Sing, my friends!" cried an ecstatic Llari, the resurrected Mad God. "Sing!" The masked god was overjoyed, once more given "flesh," or something akin to flesh. He stood upon a large pedestal that arose from the clouds of Chaos, the remnants of a powerful Primordial, waving a baton in a graceful, yet hurried manner. Llari wasn't like his siblings, for he was relatively small and didn't have a face. Slender and gaudy, the masked deity appeared no more than a jester wearing a black velvet doublet with silver stitching and a beret. His mask was made of mirror glass, always shifting expressions whenever he felt a peculiar emotion, and as of now, that emotion was ecstacy, of euphoria.
The astral realm that he resided in soon became full of music. At first, it was faint, nothing more than a distant echo. Then, it hit a tremendous crescendo, a thousand-voiced chant so melodic that it would make mortals weep in sorrow and despair, its funereal symphony glorious. The mournful euphony resonated within the star-lit emptiness as if it were chanting a spell of some sort... and it was. Languidly, yet gracefully, multi-colored ribbons of lifestuff appeared from the astral darkness, piercing the Chaos-stuff that, too, littered the infinity, seeking the heart of the Veil. Within moments, Llari began to laugh wildly, throwing back his head and waving his arms sporadically, lost in the music of the dirge that summoned the Lifeforce of All Worlds.
"Waken, Grande Mundus," Llari demanded as his laughter died, the mask he wore now shifting into a theatrical mask with a malevolent smile. An expression that held a sadistic sense of humor. The ribbons began to meld together, forming a swirling sphere of light, slowly expanding. "Time to summon my Lords!" Again that laughter escaped those hollow lips that never moved. The thousand-voiced god brought a trembling hand to his masked face, laughing maniacally, unable to stop.
"No, no, no, no, no!" He laughed, frustration seeking its way out of his insane euphoria. "Must concentrate! Must beckon Khlyrna'aarak!" Llari shouted, though unable to hear himself over the symphony of his disciples, who were now only souls contorted into horrific things, forever masked in shadow. Slowly, the Mad God regained his composure, shuddering. The mask warped again, this time revealing an enlightened face. With an excited chortle, Llari began to chant. At first, the arcane words were incoherent, only mingling as nonsense within the chorus of the funereal song. Eventually, the chant became louder, though the words were just alien. It wasn't in the language of the gods or the language of any known race... but it was in a language far beyond the grasp of any dimensional entity. Not even the Primordials, scatter-brained as they were, would know the language. At least, not off the top of their forming and unforming heads. The eldritch tongue, horrendous yet beautiful, soon hit its peak, its keen ululation capable of destroying any sanity a mortal or present immortal may have had.
Chanting still, Llari did not acknowledge the rapid change of the Veil. In fact, Llari the Mad God wasn't even conscious. The God of Madness and Mischief was lost in his chant, his trance eternal. Still did he mumble as Grande Mundus came to be. The skies black and covered with floating pink ribbons, scarlet cracks separating the flickering stars, and the white sun forever blotted out by the obsidian moon, the eclipse forever marring the newborn world in twilight. The ground was covered in black sand, rivers of blood appearing here and there, and oases forming with strange sakura trees with black blossoms and white-blue bark; the grass of the oases were sickly yellow and at whatever corner there was, often surrounding the eldritch trees, were red-leaved bushes with blue roses; in the heart of the oases were ponds, sometimes lakes, of blood. There was a gale, unlike any other, full of maddened screeches and demon-filled howling. Here, wind had a manifestation... of near-translucent ribbons, as thin as can possibly be, of blackness.
In the heart of onyx quicksand, forever he kneel, the Mad King of Trickery, in the Heart of Grande Mundus...
Sunday, August 1, 2010
An Elegy
The mourning sigh of the desert's elegy
Whispered untold stories and blasphemy.
Through the eldritch keen, I hear
A lost and forgotten wail of fear.
Beyond the sandy veil and over yonder dune,
I see the setting sun and its dusky gloom,
Forever resting before my doom.
As the twilight fades from my sight,
I feel the squirm of eldritch fright.
I often ask where I be and where I am,
Though the answer is clear for I am damned.
This is the hell I tread,
Where forever I dread
The perpetual fear that it spreads.
The maddening keen of desert sand
Calls to me to join its melodic band.
I refuse to partake in its melancholy,
Though my heart shrivels at my folly.
There he sits, atop that mound,
Weighing scales with naught a pound,
Upon his throne, forever bound.
Sands' maelstrom eternal sway,
I dare not utter a word to say.
As I look upon the judging king,
I forever see the eternal thing.
Forever he sings,
The eldritch king,
The Sands of Time's perpetual ring.
Whispered untold stories and blasphemy.
Through the eldritch keen, I hear
A lost and forgotten wail of fear.
Beyond the sandy veil and over yonder dune,
I see the setting sun and its dusky gloom,
Forever resting before my doom.
