Wasanelder:
So, too, mine . . .
Thanks for responding.
waton:
A friend -- pro photographer -- was there and captured all the phases. I can vicariously tune in and find words appropriate to the task.
Your reply is appreciated.
like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, i am awake.
widely and wildly.. stumbling to my crowded desk, i sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration.
i light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, i commence putting pencil to paper.
Wasanelder:
So, too, mine . . .
Thanks for responding.
waton:
A friend -- pro photographer -- was there and captured all the phases. I can vicariously tune in and find words appropriate to the task.
Your reply is appreciated.
an ever revealing awareness possesses me:never again shall the cool, comforting reposeof sleep calm my worried brow.
i pace my litter-strewn floor, i walk the shadowed lane below, yet.
that ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweetslumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon.
Greetings, Wasanelder:
No, I didn't die. Doing all right!
Thanks!
an ever revealing awareness possesses me:never again shall the cool, comforting reposeof sleep calm my worried brow.
i pace my litter-strewn floor, i walk the shadowed lane below, yet.
that ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweetslumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon.
An ever revealing awareness possesses me:
never again shall the cool, comforting repose
Of sleep calm my worried brow. I pace my litter-
strewn floor, I walk the shadowed lane below, yet
That ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweet
slumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon
Not rise, ere this wretch steps into that blessed realm of eternal
rest that, at long last, will put to bed all care, all worry, my soul.
like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, i am awake.
widely and wildly.. stumbling to my crowded desk, i sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration.
i light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, i commence putting pencil to paper.
Like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, I am awake. Widely and wildly.
Stumbling to my crowded desk, I sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration. I light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, I commence putting pencil to paper. There seems a need to unite with a nameless interior atmosphere, one that would dissipate instantly before the evaporating scrutiny of 100-watts incandescent. Though visions have become an interwoven part of my daytime reality, they could easily be construed as dreams of the subconscious mind. Now, in the wee small hours of a cheerless morn, I call upon these tainted wraiths of my darkish mind to weave a gothic tale.
Ah, but this particular candlelight is especially soothing. I am lulled, lulled into a brief, nodding slumber.
Like a mischievous sprite, a small yet robust draft of arctic-like chill sweeps in at my feet. It wraps freezing tendrils about my legs. This bewildering rush of unseen but real menace causes me to shudder violently. There is no opportunity to gather my thoughts. What, dear Lord, is happening? The foreign malignancy climbs further, higher, reaching upward, encasing my quivering trunk. Dagger-like probes bore through me, penetrating deeply, piercingly, into my rapidly cooling heart of hearts. A respiratory system congenitally fragile and ever keen upon collapse, vacillates between wild, erratic gasps and near total shutdown of lungs.
The candle upon my desk, melted down to a nub, extinguishes immediately. Hadn't I closed the windows tight before retiring? I cannot move, but I can see. I can hear. My gaze is directed, by an exterior force (so certain I am of this), to a blackened form in the west end of my room.
My heart bolts from its confines and forces itself full into my throat. I choke with uncommon violence. Tears -- burning streams of tears -- flow down frozen cheeks. There is no thaw. My unbroken stare surely must reflect light and horror as the extinguished candle reignites by an unseen hand.
It is he, the monster of the id, the one I created:
Chernabog incarnate. Given my somewhat artistic abilities, I, the lesser god who created this beautifully hideous lord of the underworld, crafted him in manner both beguiling and revolting. He is my creation, emerged cleanly off the canvas, breathing in hugely of the chilling rush of winter winds that spill copiously through windows and doors now wide open, as widely open and gaping as my silently screaming mouth.
He lights another candle and preens before the wardrobe mirror.
There is no reflection.
What startled me during my initial look at the creature's visage in the guttering but strengthening sweep of candle light was the dimensional enhancement of facial features that simply could not be captured on a flat canvas, however cleverly attached the wrist to the hand to the artist's brush.
Now, with a calmer and more studied look, I peer with amazed wonderment at my creation come alive in the flesh – flesh -- only in the merest manner of speaking. From eight feet upwards and, perhaps, more (I cannot say for certain as this dim chamber is still scarcely illuminated) the massive skull of scarlet and inky black rotates ever so slowly, methodically, in my general direction; I, still the captive, entwined fast in place by strangler vines, remain motionless but no longer crazed by eviscerating fears.
