light was shooting up towards. In the background, a giant moon is watching from the sky.
A vow of silence was upheld until they reached his chambers. Before leaving him, he asked for her name. The woman twitched and answered in a cracked voice. “Phia”. Exhausted, Hector threw himself in bed, soaked clothes and all. He fell into a deep slumber lulled by the rain that tried,ever so gently, to break through the windows and swallow him whole.
Dreams bleeding into reality? Or perhaps reality bleeding into dreams. It barely made a difference as he found himself following Phia again. The way the building was structured, each floor a long corridor housing many rooms, it reminded him of an inn. The many paintings, tapestries, carpets and occasional vase or suit of armor that decorated every plank and wall helped in reaching the conclusion that the place wasn’t an ordinary roadside refuge. In better days he would’ve asked Phia about its purpose and history but as he stared at her short black hair, a vision kept gnawing, of Phia turning around and having glowing, red eyes eyes—He decided to not bother her.
After many floors and doors and doors and floors and corridors with doors that lead to floors and upside floors with doors leading to upright corridors they reached the doors of the dining room. The frames and handles were plated with silver and across the dark blue wood small diamonds were embedded to imitate a starlit night sky. In the middle, a sculpted owl’s head was split by the junction between the two doors. The owl had three eyes, one on each side and one in the middle. His eyes were drawn to the owls and he noticed they started to glow—Red glowing eyes with bisected triangles in the center.
A calm summer night, stars scattered across the firmament. Then, the sky opened its eyes. Three red glowing eyes. Eyes like mouths that ate the stars, eyes like spears that impaled him to the ground. Eyes like pulsating arachnid egg sacks from which spawned billions of eyes with eyes. Red glowing eyes with eyes inside the eyes. Eyes with slit pupils that ate his flesh— eyes which smelled and tasted, eyes with tongues and eyes with arms. Eyes with tentacles. Eyes that carried the Throne of God, eyes that watched from beneath the black feathered wings. Eyes upon eyes, inside eyes, red glowing eyes with eyes and arms and legs. Red glowing eyes with eyes, eyes inside eyes. Eyes inside his eyes, eyes inside his brain. Eyes bursting open from his veins. Eyes with eyes, red glowing eyes crawling in his stomach, eyes chewing his liver. Eyes eating eyes and red glowing eyes ripping him apart. Eyes with eyes, eyes within eyes. Eyes that see him, eyes that kill him. Eyes that rape him, eyes that degrade him. Red glowing eyes of the people he scorched, eyes within the eyes of the people he turned to ash. Eyes that laughed and mocked. Eyes that shone red. Hector cried stomach acid through his eyes as the face of Bartholomeus appeared in front of him. A face with red glowing eyes with teeth and tongues that accused, that blamed and shouted insults. Eyes inside his spine that saw he was spineless. Eyes inside his heart that knew he was heartless. Drowning in a sea of eyes. Eyes flooding his throat. Slimy, sticky eyes forcing their way into his esophagus. Outside it rained eyes. Inside it rained eyes. Eyes with eyes. Eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyesRed glowing eyes of the Owl inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes—fire. Fire birthed inside the golden throats of the nineteen Golden Serpents. The heat that shall bring death to the Universe. The curse was cast.
A calm summer night. No stars dared to shine. The Moon was perched on top of The Mountain, watching. The Owl blinked with all three red glowing eyes and turned its head sideways. It studied Hector from its lofty tree. He was now sitting at a long table. On the opposite end, a man wearing a white mask. In front of him a plate, a knife and a fork. Hector’s table was arranged the same way with one exception. On the plate, a white mask. He looked outside. Red glowing eyes. He looked at the ceiling. Red glowing eyes, within red glowing eyes. The man in front of him gestured towards the mask. It was made of wood, painted white and smooth to the touch. Hector closed his eyelids—eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside—He opened his eyes inside eyes inside eyesRed glowing eyes. The man gestured towards the mask again. Hector held it close to his face, careful not to put it on—yet. No more
eyes. No more red glowing eyes. The ones in the walls, the ones in the sky. No more. A hand rested on his shoulder. Pale, delicate. A soot-covered ring with eyes. She also wore a white mask.