As the twilight fades from my sight,
I feel the squirm of eldritch fright.
I often ask where I be and where I am,
Though the answer is clear for I am damned.
This is the hell I tread,
Where forever I dread
The perpetual fear that it spreads.
The maddening keen of desert sand
Calls to me to join its melodic band.
I refuse to partake in its melancholy,
Though my heart shrivels at my folly.
There he sits, atop that mound,
Weighing scales with naught a pound,
Upon his throne, forever bound.
Sands' maelstrom eternal sway,
I dare not utter a word to say.
As I look upon the judging king,
I forever see the eternal thing.
Forever he sings,
The eldritch king,
The Sands of Time's perpetual ring.
Mask of Mirror Glass
He with the mask of mirror glass
Calls to me beyond the shadow's sea,
His voice velveteen of echo's keen,
A resonant ring within my dreams.
From archaic tales from beyond shadow's veil,
Yonder death with naught a breath,
I hear within the year the perpetual wails of the chaos gales,
Caused by the catalyst within the mask of mirror glass...
Calls to me beyond the shadow's sea,
His voice velveteen of echo's keen,
A resonant ring within my dreams.
Through the dusky veil, there's a wail
Of fear and pain at the loss of gain,
As he with the mask of mirror glass
Reveals the pages from the Book of Ages.
Of fear and pain at the loss of gain,
As he with the mask of mirror glass
Reveals the pages from the Book of Ages.
Speaking eldritch runes in ancient tunes
From he with the mask of mirror glass,
Within silence of prenatal violence
As I hear the scripts from a forgotten crypt.
From he with the mask of mirror glass,
Within silence of prenatal violence
As I hear the scripts from a forgotten crypt.
In my ears I fully hear
The archaic gusts of hallowed trusts,
Murmured wholly, though unholy,
From he with the mask of mirror glass.
The archaic gusts of hallowed trusts,
Murmured wholly, though unholy,
From he with the mask of mirror glass.
From archaic tales from beyond shadow's veil,
Yonder death with naught a breath,
I hear within the year the perpetual wails of the chaos gales,
Caused by the catalyst within the mask of mirror glass...
Rosenfell
Ah, beautiful Rosenfell,
The grove of roses
Where peace whistles
In tranquil winds.
Your black and red,
Pink and white walls
Of aesthetic fury
Effaces all hatred.
Ah, Rosenfell,
How I long for
Your velvety caress,
Awaiting your serenity.
The murmuring winds
Of peace and love,
Of promises unbroken
And forever binding.
Rosenfell,
My sweet utopia
Of beauty, undaunted
By Autumn's calling.
I await the Spring,
My beloved Rosenfell,
So I shall not mourn
Until I see the burning sun.
The grove of roses
Where peace whistles
In tranquil winds.
Your black and red,
Pink and white walls
Of aesthetic fury
Effaces all hatred.
Ah, Rosenfell,
How I long for
Your velvety caress,
Awaiting your serenity.
The murmuring winds
Of peace and love,
Of promises unbroken
And forever binding.
Rosenfell,
My sweet utopia
Of beauty, undaunted
By Autumn's calling.
I await the Spring,
My beloved Rosenfell,
So I shall not mourn
Until I see the burning sun.
The Macabre
The rain pelted the Gothic window evenly as the storm pursued, thunder rumbling as if a giant were snoring, making the mansion tremble slightly. The dining room was elegant, with red-gold curtains of the finest velvet hanging about the large windows and the long table carved from the finest ebony sitting in the heart of the room. The ebony table remained plain save for a crimson cloth covering a third of it and the glass vase with the lone, withering rose. A black chandelier hung from the high ceiling from a similar black chain, candles alight upon its eight arms. Plates, saucers, and bowls of porcelain decorated the table neatly, each accompanied with a kerchief beneath several forks, a couple knives, and a few spoons. The walls were as black as the mansion's exterior, as if the walls themselves were from the very bowels of Hell... empty, peering at you with those unseen eyes, watching your every move. Waiting for you to take one false step, one step away from the safety of your path and into the oblivion that was eternal torment. Decorating the walls were a series of mysterious paintings, numerous nocturnes from the Renaissance Era. Not the originals, of course, but duplicates.
As a finishing touch, there was a woman sitting upon a Gothic chair, high-backed and made of ebony. She was young, no older than twenty-four with raven black hair in the style of a pixie cut, which fully brought out her elfin face and her bright green eyes. She wore a beautiful black dress which only reached to her knees were she to stand, the collar ornate with a red rose. She also wore crimson lip stick and just the right amount of eyeshadow of a very soft shade. She seemed to be waiting patiently for someone as she sat at the far-end of the table, facing the portal that led into the next room.
The mansion door opened and closed gently as someone entered, making her jump as she had spaced out during the wait. "Hello?" she asked, startled. "Is that you, James?"