That remarkable head -- produced by a tiny mortal's imagination, and, now, come vibrantly to life -- locks into place, and eyes lodged deeply within he casts downward . . .
At me.
This being -- mere moments ago upon canvas and totally within squared bounds, under jurisdiction of artistic whim and intellectual control -- has had (from seemingly nowhere), a red, rancid breath infused into his bellows of internal respiration. The monstrous heaving of his expansive chest creates a low and disturbing rumble about the shadowy chamber as well as a shudder throughout the whole of my diminished frame. Even were I no longer held fast by these tendrils intent against any escape from my imprisoning chair, it is doubtful my once determined but currently fading wherewithal should muster strength adequate to flee this gothic horror.
Even as I muse upon an improbable -- impossible -- escape, I sense a lessening of strictures upon my chest, my arms, my wrists. Vines, earlier an unearthly shade of puce and green, commence emitting a noxious vapor, dissolve and waive all further dominion upon the once captive and reluctant creator.
To destroy the canvas at this advanced juncture in time would, surely, be for naught.
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
THE MESSAGE HAS BEEN SENT.
There has been no reply. Is our savior indifferent, or is he merely a nonentity? I surmised as much all along. My early training in Sunday School did me little good. Never missed a single class.
If I am to survive, along with my hapless compatriots, it will be through the offices of deus ex machina.
Otherwise, we are doomed.
Are you out there? I've been calling . . .
i wanted to relay an example that i heard about translating difficulties.
take the 5 word phrase.
"i didn't eat your sandwich".
In class, on Monday, I will bring up differences in like (similar) words. Not all synonyms can be readily interchanged.
"These cookies are delicious, not dried out and hard like Mother's. They are so damp!"
Well, you have a choice:
wet
damp
humid
moist
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
I haven't much time . . .
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
I awake in a place that, clearly, is not home.
As I look about in a blurry daze, the expected trappings of bed, chair, and scuffed, dirty walls have disappeared during my wretched slumber. All the familiar has slid away, swirling downward, but not swallowed, into an eerily black vortex above which my stiffened body floats unaffected by the devouring maelstrom. My immediate surroundings are an atmosphere of greenish hue that is a most peculiar expanse of sky. Emerald. Iridescent. Extraordinary. Suspended amidst the shimmering splendor of these undulating waves of a surreal firmament is a golden sphere -- a moon. The gentle but steady rays of illumination it sends forth warm me. I find this puzzling: the celestial body is not a star.
I continue to have no control over my body, yet I am not uncomfortable, nor do I sense any imminent danger. Something has changed regarding the direction put upon me. A force -- what I would imagine to be a tractor beam -- draws me upward and away from the strangely silent but malevolent whirlpool below. Coming into focus at a distance seemingly close, but probably an infinite space away in light years, is an incredible edifice of glass, porcelain, and adamantine steel, a veritable temple of a night's vision, most likely dedicated to some constellation's mercurial god. Opalescent double doors of immeasurable height, hung upon hinges of gold, begin to open in protracted slow motion. Blazing from within this celestial palace is a brilliance like that of Earth's noonday sun. I gaze directly upon its supernal glory; in the manner of a dream, I am unharmed.
I startle as there emerges from doors now fully opened the likes of which nightmares are made . . .
A stream of congealing blood-red water gushes with ferocity through the newly opened doors. With frightening abandon it rises and falls sharply, wildly, to the accompaniment of an unidentifiable, shrill blast. This cacophonous herald blares forth like shrapnel from outsize trumpets played by a dozen rampant jackals, goose stepping in strident march tempo upon a trail of stars. Their hideous aspect in this unfamiliar role of court musicians is repellent yet singularly alluring; I cannot look away, much as I wish. I am sick. As the wash of roiling waters loops round and round the monolithic plank of stars, it disappears suddenly into a crevasse torn into the fabric of this swirling, greenish sky.
As though nonexistent for the din of the screaming trumpets, I perceive a harmonious but somber backdrop of a passacaglia pouring luxuriantly from some impossible, heavenly pipe organ, rising steadily, from pianissimo, to piano, to forte, to fortissimo . . . FORTISSISSIMO! At the zenith of this divine explosion of purest sound, the jackals and their brassy salvos implode. Gone, swept forever into the abyss. I wince, attempting to cover my ears. I cannot raise my hands from my sides.
My innards melt away, like those of a snail, from this insane and deafening sound attack. Oh, man! My life is over!