Hector gripped the mask in both hands. The mask burst into flames. He grabbed Phia’s hand and tore her mask off her face, setting it on fire as well. The woman shrieked as she saw the eyes within eyes inside red glowing eyes inside ey
eyes again
not again
Jonah, why bring the Owl inside? Jonah, why feed them to the Owl? Jonah, why speak with the Owl? Jonah, why show me the eyes? within the eyes writhing inside eyes
why are the eyes
inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes inside eyes
“Why my eyes? Where are my eyes?” Why are my eyes red glowing eyes
The entire manor was now burning. Wood and stone alike. Hector dashed through the flames dragging Phia behind. Her entire body was shaking, muscles contracting at random, tears evaporating before they could wet her cheeks. The shrieks of the Owl chased them down the doors and floors and across the sideways corridors that wound in endless floors with many doors. Eyes with legs and legs with eyes sprang from the corners of the walls inside the walls and and the many doors of the endless floors burst open with red glowing eyes with bisected triangles. Phia cried stomach acid through her eyes as the hands of eyes almost grasped her red glowing eyes but Hector burned them before they could impregnate her eyes with more eyes again. They passed by Hector’s room. From the shadows of the flames, on the bed that turned into a pyre, Hector saw the shape of a man. When they emerged into the grand lobby of the manor, the flames had already begun eating the tapestries and the paintings. The painting with the mountain was however yet to be touched. Hector noticed the doors wide open. No eye or flame touched them as they passed beneath the Moon.
The sky opened its eyes and saw them running through the Forest. Every leaf had eyes, every branch had eyes. Every blade of grass watched them with red glowing eyes. He looked above. The Owls wingspan darkened the summer night sky as Hector stared it down and from within the depth of his eyes he commanded the flames to latch onto the Owl. Every feather, every inch of skin, every eye and every eye inside another eye was burned as the Owl’s silhouette was contoured by flame. Owl’s cry made the firmament crack, revealing the golden scales of the nineteen Golden Serpents. The flames were emboldened and the Owl, pleading and shouting was burned at the stake, its terrible wings fluttering across the scorched sky.
“And thus the curse is cast.” Ph—The Owl—ia whispered into Hector’s eyes.
A calm summer day. Hector and Phia both sleep under the shade of mighty trees. Rabbits and mice watch over their innocent slumber.
Man in the bus
An almost destroyed paper schedule hung by the metal body of a street lamp. Next to it, under the formalin light a bench with no back rest seduced me with dry red flakes of paint. I think it was quite foggy but I cannot remember right. They—the fog and the gray—are similar to the roman dodecahedron or the third spice which stood beside salt and pepper on every and as such they are easy to forget. I know for sure they were not always here. In the beginning there were colorful fish and octopuses, of all shapes and sizes, dashing through endless forests of mesmerizing fractals. Day after day everything was put in the drawer together with the crayons. Day after day tremendous excitement and joy. And then the fog and the gray, day after day.
I sat on the bench. The spotlight of the street lamp caged my shadow. I forgot about the rain of photons which caused my skin to decay. A painful labor, to embalm a black hole in light.
The bus arrived heralded by the cough of its engine. I rose to my feet and walked towards the vehicle. The doors snapped open and I saw him—the man—standing in the doorway. I could discern a stern, emotionless mouth and a short beard, everything else was hidden behind a wide brim hat and a heavy trench coat. His silhouette judged me, his breath clogged my glands. I knew that pretending to be good enough was not going to work because the man knew I was not. I knew I shouldn’t take up space. I knew I should just stay behind, where I belonged. But then I thought, maybe I should get on, claim my place among my fellow humans. I knew I should rot so that finally I may be of use, as food for worms and fly larvae. Revolting! I deserve more! That’s it! I am getting on! I’m coming! Everyone, I’m coming with you!
Right as I put my foot on the stairs I felt the man’s gaze analyzing every micro-movement of my muscles. Was I not doing it right? Was I supposed to put the other foot first? Was it my hair? Was I not dressed properly? My limbs went stiff. Before I could form another thought the doors closed shut right in my nose, making me lose balance. I fell on my butt and the next thing I saw was the shape of the bus as it moved on without me.
I remembered the floor. It was all I had left that day. It was all I had, each and every day. If tomorrow came I would’ve tried again but I already knew it would be another day where all I would have is the fog and the gray.