There was no reply other than the soft steps of a very patient man. They were getting closer.
"James?" She called. No matter how many times she came to her fiance's home, it gave her the creeps. Sure, it was beautiful and elegant, as well as unnecessarily gaudy, but James d'Nuit IV was of good breed, born and raised in his forefather's home which was strangely preserved and undisturbed by time. He was rich and handsome and even courteous, albeit slightly pompous from being spoiled at a young age. However, he was nice beneath it all. James was lonely growing up, home-schooled for a majority of his life by the best tutors money could buy, and only working for his father to simply fill up his resume during and after his time at the University of Vermont. But this mansion, however, seemed to hold some dark secret, held some spell that prevented the d'Nuit's to abandon it. "Psh," she would tell herself "I've been reading too many books." Though, she knew it was not the case.
From the archway appeared a pale, handsome youth with black hair, fancifully cut where it was short in the back with feathered bangs neatly parted in the front, barely reaching his high cheekbones. He wore a black suit with a white dress shirt.
"James!" The young woman exclaimed, sighing with relief as she arose from her chair to walk to him. "Why didn't you answer me?" She asked.
James gave her a smile, but his eyes twinkled strangely. "I'm sorry," James apologized, setting down a black garbage bag. "I was talking to Mother. She's awfully chatty this evening." He explained, glancing at the bag nervously. "So, how are you, Cecilia?"
Though she couldn't explain it, something felt wrong. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a hammer against a nail. The way James was talking, it sounded wrong to her. The way he was looking at the garbage bag, whether he was conscious of the act or not, was out of the ordinary to her. James never showed much interest towards trivial things, and he never spoke to his Mother. Not since that time...
"I'm alright," Cecilia answered, smiling as if nothing was wrong. Why should it? The mansion was making her jumpy, she decided. "So, what were you and your mum talking about?" She asked, curious. James motioned for her to sit as he pulled out his own chair. They both sat and stared at each other. "Well?" Cecilia asked after a few moments. James appeared to have spaced out. What was he thinking about? She wondered, curious as to why the man she came to know and love was so enthralled. Was it the way she was dressed? Did she have something on her face? In her teeth as she spoke? "James?" She asked worriedly as more seconds, unusually long seconds, passed. James blinked a few times, as if snapping out of a daydream, sitting up like a meerkat.
"Oh, sorry, what were you saying? Mother was just telling me about our marvelous day together." He remarked, looking around nervously. "It's not pleasant to interrupt her, you know."
Cecilia was confused, and her beautiful face cried out the fact. Was he using a Blu-Tooth? She wondered. "What did you do with your mother today?" She asked warily, her heart beating faster. Everything felt wrong, everything felt strangely out of place. But what? Nothing was moved around or replaced. James attitude towards his mother had changed considerably, which was odd. Normally, he would say nothing good about her, or, not say anything about her at all. He never wanted to see her again.
"Oh, we did a lot of things. We talked, spent the entire day in the kitchen talking and joking and cooking. We only had one accident, one slip..." James explained, smiling still. "Mother wasn't being careful... mother said something bad... very bad..." he whispered, eyes becoming wild.
"James? Are you okay? What did she say?" Cecilia asked, worried. And terrified! She realized as her blood felt like ice, her insides churning. James didn't hear her, however, as he spoke again, louder.
"Shut up, mother! I'm talking to Cici!" He cried, turning his gaze towards the bag upon the floor. Cecilia followed his gaze. Shock began to settle in. James turned back towards his fiancee, smiling again, calm. But his eyes were glazed. "Mother said I shouldn't be like my father, that I shouldn't be playing with knives," he said quickly, as if he was hitting the climax to a very good story. "And so, I slipped!" James laughed, slapping his thigh as if it were a hilarious joke. "The knife went right into her chest like a knife through butter! There was so much blood and she tried to run away... well, crawl, were it the case. I couldn't have mother crawl outside, to tell people about the accident. So, I went into the drawer and grabbed the cleaver. I walked after mother and I told her to be quiet, but she would have none of it. I was only playing! I didn't mean to slip!" James was sobbing now, but the smile, the wild look in his eyes, stained his handsome face. His hands covered his face as his elbows rested upon his knees.
"I slipped one-hundred and eighty times! I told mother I was sorry. She told me to go get the garbage bag, to clean up the mess." James's sobs became gasps of laughter as he got up from his chair, his handsome face now grotesque with insanity. Cecilia, in utter shock throughout the story, was covering her mouth with her hand, her chest heaving quickly. James grabbed the bag and he approached the table. Turning the bag upside down, he poured out its contents on to the table. Hitting the ebony table like apples hitting the hard earth below the tree, with solid thumps, were the hacked limbs and appendages of what was once a human-being. Which followed was the torso of a middle-aged woman and the head of a lovely woman whose visage was locked in a silent scream, the fear evident in the hollow hazel eyes. The greying copper hair was tangled, each curl interlocked as if someone had wrapped their hands around it. Dropping the bag, James reached for the head, Cecilia doubling over as she vomited from her chair.
