— — - —-
You stumble upon a place in the Library you have never been to before. You had not meant to come here. What once was the food-court was now a hilly grove, with the markings of a cemetery. The tile floor had been quasi-replaced by uneven ground, patches of grey-green grass sprouting every so often at random intervals in-between linoleum plates. Apart from these features, the floor was littered with gravestones. A thick and hazy mist blanketed the area, making it difficult to discern what was a gnarled tree and what was a headstone.
You walk through this strange environment, mainly looking for a way out. This place fills you with a strange sense of dread, but not of death. Dread of dead things, rather. Things that were once, but have been (at least partially) erased from reality. You investigate a few graves in a grim curiosity, finding a name on one of them that you recognize quite well.
This page is an archive of pieces I have discarded. My actual sandbox has moved to here and you can view my in-progress works there. This will continue to act as a garbage bin, kept in posterity's sake. Feel free to use any ideas or concepts you find here as your own! One man's trash is another man's writing prompt. Should I suddenly disappear off the face of the internet, all of my works and ideas belong to everyone. Entrusting site staff to deal with litigations and whatnot. Do whatever you want with them posthumously.
You continue on, eventually coming to a marbled mausoleum. Inside, you see several humanoids sitting silently on benches that line the stone walls. Each holds a book, or some other medium of writing, in a light grasp. They are all disheveled, and while you could tell that they once had faces, now they were difficult to make out. It was if the mist was wrapped around their very being, making them appear just as incorporeal as vapor.
They did not move as you entered, but those books piqued your interest. They seemed to be inviting you to, in a sort of nonchalant, corpselike, ambivalent manner. Perhaps you could take one…
— — - -
Ser Ebolin the Third's Collected Works
Compiled by Dr. Argus H. Smith
Preface
Herein I have compiled the works of the mysterious Ebolin the Third. To date, little information has been gathered about the incredible man himself, but his poems and works of prose make immortal the man so clouded in mystery. It is of no little debate among scholars whether or not the man truly existed. But of course he existed! After all, someone wrote these great works, no? It is believed that he lived between the thirteen-hundreds and the fourteen-hundreds, but these are only loosely based off of hearsay and myth. His origins will never truly be known.
Though little is known about him, it is arguable that he is one of the greatest and most eloquent poets of his time. His catalogs and chronicles of the Extraordinary rival even the best of modern-day Authors. Nothing compares to the man. He dims the stars in the night sky with the swipe of a pen. His works eclipse the sun itself! His works are so infallible, so absolutely breathtaking, that attributing characteristics to him is fools play.
In his time, Ebolin wrote twenty-three poems, and seven chronicles. It is unfortunate that so few have been preserved, but I've taken all I could from traditional sources. He has a seemingly flamboyant disregard for the ancient poets such as Homer and Virgil, and sets himself apart with what can only be described as a revolutionary style. Whether or not Ebolin had heard of poets such as Dante is unknown, though some descriptions in his work, the Responsorium bear striking resemblance to some of Alighieri's styles.
It should be noted that none of the short poems are given titles. It is thought that this is because Ebolin wanted not to impose a certain meaning on the reader that would leave nothing to imagination or one's own pondering. This is uncharacteristic of poets of the time, and is another interesting quirk of the author. His style is particularly bold, but bold does not mean lesser. His style is unique, but inarguably he is positively the single greatest author to ever exist.
Whether or not Ebolin truly lived, or is a collection of separate poets, his vivid descriptions of the Extraordinary are vastly ahead of their time, and unconditionally deserve a spot amongst those we hold to such high esteem.
Collected short poems
Graningeer, the fair
Her awful, sanguine lair
While mothers saddened weep
Your caverns do you sweep
Graningeer, beheld
What Death and Wreak did meld
With whispering tongue
Blot out the sun
And all the pain has swelled
Graningeer did say
That there would be a day
Where He would then rule
With her as a tool for all other unfortunate and dastardlier fools
And all would shout, "Hooray!"