Flesh Comet
On top of St. Cupertino Hill there is a person watching the sky every night. St. Cupertino is the landmark of my grandparents’ village by virtue of being the only mound of earth in the area. I often get to witness this phenomenon as I pass through the village every other day to bring medicine, food and whatever else my grandparents would need from the city. Whenever I leave I make sure to be the first on the bus and find a window seat on the side facing the hill.
The very first time I saw this person it was frightening. The shape of a human with no distinctive features standing on top of a hill and somehow contrasting the starlit sky; very rarely you get to see so many stars in the city but in the village the godlike splendor of the cosmos was almost in full display to the naked eye. To that extent I could understand that individual. The sky was beautiful. Over time I got used to seeing them and they became part of my “normality”, that is to say I would feel quite disturbed should I not see them there at night. Like the tree outside your window that was there for years, it is now part of your life. Passive, non intrusive, not even connected directly to you and yet should the tree be cut down you would feel immense sorrow. Your “normality” would be ruined and it would take some time to get used to the stump. I know for a fact I’d start to worry for this person if they stopped showing up. Many called them crazy or lunatic and should I share my feelings with anyone I would probably be assigned the same labels. Although I feel ashamed to admit I do understand their point of view. Standing alone on a hill every night, eyes affixed to the sky and not doing anything for hours on end doesn’t exactly fit the description of a “normal” member of society.
I did, however, find beauty in this person’s “madness”. Far too seldom nowadays do we take a moment to watch the stars. As I already said, people living in cities don’t even get to see them anymore and even in remote locations we no longer have the privilege of witnessing the grandeur of space. The overall light pollution on the planet swallows the majesty of the stars. For ages our species has worshiped and looked to them for guidance and we didn’t even know what they were. But now we know what they are and how they are birthed and no one looks at them anymore. No one seeks their guidance anymore. Many times I wondered, were they truly “crazy” for stargazing every night or were they simply looking at the sky for the rest of us as well?
One day, on a calm summer night, these feelings and thoughts that fermented in my mind for years finally pushed me to join this person. I had thought of this many times before but was always overwhelmed by anxiety. Fear bred from the social cloud of judgment and malice which poisoned my lungs ever since I was born made me question if they were just a crackhead that would stab me in the ribs as soon as they saw me? Or some other kind of unstable person that would hurt me? On that day however, curiosity overcame anxiety. As soon as the sky darkened I told my grandparents I was going for a walk and thus began my journey to St. Cupertino Hill. I took nothing with me save for my cell phone in case of emergencies but made sure to keep it on silent. A well beaten dirt road led directly to St. Cupertino. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Bilbo felt as well. Visions flooded my mind, stray dogs, serial killers, Rakes and cultists that needed fresh blood on their altars. I felt like the protagonist of every cryptid campfire horror story that was about to die grotesquely in order to show the audience how terrible the monster was. Fortunately for me, I am not a thaumaturge and whatever terrible scenarios were brewing in my synapses didn’t manifest into reality and I reached the top of the hill safely albeit sweaty and cold.
They were already there, dressed in some sort of cloak or robe, standing still, head tilted upwards. The idea of using my phone’s flashlight popped up but felt inappropriate so I simply stood there unsure of what to do. After a short internal debate I decided to not say anything. We weren’t there to connect and befriend each other, we were there to connect with the stars. In truth not having to conform to social norms was liberating. Me and they were there, doing something together but not tied to any subtext, context or relationship. Even though we did not exchange a single word I did feel like their presence was guiding me and I hoped they felt less lonely with my company.
Careful not to pry, I set my gaze upon the horizon. As I was merely an acolyte I had to first observe the joint between the above and the below. There was respect and reverence to be shown, both towards my partner and to the zenith. When I was ready I looked up.
The Flesh Comet dashed across the firmament leaving a crimson tail behind. Among the great order of cosmic bodies, this one inherited neither grace nor grandeur as it pulsated and writhed. Arms and feet were sticking out of it like hair, all blended together in a bulbous mass. But this wasn’t it. This gory visage wasn’t it. I felt a hand embrace my shivering fingers. Yes, I had to look deeper. Closer. I now saw the surface of the comet. Disgusting. Mouths, ears and noses, I could hear cries. There was no blood or bile, it was just flesh melded and intertwined. I could not discern a single complete human figure, nor could I recognize any face. I was part of this comet, somewhere deep near its core, crushed and suffocated. And so I started to crawl to dig my way out. When I got near its crust I could only peek a great darkness through the cracks and orifices. This wasn’t it. I pushed myself through and my head emerged from the flesh. Color started to tease the edges of my vision. There was more. I pushed again and emerged completely. Now I felt its movement. It ran through the sky with immense speed and I almost got thrown off but two pairs of hands grabbed my feet. Everything I wanted to see was on the other side of the comet, so I jerked my feet free from the grasp of the comet and as I turned I grabbed on to a random body part that was sticking out.