James caressed the head as if it were a newborn babe, his eyes soft. "There, there Mother..." he murmured. "No one is going to hurt you... no one is going to hurt Cici, either... I'll take care of you... we won't relive that incident with you and your pills and alcohol... all is forgiven, mummy..." he told the head softly, tears rimming his brown eyes. "Father forgives you, too... we're happy you're back home now..."
Cecilia arose and slowly stalked off, trying not to get caught by the mumbling madman.
"I even reserved a spot for you, mummy," Cecilia heard James tell the head, the thought making her skin crawl. What snapped in his head? She wondered, worried. The fear spoke back in response, followed by suspicion and paranoia. James was mentally unstable the day she met him. She never questioned the numerous scars on his body, never even thought about them. He'll come after her next, she knew. She had to go somewhere safe, far away from the lunatic. She had to tell someone! All these thoughts began making her feel claustrophobic in the large mansion as she tried to remember the way out of the labyrinth-like place.
As Cecilia found the corridor that led her towards the main hall, she noticed the slamming of doors and a howl of rage. It was inhuman, as if it were the ululation of a dying animal. With that, Cecilia began to run, ignoring the fact that she was wearing high-heels. Down, down the corridor she ran, running in an eerie darkness. The fear constricted her, blinded her as she ran... and unknowingly, she turned, opened the large double doors by their silver knobs that resembled a single gust of wind from a Graeco-Roman painting of Zephyr, ran in and slammed the doors shut. After reinforcing the door with her body, trying to catch her breath, Cecilia stared around the room, trying to get her bearings straight.
It was a large circular room with twin stain-glass windows at the far wall, reaching from floor to ceiling and divided by a strip of wall which held books. All around the room, the walls were covered with shelves of books and multiple ladders. The room was so large, Cecilia marveled, that she believed it held every book known to man. The ceiling was circular, too, but it was layered. There was a circular indent inside the ceiling's largest circle, and then another one, though rather than be of wood or plaster or anything, it was of glass. Cecilia didn't doubt that the inner-glass ceiling was actually a large glass globe. The floors were tiled with marble with only a strip of carpet leading from the doorway that she now blocked, to a dais that held a large oak desk and a high-backed chair of similar Gothic design. For a moment, the room enchanted Cecilia, making her feel as if she was in a dream. She even muttered to herself, "my God, James's family is so fancy!"
A bump nearly threw her away from the double doors as something hit it. Something wild was thrashing at the door, disturbing the dream, distorting it into a nightmare! Cecilia began to cry as she yelled, vainly for help. The force beat itself against the door again, the hinges beginning to give way. Cecilia decided she would run for it. Somewhere...
Right before the next assault upon the door, Cecilia ran forward, nearly tripping as she fought for balance. The next thing she heard was the crashing of the great double doors. She was almost there...
"Cecilia! Don't you run from me! Mother will be very upset!" James yelled. She didn't care, nor did she turn around to see the grotesque visage of her fiance. Rather, Cecilia focused on the window. It was dark and stormy outside, she knew, and she couldn't see what was outside, but as lightning lit the sky, she noticed her error. There was a shadow of a maple outside the window, and the Study's two ornate windows peered blindly at the garden, which was a wide expanse of woodland. The many acres that James now possessed seemed infinite to her. The young woman tried to stop, but the long-necked heel snapped at the sudden halt, making her roll forward and adding more momentum. She crashed through the window as James howled in protest, his daemoniacal voice joining the cacophony of shattering glass.
James stalked over to the window and saw the impaled body of Cecilia as she landed awkwardly upon the barbed, Gothic fence that surrounded his mansion.
*******
"Welcome home, my darling," James said as he entered the dining room, the corpse of Cecilia sitting upon a chair at the far end of the table, right next to the silver platter that held his mother's head. Sitting to the left of Cecilia was half-eaten corpse of a man in a khaki suit. The room smelled horrible, but James's didn't mind. "I hope you know that you have all been invited to watch me finish my masterpiece! By the way, I'm so glad you allowed me to change my career, father," the madman said to the half-eaten corpse, smiling brightly. James began to undress, removing his blazer, tie, and shirt. He exited the dining room with an embarrassed smile to the corpses, returning soon after with a small box and a large mirror one would normally find in a woman's bedroom. Some James's torso had small scars, as did his arms. His wrists were untouched, however, as was a majority of his torso, hands, neck, face, and back. From the box, he produced a scalpel.
He smiled wickedly at the scalpel as he hummed a song. James, ever a fan of rock and metal, had very much found the right band that influenced his artistic side. At the song's climax, he sang the lyrics... though one part of it was highly emphasized. Then he went back to humming.