So using fretful runes,
The dread witch of the moon
Strayed the heart of the king
And He to her a golden ring
The marriage will be soon
So fallen into overrife,
The king and his dread wife
His lot was quite unfair
With realm in disrepair
He so took his life
Such an incredible poem! Such a great find, that it not be lost to the blazing fire that is time. Much of Ebolin's work is based upon certain characters or groups, such as this poem being based on Graningeer. These characters seem to be real, but startlingly, after the poems were written. So, the poet either has some sort of clairvoyance, or the writings themselves were such powerful literature, that the very fabric of reality bent to his will. Whatever the case, the powers of the poet obviously go far beyond the capabilities of an average writer.
Again and again
Rode the horsemen
To collect what was due to them
Again and again
Rode the horsemen
To reap some souls now and then
For then those horsemen of old
With hands so withered and cold
Would take the life, so swift and decise
Of the king of the fen and the Mice
Those horsemen of bone
Solid like stone
Road in with their blades all a'swinging
Those horsemen of dread
Swiftly killed dead
all the men in meadow while singing
"Ho diddly doe, ho diddly dun,
The pow'r of the horsemen doth blot out the sun
Ho diddly day, ho diddly doo,
The horsemen are coming for you!"
There just was no stopping those horsemen,
Their advance as inevitable as time itself
As they rode out to take from those poor men
They did their unceasing crime
"Ho diddly doe, ho diddly dun,
The pow'r of the horsemen doth blot out the sun
Ho diddly day, ho diddly doo,
Those horsemen are coming for you!"
I recovered the poem above from a ruin in Lesser Athens. Again, cross-referencing this work with historical documents from the time reveals a similar happening to the first. The events in this poem really happened in what is now Hungary. It seems a band of noblemen cavalry (notably not headless) ransacked a few Magyar villages in the 1600s. They did this so much, they were mythicized and converted to legend. Whether or not Ebolin knew his works turned fiction to fact, I do not know.
Was a tepid, chill'd night
When a terrible sight
Was beheld by the children of night
T'was a glamorous knight!
Fully bedight!
And ready to hand out such fright!
And with sword of chrome
And burned down their home
With fire and power, he killed them alone
For truly his sword was a magickal thing,
And what horror and terror, the sword did it bring to those who did sing
And a vast fire spread at merely a slash
The knight, he had no name
And his visage ne'er stayed the same
With shifting face, he played this devious play
This poem landed in my care with the help of an old friend of mine. He managed to secure it from the clutches of a particularly menacing collector who wanted only for the work to be in his possession. He was a miser of historical data, and hoarded this poem away from us for quite some time. Luckily, my associate and I were able to get a copy, and are very happy for it. This is one of his greater poems, with such literary style to rival any living poet. It's rhythm and rhyme scheme are sublime, and moreover, the story it tells is immaculate. So great, it too came to pass. Similar to the other poems, the events depicted in this masterwork occurred sometime between 1840 and 1875 in England.
The Responsorium
Harken, listen, you unfortunate soul!
My works and texts you dare oppose!
You listen with ear tuned only to refuse!
Muse, speak, and smite these fools!
With gracious and pretty words to hear!
Strike my critics down from their high horses!
Gerald of the Fjord, and Flynn of the Vólk!
These names be stricken from utmost history!
Their companions forgotten as delinquents and vagabonds!
…
The work goes on for some time after this, but is near impossible to read on account of how boring it is. It continues stating names, and their grievances against the Author, but nothing particularly note-worthy.
Final comments
In what equates to possibly the single worst calamity in all of human history, many of Ebolin's writings have been lost over the years. Much of the Responsorium has been lost, with a bulk of the text no longer in circulation, even in the most comprehensive of libraries. Many of his incredible poems have also been lost, with most being reduced to only the damp manuscripts I found when investigating a castle in northern Europe. A tragedy not unlike the loss of the library at Alexandria, or the Slaughter of the Innocents, or the Great Harnassiuan Genocide. The loss of such brilliance is lamentable to the highest extent.
It is to be said that, upon further research, all of the depicted events in these poems truly came to pass. Graningeer truly did bring a kingdom to ruin. The Shadowcalvery of the Seventeenth Imperium really did ransack much of eastern Hungary in the 12th century. Rumors of a faceless knight with a silver sword that causes fires surfaced during the purge on the Children of the Night. It appears that his works had some fantastical power, far beyond the limits of the imagination! So far beyond the limits of imagination, to explain them would be a fools errand.