Colors—formless colors that I didn’t even know they existed. A nebula. Gods dancing in the clouds, songs and ballads echoing across the sea of stardust. It was beautiful. It was soothing, comforting. My soul discovered a feeling it never knew. A feeling of belonging, of being in the right place. Without knowing I let go. The Flesh Comet continued its course, distancing itself from that splendid cosmic painting. I was now part of its tail, me and thousands of fleshy people who were also gazing at the nebula. One of them was holding my hand.
Watching the birthing grounds of stars—beautiful.
DIVER 2
WARNING: ENGAGING WITH THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORIZATION IS PUNISHABLE BY EXISTENTIAL DELETION
EXTRACTING EXPERIMENT ARCHIVE: DIVER 2
EXTRACTION COMPLETE – BEGIN LOG PLAYBACK
FILE NAME: DIVER 2 ITERATION 1
EXPERIMENT HEAD: SHIVA
EXPERIMENT STATUS: ONGOING
PARENT PROJECT: COSMIC OCEAN EXPLORATION
PART OF PROGRAM: FURTHER APPLICATIONS
PRE-EXPERIMENT OBSERVATIONS
The DIVER 2 Experiment will undergo its first iteration tomorrow. All medical and psychological evaluations of the staff involved are within acceptable parameters, including those of our primary subject, Kali (ICN). Preliminary analysis and compiled data from DIVER 1 indicate that Kali is the only correct choice. The purpose of DIVER 2 is to avoid the same mistakes that lead to the abrupt end of DIVER 1. Numerous safety protocols, preventive as well as responsive, have been implemented under Iowa’s (ICN) supervision. Technological development led by Windsinger (ICN) has also been one of the key factors in obtaining approval for DIVER 2. Of course, Kali volunteering as primary subject was the catalyst of the entire experiment.
ADDENDUM: Iowa requested another psychological checkup with the primary subject. Approved.
EXPERIMENTAL SETUP
DIVER 2 consists of a similar setup to DIVER 1. Experiment grounds are located in the same facility sector, next to the [REDACTED]. It is one of the deepest points of the facility at [REDACTED] below the [REDACTED]. Similar to DIVER 1, the setup consists of a large water-tight chamber made out of [REDACTED]. For DIVER 2 the water-tight chamber was built in the shape of a dodecahedron at Windsinger’s instructions. One of the faces of the dodecahedron is parallel to the soil and has a total area of 80m2. All sides of the dodecahedron have the same area. Inside the water tight chamber the setup for DIVER 2 differs quite substantially from DIVER 1. Instead of the wooden hut and [DATA MISSING], DIVER 2 employs a library. Each bookshelf is 2.5m tall by 1.6m wide and has a varying number of shelves filled with books. The wood used in the manufacturing of the bookshelves comes from the FOREST experiment results and its use was authorized by head of experiment Matthias (ICN). The books used in the experimental setup are ordinary, procured from various distributors from around the world. In order for the simulated library to feel more real to the primary subject, the books have been organized by language and genre. In the middle of the simulated library there is one velvet couch and a coffee table. Both pieces of furniture, as well as the mask, were reused from DIVER 1. On the coffee table, a white mask made out of the same wood as the bookshelves is placed. The inside walls of the water tight chambers are painted with [REDACTED] which comes from the CHROMA experiment results. The use of [REDACTED] has been approved by heads of experiment, Renoir (ICN) and Aline (ICN). Using [REDACTED]’s properties the aspect of the inner walls can be changed in order to create a more relaxing ambiance. Brain scans and the subsequent failure of DIVER 1 highlighted the need to reduce stress to the primary subject prior to interacting with the Cosmic Ocean. At Iowa’s directions, a starry sky ambiance was chosen. Entering the water-tight chamber is performed through [REDACTED]. This method allows quick access inside the chamber should the experiment go awry while not compromising the integrity of the chamber like a traditional door or hatch. Next to the experimental setup, there is the observation deck built from the same material as the water-tight chamber. The observation deck follows standard operational norms. All devices, sensors and apparatus are connected to and supplied by THE PROMETHEUS ENGINE as per regulation.