With a strangely trained hand, James wielded the scalpel and pressed the cold steel against his flesh. He gave out a moan of pleasure and began to cut into his right breast. He gasped with ecstasy as the cold-steel bit in and he moved the scalpel about the wound as if it were a brush. He was the masochistic van Gogh at his end of the table, his arms moving at the flow of the hedonistic pain. Blood poured languidly down the wounds, the oozy drip making him breathe faster and faster.
He began to sing the song rather than hum it. At first it was low, but ever-so slowly did the volume rise. He moved the scalpel, then, to his back. The sickening, graceful flow of his hand slowly became shaky and clumsy, but he pursued. In the end, after carving into every inch of his upper body, he moved to his face, eying the mirror, singing still. Whether he was still conscious of his movements now or what, he didn't seem to want to stop. He carved into his face, and when he was done with that, he moved the scalpel to his jugular and hoarsely murmured the words: "Remember we are eternal. All this pain is an illusion..."
He dropped and fell onto his chair, facing the mirror. Strangely, the mirror acted as a camera, capturing the image of what was being reflected onto its glassy frame. If there were to be any names for it, it would have been "Necropolis." The satire of beauty was painted by the modern day van Gogh, by a psychopath named James Erik d'Nuit IV.
The scalpel hit the marble tiles with a simple, reverberating "clank-clang."
As a finishing touch, there was a woman sitting upon a Gothic chair, high-backed and made of ebony. She was young, no older than twenty-four with raven black hair in the style of a pixie cut, which fully brought out her elfin face and her bright green eyes. She wore a beautiful black dress which only reached to her knees were she to stand, the collar ornate with a red rose. She also wore crimson lip stick and just the right amount of eyeshadow of a very soft shade. She seemed to be waiting patiently for someone as she sat at the far-end of the table, facing the portal that led into the next room.
The mansion door opened and closed gently as someone entered, making her jump as she had spaced out during the wait. "Hello?" she asked, startled. "Is that you, James?"
There was no reply other than the soft steps of a very patient man. They were getting closer.
"James?" She called. No matter how many times she came to her fiance's home, it gave her the creeps. Sure, it was beautiful and elegant, as well as unnecessarily gaudy, but James d'Nuit IV was of good breed, born and raised in his forefather's home which was strangely preserved and undisturbed by time. He was rich and handsome and even courteous, albeit slightly pompous from being spoiled at a young age. However, he was nice beneath it all. James was lonely growing up, home-schooled for a majority of his life by the best tutors money could buy, and only working for his father to simply fill up his resume during and after his time at the University of Vermont. But this mansion, however, seemed to hold some dark secret, held some spell that prevented the d'Nuit's to abandon it. "Psh," she would tell herself "I've been reading too many books." Though, she knew it was not the case.
From the archway appeared a pale, handsome youth with black hair, fancifully cut where it was short in the back with feathered bangs neatly parted in the front, barely reaching his high cheekbones. He wore a black suit with a white dress shirt.
"James!" The young woman exclaimed, sighing with relief as she arose from her chair to walk to him. "Why didn't you answer me?" She asked.
James gave her a smile, but his eyes twinkled strangely. "I'm sorry," James apologized, setting down a black garbage bag. "I was talking to Mother. She's awfully chatty this evening." He explained, glancing at the bag nervously. "So, how are you, Cecilia?"
Though she couldn't explain it, something felt wrong. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a hammer against a nail. The way James was talking, it sounded wrong to her. The way he was looking at the garbage bag, whether he was conscious of the act or not, was out of the ordinary to her. James never showed much interest towards trivial things, and he never spoke to his Mother. Not since that time...
"I'm alright," Cecilia answered, smiling as if nothing was wrong. Why should it? The mansion was making her jumpy, she decided. "So, what were you and your mum talking about?" She asked, curious. James motioned for her to sit as he pulled out his own chair. They both sat and stared at each other. "Well?" Cecilia asked after a few moments. James appeared to have spaced out. What was he thinking about? She wondered, curious as to why the man she came to know and love was so enthralled. Was it the way she was dressed? Did she have something on her face? In her teeth as she spoke? "James?" She asked worriedly as more seconds, unusually long seconds, passed. James blinked a few times, as if snapping out of a daydream, sitting up like a meerkat.
"Oh, sorry, what were you saying? Mother was just telling me about our marvelous day together." He remarked, looking around nervously. "It's not pleasant to interrupt her, you know."
Cecilia was confused, and her beautiful face cried out the fact. Was he using a Blu-Tooth? She wondered. "What did you do with your mother today?" She asked warily, her heart beating faster. Everything felt wrong, everything felt strangely out of place. But what? Nothing was moved around or replaced. James attitude towards his mother had changed considerably, which was odd. Normally, he would say nothing good about her, or, not say anything about her at all. He never wanted to see her again.
