SHORT STORY LINKS

What foul laughter is this—what formidable foe so shrouded in the gloom of happiness—holds our hearts and heads entwined within the lurid dream?  By my pen, by this iron ink—ink so splattered on the sparsely strewn paper—I have carved this dream from the soot of decadence from the depths of the raging infernos of the soulless void.  Each word secretly chosen, derived and penned in perfect form; every curve, every arch, every cross and straight line and every dot, every circle: perfect.  With meticulous care, with delicate grace, with the master’s hand, I have drawn, penned, created, and forged these markings, letters, words, lines, sentences, paragraphs, pages, books, volumes, libraries of lore, long ago construed.  

Still, I now write.  Still, I pen these words that come to me.  Words and visions that drive like steel stakes, like wooden spikes, through my brain, ever on, evermore, ever after, even unto the ends of the world. 

If you saw me, or see me now as I am, you would consider my masterpiece as it is, and would consider me as I am, and thus the truth of my genius, the virtue of my sanity and my achievements of unbelievable magnitude, would be concluded as reality.  As my works grew, as my writing and penning continued to grow and develop, even beyond my own understanding, I found that your foulness was the reason I could not concentrate. 

The world is corrupt, you are corrupt, and it taints my abilities, distorts my views and rips the ideals from my pen and slaughters the perfection of my words— drowning are my souls weeping whispers, burned to ashes are my minds crying screams of triumph!   Tattered are the heaps of ideas, battered are the lumps of unmolded philosophies, scattered are the winds of wild freedom, which once held the sway of ingenious creation. 

At first, I cowered within the safety of my wooden walls, within the shod framework and planked sanctuary of my home.  Carefully, I pounded the iron nails, carefully I hung the thick curtains over the windows, carefully I blocked out every ray of light, every burning tear of the sun, every prying eye of the sinful creations of the exterior world.  With beams of solid oak, I braced the door— I shut out the world, the day, the night, and the continuing evolution of decay. 

Sanctuary.  The place where I was safe, where I could pen my words again— a place where I could etch the curves of graceful form and beat out the rhythms of the humanistic soul on paper.  Where capturing the essence, the very essence, the very essence, the very essence of God is possible.  But— as I sat within my sanctuary, within my holy tower of hope —I watched the washed walls, the high crown moldings— as they shrunk. 

It seemed that the very walls shifted, drifted inwards, crushing the space, reducing the volume, reducing, reducing, reducing, pinning me down.  The crown moldings shrank, constricted and bound the room ever tighter, ever smaller.  I could hardly breathe in the tight space.  I felt my heart pound.  I felt every stroke of my inner engine pound its rhythmic beating, with an intensity beyond my own hearings capabilities.  It droned out my thoughts, buried my scribbled verbalizations, under the rasped breaths and sledging heart! 

In one hand I grasped my favorite pen.  It was indeed my favorite feathered pen, with the shinny onyx, shimmering feather.  Ah, the feather, feather, feather, feather, it was long, long like a raven’s feather—long as three hands tied together—tied end to end, in the long-like fashion of course, forming a tch’ kti-koo.

In the other hand, my off hand, my feeble hand, I held tight to the ream of paper, and the glass vile of my iron ink.  Though, in my hurried descent into the lower bowls of my rotting home, I spilled a portion of the ink of the softened wood.  My keen eyes caught the glint of blackness as it splattered across the floor, but you see, I can always make myself some more.

Down the stairs I stumbled, tumbled, rumbled— finally reaching the end of the road, I settled in the cozy blackness.  I found one small candle and the book of matches, that came with me and I sat in the cozy illumination of the candle.  Once again, I found my pen, ink and paper, paper, paper, paper, paper—and the small bench.  Slowly with delicate care, I carved the ritualistic forms of letters.  I plotted the course of each forming word and forged new inspirations of glory from within the black and white contrast.  Every curve, was calculated and rose and fell with the sweep of my hand.  Every line was etched straight as the rule, cutting the paper, cleaving great divides and yet, pulling together words.  Every circle, spun round, spun round, spun round, spun round— captivating the never-depleted graces of perfection.  I basked in the light of the radiant sun, I danced in the soft, green grass that covered the lush earth below, I played in the silken air that caressed my body and kissed my soul!  The world was reborn!

The pages flew, the pen flew, the world grew, all was new— what to do, what to do, what to do?  Who are you—one, one, two!  I—I, penned the moments in calligraphy, with my hand—the hand of God.  My words are not my own, my words are those of God himself.  How foolish to have every whispered the ideation of this being my own creation, surly I am the tool of God! 

Hark thou, and listen to my holy words.  For I speak for God, for he speaks through me!  Still I pen, hurriedly I pen, quickly with the swiftness of my own perfect hand I pen.  No one shall take my words, my holy versus, which God has given me. 

My ink!  The vile, once so full, now lies empty, empty, empty, empty—I twitch my neck in rage, in the fury of the loss.  My mouth trembles at the absence of the essence needed to forge the beautiful words!  My hands shake in anger, my eyes widen in horror, and my tongue swells in heated defiance.  My belly bloats up, my head pounds with dullness in the rapid degeneration of my loss, my loss, my loss, my loss.

Suddenly the red serpent struck out at me, biting at my dry and cracked flesh.  I scrambled back from the serpent, with its red venomed eyes.  The only possession I retained was my, my, my, my, my— vile of red ink, black feathered pen and the full ream of paper.  I stared at the vile snake, the fanged creature of hell, which was bent on taking my holy, God sent words from me, as I penned my final words.

“The fire serpent comes.  The house drawn curtains demands peace.  God speaks!  God speaks!  God speaks! GOD SPEAKS—god speaks.  I am thee.  Thee I am, am, am, AM—god speaks.  Blood—blood, speaks—GOD SPEAKS.  Blood, blood, blood, blood… my inked vile—my red iron vile—my blood: speaks.”