EXPERIMENT PROCEDURE
DIVER 2 will proceed in a similar fashion to DIVER 1. The primary subject will lay down on the velvet couch and at their leisure will attempt to interact with the Cosmic Ocean by putting on the white mask. The primary subject will remain in contact with the Cosmic Ocean for as long as it is safe to do so. Upon contact, water begins to flow out of the mask at an accelerating rate, eventually flooding the entire water-tight chamber. Evidently, the primary subject’s nostrils and mouth are also filled with water however, if the primary subject is compatible with the mask this will not affect them beyond a small initial discomfort. The primary subject’s mind is then projected inside the Cosmic Ocean while their body remains in the water-tight chamber which by that point will be fully flooded. A safety switch is available at all times, which will drain the water should the primary subject be at risk. Should the experiment proceed normally, once the connection between the primary subject and the Cosmic Ocean is terminated the water will disappear on its own. The cause of this is yet undetermined. It does not flow anywhere nor does it evaporate. Once contact has been made, using [REDACTED] the observation deck can see images of the Cosmic Ocean directly from the brain activity of the primary subject. Communication to the primary subject during the experiment is not yet implemented but latest reports from Windsinger indicate a possible prototype. The primary subject is expected to explore the Cosmic Ocean at their own pace and for as long as they can sustain the connection.
POST-EXPERIMENT OBSERVATIONS
DIVER 2, ITERATION 1 RESULT: FAILURE
The primary subject is resting. Preliminary medical reports show no deterioration in subject health however the subject is still unconscious. The experimental setup and machinery have not been damaged. This outcome was not unexpected. DIVER 1 started with failed iterations as well. Even with a perfectly fitting primary subject, the mental stress of interacting with the Cosmic Ocean for the first time is expected to cause iteration failure. Comparing results to DIVER 1, ITERATION 1 consolidates DIVER 2 as an improvement already. Although both failed, DIVER 2, ITERATION 1 had no significant strain on the primary subject or the facility. DIVER 1, ITERATION 1 the left the previous primary subject hospitalized for several months and caused structural damage to the facility surrounding the experiment grounds. ITERATION 2 is already approved by [REDACTED], all that is necessary to proceed is consent from Kali.
ADDENDUM 1: Eighteen hours after DIVER 2, ITERATION 1 Primary Subject Kali has regained consciousness. Mental and physical state weakened but otherwise stable.
REPLAYING PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION TRANSCRIPT
Water. Water in my lungs. Water in my stomach. Water in my uterus. Water in my bladder. Water forcing its way down my throat. Water in my veins. Water in my blood. Water creeping its way into my body. Every orifice and pore. Water. Water in my eyes. Water in the eyes inside my eyes. Water pouring in, water pouring out. Water through my ribs. Water in my marrow. Water seeps through the nails. Water drips through the vertebra.
water again
water in my corpse-womb again
help me i do not want this it was a mistake
father please help me
why
why would you do this to me as well
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ADDENDUM 2: Consent obtained for ITERATION 2.
The Magician
The scorching rays of the desert slithered across the water’s surface. Kali sat down by the edge of the oasis and placed all of her belongings—staff, sword, coin bag and golden cup—under the shade of a blue lily flower. She looked at the sun’s reflection in the pond. The sun was no longer high above but down below the water and within her reach. She went after it. Step by step, deeper and deeper, anchoring her toes into the silky sand. A most misguided trust as the slush betrayed her feet. Her body vanished without noise. Water made its way inside, liquid filled her lungs and intestines. Survival instincts were raging, life was fighting to go on. The drama! The theater! Kali had front row seats to every spasm of her muscles, every twitch of her veins. She drowned! One last bubble of oxygen carried the light of her eyes.
She sunk deep enough for the light from above to fizzle and be replaced by another, from below. Slivers of silver and gold jumped in and out of sight. With every meter down, the flickers got brighter and soon the majestic visa of a coral reef was revealed. An aquamarine nebula sprawling with life! From the smallest plankton, to untouchable fish of all shapes and colors, to squids with thousands of tentacles and even gargantuan whales carrying mountains of coral ecosystems on their backs which bended and broke the rays of light into rainbow fractals which danced upon the scales of all the other sea creatures. Kali stared into the scales of fish and saw how the light arranged itself into visions.