"Oh, we did a lot of things. We talked, spent the entire day in the kitchen talking and joking and cooking. We only had one accident, one slip..." James explained, smiling still. "Mother wasn't being careful... mother said something bad... very bad..." he whispered, eyes becoming wild.
"James? Are you okay? What did she say?" Cecilia asked, worried. And terrified! She realized as her blood felt like ice, her insides churning. James didn't hear her, however, as he spoke again, louder.
"Shut up, mother! I'm talking to Cici!" He cried, turning his gaze towards the bag upon the floor. Cecilia followed his gaze. Shock began to settle in. James turned back towards his fiancee, smiling again, calm. But his eyes were glazed. "Mother said I shouldn't be like my father, that I shouldn't be playing with knives," he said quickly, as if he was hitting the climax to a very good story. "And so, I slipped!" James laughed, slapping his thigh as if it were a hilarious joke. "The knife went right into her chest like a knife through butter! There was so much blood and she tried to run away... well, crawl, were it the case. I couldn't have mother crawl outside, to tell people about the accident. So, I went into the drawer and grabbed the cleaver. I walked after mother and I told her to be quiet, but she would have none of it. I was only playing! I didn't mean to slip!" James was sobbing now, but the smile, the wild look in his eyes, stained his handsome face. His hands covered his face as his elbows rested upon his knees.
"I slipped one-hundred and eighty times! I told mother I was sorry. She told me to go get the garbage bag, to clean up the mess." James's sobs became gasps of laughter as he got up from his chair, his handsome face now grotesque with insanity. Cecilia, in utter shock throughout the story, was covering her mouth with her hand, her chest heaving quickly. James grabbed the bag and he approached the table. Turning the bag upside down, he poured out its contents on to the table. Hitting the ebony table like apples hitting the hard earth below the tree, with solid thumps, were the hacked limbs and appendages of what was once a human-being. Which followed was the torso of a middle-aged woman and the head of a lovely woman whose visage was locked in a silent scream, the fear evident in the hollow hazel eyes. The greying copper hair was tangled, each curl interlocked as if someone had wrapped their hands around it. Dropping the bag, James reached for the head, Cecilia doubling over as she vomited from her chair.
James caressed the head as if it were a newborn babe, his eyes soft. "There, there Mother..." he murmured. "No one is going to hurt you... no one is going to hurt Cici, either... I'll take care of you... we won't relive that incident with you and your pills and alcohol... all is forgiven, mummy..." he told the head softly, tears rimming his brown eyes. "Father forgives you, too... we're happy you're back home now..."
Cecilia arose and slowly stalked off, trying not to get caught by the mumbling madman.
"I even reserved a spot for you, mummy," Cecilia heard James tell the head, the thought making her skin crawl. What snapped in his head? She wondered, worried. The fear spoke back in response, followed by suspicion and paranoia. James was mentally unstable the day she met him. She never questioned the numerous scars on his body, never even thought about them. He'll come after her next, she knew. She had to go somewhere safe, far away from the lunatic. She had to tell someone! All these thoughts began making her feel claustrophobic in the large mansion as she tried to remember the way out of the labyrinth-like place.
As Cecilia found the corridor that led her towards the main hall, she noticed the slamming of doors and a howl of rage. It was inhuman, as if it were the ululation of a dying animal. With that, Cecilia began to run, ignoring the fact that she was wearing high-heels. Down, down the corridor she ran, running in an eerie darkness. The fear constricted her, blinded her as she ran... and unknowingly, she turned, opened the large double doors by their silver knobs that resembled a single gust of wind from a Graeco-Roman painting of Zephyr, ran in and slammed the doors shut. After reinforcing the door with her body, trying to catch her breath, Cecilia stared around the room, trying to get her bearings straight.
It was a large circular room with twin stain-glass windows at the far wall, reaching from floor to ceiling and divided by a strip of wall which held books. All around the room, the walls were covered with shelves of books and multiple ladders. The room was so large, Cecilia marveled, that she believed it held every book known to man. The ceiling was circular, too, but it was layered. There was a circular indent inside the ceiling's largest circle, and then another one, though rather than be of wood or plaster or anything, it was of glass. Cecilia didn't doubt that the inner-glass ceiling was actually a large glass globe. The floors were tiled with marble with only a strip of carpet leading from the doorway that she now blocked, to a dais that held a large oak desk and a high-backed chair of similar Gothic design. For a moment, the room enchanted Cecilia, making her feel as if she was in a dream. She even muttered to herself, "my God, James's family is so fancy!"
A bump nearly threw her away from the double doors as something hit it. Something wild was thrashing at the door, disturbing the dream, distorting it into a nightmare! Cecilia began to cry as she yelled, vainly for help. The force beat itself against the door again, the hinges beginning to give way. Cecilia decided she would run for it. Somewhere...
Right before the next assault upon the door, Cecilia ran forward, nearly tripping as she fought for balance. The next thing she heard was the crashing of the great double doors. She was almost there...
"Cecilia! Don't you run from me! Mother will be very upset!" James yelled. She didn't care, nor did she turn around to see the grotesque visage of her fiance. Rather, Cecilia focused on the window. It was dark and stormy outside, she knew, and she couldn't see what was outside, but as lightning lit the sky, she noticed her error. There was a shadow of a maple outside the window, and the Study's two ornate windows peered blindly at the garden, which was a wide expanse of woodland. The many acres that James now possessed seemed infinite to her. The young woman tried to stop, but the long-necked heel snapped at the sudden halt, making her roll forward and adding more momentum. She crashed through the window as James howled in protest, his daemoniacal voice joining the cacophony of shattering glass.
James stalked over to the window and saw the impaled body of Cecilia as she landed awkwardly upon the barbed, Gothic fence that surrounded his mansion.
*******
"Welcome home, my darling," James said as he entered the dining room, the corpse of Cecilia sitting upon a chair at the far end of the table, right next to the silver platter that held his mother's head. Sitting to the left of Cecilia was half-eaten corpse of a man in a khaki suit. The room smelled horrible, but James's didn't mind. "I hope you know that you have all been invited to watch me finish my masterpiece! By the way, I'm so glad you allowed me to change my career, father," the madman said to the half-eaten corpse, smiling brightly. James began to undress, removing his blazer, tie, and shirt. He exited the dining room with an embarrassed smile to the corpses, returning soon after with a small box and a large mirror one would normally find in a woman's bedroom. Some James's torso had small scars, as did his arms. His wrists were untouched, however, as was a majority of his torso, hands, neck, face, and back. From the box, he produced a scalpel.
He smiled wickedly at the scalpel as he hummed a song. James, ever a fan of rock and metal, had very much found the right band that influenced his artistic side. At the song's climax, he sang the lyrics... though one part of it was highly emphasized. Then he went back to humming.
With a strangely trained hand, James wielded the scalpel and pressed the cold steel against his flesh. He gave out a moan of pleasure and began to cut into his right breast. He gasped with ecstasy as the cold-steel bit in and he moved the scalpel about the wound as if it were a brush. He was the masochistic van Gogh at his end of the table, his arms moving at the flow of the hedonistic pain. Blood poured languidly down the wounds, the oozy drip making him breathe faster and faster.
He began to sing the song rather than hum it. At first it was low, but ever-so slowly did the volume rise. He moved the scalpel, then, to his back. The sickening, graceful flow of his hand slowly became shaky and clumsy, but he pursued. In the end, after carving into every inch of his upper body, he moved to his face, eying the mirror, singing still. Whether he was still conscious of his movements now or what, he didn't seem to want to stop. He carved into his face, and when he was done with that, he moved the scalpel to his jugular and hoarsely murmured the words: "Remember we are eternal. All this pain is an illusion..."
He dropped and fell onto his chair, facing the mirror. Strangely, the mirror acted as a camera, capturing the image of what was being reflected onto its glassy frame. If there were to be any names for it, it would have been "Necropolis." The satire of beauty was painted by the modern day van Gogh, by a psychopath named James Erik d'Nuit IV.
The scalpel hit the marble tiles with a simple, reverberating "clank-clang."
A Little Piece of Madness
It all began at the end,
From ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust,
Speaking within the Winds of Fate.
In the moment of Death,
A single tear falls,
And with it a torrent,
Leaving behind nothing but a Shell.
Empty and abysmal like Space before,
Now erupts anew an orb of madness,
Obessions of mind stealing life,
Now an existence of empty ambition.
As if awakening from metamorphosis,
Faust 'wakens from the shell of the former,
And with it his scorn and denial,
Which birthes the Gate of Virgil Shade.
Thirsting for knowledge blindly,
After tome and tome again he follows,
Seeking tranquility to ease the veiled pain,
To end Mephistopheles's Curse.
Like Dante before and aft,
Faust follows his shadowy angel
Into the Inferno that lay the knowledge,
Deep into Darkness Flame.
Possessed by past-time grief,
Feverishly did he study and collect,
All the while wallowing in memory,
At the loss before the change.
Hell did Faust see as he ventured,
The abyss staring back,
Madness pressing closer,
His mind faltering as his heart throbbed.
Voices, voices, voices...
They cried and sobbed and shouted,
Howling their own sorrows,
Resonating in the depths of his mind.
As the journey neared its end,
There within a block of ice did he see,
Lucifer enthralled and imprisoned,
Forever damned in the circle of flame.
'Wakening yonder did he know,
A Gate yawned,
Revealing realm anew,
Calling to him like a sweet drug.
Enter did Faust,
Appearing in the vast Cosmos,
Divine Spheres as bright as day,
As dark as the pitch of Hell.
Swirling in a vortex it did,
So did the Darkness beyond Celestial bodies,
That mere chaos pined,
That mere Faust cried out in dismal pleasure.