A girl. Perched on the roof of the Hut, reading in silence. Her peace was protected by the gentle gaze of The Moon. She closed her book and set it aside, took a moment to bask in her protector’s grandeur which embraced Mountain, Forest and Hut alike. After some time she picked up a new book, whose pages and cover were completely devoid of color. Not white, not black, colorless. Epic stories of heroes fighting dragons with valiant courage unfolded before her eyes followed immediately by the accounts of children beaten to a pulp by their drunken parents. Stories of passion and desire, love made with whispered moans and hushed confessions, hands interlocked and souls intertwined. Followed by the acts of loathsome aberrations, raping and defiling the souls of their victims with every fist, every kick—every thrust. She puked blood and bits of her guts as she turned the page hoping for anything to wash away the cries and the faces. She hoped for Hope but all she found was war. In those blood soaked fields, a soldier’s final moments were spent witnessing their childhood friend being decapitated by a stray shell only to soon be erased by the mushroom clouds. Another page, another attempt to find Hope. She saw entire families dying of hunger so a handful of people could fly into the empty black space. For every person living a moment of joy, a thousand more lamented their existence and cursed the day they were born. For every smile, a cry, for every hug, a stab. She walked the road from the Lake of Ice to the Snow-White Rose and licked every pebble, smelled every flower and in the end found nothing in Creation save for Agony and Shame.
Kali ascended deeper, ever closer to the sunken light. No more fish or corals lived at those depths. It was too bright. Her corneas would’ve burned but Kali was able to look directly into the white hole below. She saw nineteen serpents made of gold, all of them swimming in circles around the source of light, golden scales reflecting and amplifying it. Their slit eyes were made of brimstone and burned the water as they fixated on her. She was, however, allowed passage into the core. There, in the very center of it all, a child wrapped in red cloth slept peacefully. She could’ve woken them up, to tell them of the stories from the colorless book. What right did she have to destroy the child’s peace with the horrors that hid behind that withered rose?
Her lifeless body passed the child without touching them, sinking even deeper. Air filled her lungs again. She found herself falling. Above her, the sun was shining bright but was growing smaller by the second as she rapidly descended towards the dunes. Her impact with the sand was announced by a dry thud. The oasis was no longer there. Only the pearly sea of sand surrounded her again save for the Lily flower, which still had her belongings under its protection. The Tower
By the time we speak or write a word, the mind has already finished a long and arduous journey. Beliefs, hopes, trauma, genetics and even chemical imbalances in the brain, all of them are main characters in the magnum opus that is a word. It would follow then that writing a book—a biblical flood of words—would be a work of cosmic proportions and yet, for us humans it is merely a byproduct of our daily cognitive functions. Musings such as these—and many others—pushed me to follow a career in the study and preservation of folklore. No matter the scale, mythology, cryptids and fairy tales seduce me with the same proposal: the story inside the story.
This particular expedition began when a friend of mine brought me a handful of pages. All I was given was a brief description of their origin—”an empty and colorless book”. My dear friend seemed quite distressed when speaking about it, I felt as if another pair of eyes looked at me from behind theirs. The whole interaction was awkwardly mechanical. They came, they gave me the pages, they left. Thankfully, curiosity and excitement made me forget about the strangeness as I hastily started my work. The text was written with short rushed strokes, in a language that was similar—but not quite—to old Romanian from around the 16th century. The lexicon and most of the grammar were identical, however the structure of the sentences and the way some words were used didn’t quite fall under the expected parameters. The script was difficult as well, a mixture of Cyrillic, Latin and some other alphabet that I did not recognize and initially assumed to be either a cipher or some lesser used punctuation marks. As such the following translation is at best an early approximation, that does not take the mysterious symbols into account. It surprised me to see that disregarding them did not affect the understanding of the text whatsoever. Not at first glance at least. My heart trembled with joy at the idea that there was a hidden story inside, that those symbols would somehow change the meaning entirely and only those in the know would be able to access the truth. Until then however, this preliminary translation aims to keep the essence of the understandable text while remaining digestible for a modern audience. I have deliberately changed “Solomonar” for “Windsinger” as I believe it flows better with the English language and also helps in understanding their powers and the element they represent.