Pandemonium,
Masochism,
Nihilism,
Melancholy...
Words, words,
They all pined at Faust,
They were the words that beckoned them,
That beckoned whoever would listen.
Pain, pain!
The tears began to flow,
Though in red sheen,
In hatred and entropy.
Nonsense, Faust howled,
Unknowing of his madness.
Virgil's Shade uttered not a word,
Watching the insanity awaken.
Frustration and sadness appear yet,
Cracking the shell that was once Faust,
'Wakening yet another being.
One who could never escape...
Faceless, formless...
Like Space before, the swirling black chaos
Ate at its malforming heart,
Wails of remorse and ultimate sadness now silent.
In the void it existed,
In the void it rest,
And like Jehovah, it began to create
In the midst of its own madness.
In the nothingness came something,
Yet it, too, was empty,
And the perpetuality was evident,
The nascence of lachrymose apparent.
Memories, memories,
They sang in discord,
Bringing forth tears that ne'er existed,
Their image a nocturne of happiness in misery...
Alone, alone,
It sat in its place,
Creating and destroying,
Living forever in nothingness...
Living, living,
In a void full of memories,
A piece of art,
Beautiful and dismal...
Forever non-existent,
Eternal,
Desolate,
Broken.
From ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust,
Speaking within the Winds of Fate.
In the moment of Death,
A single tear falls,
And with it a torrent,
Leaving behind nothing but a Shell.
Empty and abysmal like Space before,
Now erupts anew an orb of madness,
Obessions of mind stealing life,
Now an existence of empty ambition.
As if awakening from metamorphosis,
Faust 'wakens from the shell of the former,
And with it his scorn and denial,
Which birthes the Gate of Virgil Shade.
Thirsting for knowledge blindly,
After tome and tome again he follows,
Seeking tranquility to ease the veiled pain,
To end Mephistopheles's Curse.
Like Dante before and aft,
Faust follows his shadowy angel
Into the Inferno that lay the knowledge,
Deep into Darkness Flame.
Possessed by past-time grief,
Feverishly did he study and collect,
All the while wallowing in memory,
At the loss before the change.
Hell did Faust see as he ventured,
The abyss staring back,
Madness pressing closer,
His mind faltering as his heart throbbed.
Voices, voices, voices...
They cried and sobbed and shouted,
Howling their own sorrows,
Resonating in the depths of his mind.
As the journey neared its end,
There within a block of ice did he see,
Lucifer enthralled and imprisoned,
Forever damned in the circle of flame.
'Wakening yonder did he know,
A Gate yawned,
Revealing realm anew,
Calling to him like a sweet drug.
Enter did Faust,
Appearing in the vast Cosmos,
Divine Spheres as bright as day,
As dark as the pitch of Hell.
Swirling in a vortex it did,
So did the Darkness beyond Celestial bodies,
That mere chaos pined,
That mere Faust cried out in dismal pleasure.
Pandemonium,
Masochism,
Nihilism,
Melancholy...
Words, words,
They all pined at Faust,
They were the words that beckoned them,
That beckoned whoever would listen.
Pain, pain!
The tears began to flow,
Though in red sheen,
In hatred and entropy.
Nonsense, Faust howled,
Unknowing of his madness.
Virgil's Shade uttered not a word,
Watching the insanity awaken.
Frustration and sadness appear yet,
Cracking the shell that was once Faust,
'Wakening yet another being.
One who could never escape...
Faceless, formless...
Like Space before, the swirling black chaos
Ate at its malforming heart,
Wails of remorse and ultimate sadness now silent.
In the void it existed,
In the void it rest,
And like Jehovah, it began to create
In the midst of its own madness.
In the nothingness came something,
Yet it, too, was empty,
And the perpetuality was evident,
The nascence of lachrymose apparent.
Memories, memories,
They sang in discord,
Bringing forth tears that ne'er existed,
Their image a nocturne of happiness in misery...
Alone, alone,
It sat in its place,
Creating and destroying,
Living forever in nothingness...
Living, living,
In a void full of memories,
A piece of art,
Beautiful and dismal...
Forever non-existent,
Eternal,
Desolate,
Broken.
Tome of Infinity
Hello everyone, and welcome to Tome of Infinity. It's not so much of a blog as it is an archive of my stories and poems. This inspiration hit me while I was going to bed. I was on the brink of falling into a deep sleep until the thought occurred to me: I want a place to put all of my stories and poem. I have a marvelous collection of poems and only two completed short stories. Well, I actually have three, but nevertheless... one of the manuscripts were written on paper rather than on the comp. I'll update this whenever I write a poem or story.
Please comment on anything. Critique is your friend, and it, too, is my friend. So, please. Don't hold back.
Please comment on anything. Critique is your friend, and it, too, is my friend. So, please. Don't hold back.
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