The following paragraphs—containing the translation in full—have been written deep in the bellows of the night. Although fatigued, my hands were spurned by an unnatural vigor and I managed to finish before blacking out.
I saw a leering white eye rising from behind The Mountain. It watched in silence as every year—accompanied by boom and cackle—The Windsinger came down from The Mountain. They rode a serpent which breathed rain, spat hail and shot lightning bolts from each one of its sixteen heads. Most fled when hearing thunder, some chose to hide, very few dared to listen and no soul would follow for the Windsinger spoke of light, of The Sun and of the End.
For generations, the Windsinger brought down floods and storms over the people of the world as it preached against the Queen through every rain drop and through every gust of wind. Such was the logic of the world until one fateful year came to pass, when the Windsinger, tired of their ignorance and comfort, commanded their dragon to fly up, to the very peak of The Mountain, instead of descending upon the world. There, at the horizon of all that is not, the above and the below merged into a perfect rebis. They dismounted and leering at The Moon stretched both arms towards the sky. With palms wide opened, their Windsinger-blue eyes glowed in rivalry to the moonlit veil cast by The Queen. For the first time in forever The Moon shuddered as Windsinger grasped the reins of the firmament causing the celestial body to move against its will. Muscles contracted, blood pumped with violence. Forced into motion by the blasphemous ritual, the cosmos shrieked and wailed in such a terrible manner that the sound of its screams—a sound that has never existed until then—echoed across the forests and the plains. It burrowed deep inside each heart, where it kept singing its crippling liturgy across each atrium. Witnessing this sermon—that went against the very essence of existence—the people gathered in their town squares and sliced their throats open only for their corpses to be swallowed by the basso profundo—the gaping maws of the world. Windsinger’s ears leaked waterfalls of blood and their eyes liquefied. Mind and body were falling apart, atom by atom, synapse by synapse and yet they did not stop the ritual. As night was pushed aside, The Sun extended its golden tentacles, sharing the sky with The Moon for the first time. No eyes were left however, to be blinded by the scales of the nineteen golden serpents.
The ritual came to an abrupt end and the snakes were banished back into the abyss they came from. Windsinger perished. For a brief second, their corpse seemed to keep standing on two feet before collapsing into a pile of blood and guts. Night resumed its rule and The Queen embalmed Windsinger’s body with her tears. Her only solace and comfort were dead and so was the only gust of wind that could have helped her escape that cage of solace and comfort. All that remained was a calm summer night reigning over an endless expanse of moon-white dunes—a dried up sea bed and a song whispered by the winds.
I woke up the next day by noon, still at my desk, with a terrible pain inside my brain. I picked up the pages and my notebook to do one final check before dragging myself to the bathroom. Very quickly I was able to make a rather unsettling observation. The handwriting scribbled across the pages and the handwriting in my notebook looked almost identical. I rushed to the bathroom, deciding that it was just a result of an exhausted mind assailed by a migraine.
Looking at myself in the mirror revealed the usual visage of a tired old man, even if my actual age was lower than the eye-bags and white hairs suggested. There was something else inside my eyes however, and I dared not look into the mirror anymore. The rational parts of me assured me that if I returned now to my desk I would see my own handwriting in my notebook and that the anxiety which overwhelmed my entire being was simply due to fatigue and eye strain. It just so happens that our rational parts are the weakest, as such I deliberately took way too much time with each grooming activity than I normally would have. What if I returned to my desk and the handwriting wasn’t mine after all? What if the text and its translation shared the same handwriting after all? What then? Was the strange behavior of my friend a warning? Was I now part of a horror story or was I simply losing my mind? I was sitting on the toilet, paralyzed. Eyes affixed to a random joint between the tiles of the faience, a decision had to be made. I wanted to run back at my desk and prove to myself that it was just a wacky story concocted by a tired mind but the dread of beholding the two texts written in the same handwriting was stronger, so much so that I also wanted to never go back to my desk ever again. In fact I wanted to sell my house and all my belongings in order to move as far away as possible if that meant I never had to see those pages and that handwriting again!
Later that day I called my friend and asked them to bring me the entire “Empty Book” and in a matter of days I found myself at my desk, pen in hand, staring at the colorless covers of the book. A singular question allowed me to bypass all the survival mechanisms my body fired when I that impossible cover.
Who is the story and what is the Author?
END