Truly, his name will live forever in infamy, the handsome and bold creator of such tales. The true and just poet, with such eloquent speech does move the hearts of men! He shall forever be remembered, and is immortalized in his most glamorous and exemplary works.
A small slip of paper slides out from its place within the covers of the text. It is yellowed and crinkled with age. Emblazoned on the back of the slip is an elongated white griffin with multiple hands holding a scroll. In luminous text on the other side are these words: "It is believed that the discrepancies in the text are due to the fact that this is not a compilation from a second party. The 'compiler' himself obviously wrote these poems. Ser Ebolin the Third has not existed in any mainstream timelines of importance. Of course, if he truly did have works that were not in this compilation, or that were destroyed, said works would show up in the Library. Due to the fact that such texts do not exist, we can confirm that neither did Ebolin, and that this book is a self-serving collection of Dr. Smith's own mediocre amphigory works. Thank you. —The Department of Reinformation"
— — - -
HOLLOW
I feel empty.
I feel like everything that could go wrong, did.
The best of us falter. The worst of us rise. So the story goes.
Have you ever wondered if you're important? Have you ever wondered if the time was well spent?
You're not important, and neither is time. So the story goes.
No. You're a speck of dust in a sandstorm. A single locust in a swarm. Vapor in a gale.
Just like me. Just like the rest of us.
History is full of great people. How many more great people could have there been?
Could I have been? If history is written by the victors, who's writing my history?
There's a tree I often visit. It's large, but I'm not sure if it's ever worn leaves.
Its roots have parched the soil around it's base of nutrient. There's nothing but dust there now.
Oftentimes I go and sit on the roots, waiting for something.
Maybe I'm waiting for myself. Maybe for someone else.
I'd like to break out of my shackles. I'd like to have freedom from the monotony.
But if my chains break, their weight burdens those around me further.
There is a hole in the tree. It might have been a home for something once.
That something is dead now. Instead of a home, there is nothing but a hollow.
A husk of what was former. Nothingness.
I wish the thing that lived there was still alive, but it's met the end of it's days.
Who can say he knows anything? Who can say anything?
All your facts? All your theories? Guesses. Predicated on the lie that we understand anything.
"BREAK FREE," it calls, "BREAK FREE!"
Something inside of me breaks.
Death is a fickle thing. It laughs at those who deserve life, and turns a blind eye to those who don't.
I am a dead man walking. I watch life go by behind silver-screen eyes.
Living is a funny word. Is a man living if he is so held back by the chains he laid upon himself?
"BREAK FREE!"
Free doesn't look like a word anymore. So the story goes.
I've come to the conclusion that the only freedom is death.
If only! My heart yearns for that beyond. For something, anything, other than this.
But what? What am I to do? Die? And leave those I care for unattended and burdened?
I cannot. And so, freedom is not won. Freedom is not earned.
Freedom is handed to you at the end of the race as a consolation prize.
Man runs on a track forever and ever. Looping and looping.
We run till we die. Our offspring are born running.
I feel empty.
"There is a tree, not far from here. I'll take you if you want."
"I'd love to go."
"Here it is. It's a sad place, but it's all I know. All I've ever known."
"Sometimes, sadness is the only option."
"I understand now. All this pain. All this suffering. It's- It's for something."
"So the story goes."
— — - -
Chessboard Lord
King Alabaster
Was then the master
Of all that the eye could see
King Alabaster
Was a little bit faster
Than all those who chased him could be
King Alabaster
Was such a great Caster
All of his magicks caused glee
King Alabaster
His life a disaster
Disclosed all his secrets to me
King of the sky, and king of the earth.
King of the stars and the sea.
King of the fire, and king of the hearth.
King of the vale and the lea.
King Alabaster
You absolute bastard
Still, then, you yet chose to flee
— — - -
True Names: Popular Q&A
What is a True Name?
All living creatures who have attained the manacles of sentience and reason are given a True Name before they come into existence. A True Name is the designation of a rational being given to them at birth. They may not know their True Name, and will most likely go by their worldly given name. There are no exceptions to the rule. The True Name is something you're required to know to enter certain places such as: The After-Afterlife, the Library, Wormsmith's Emporium of Supernatural Oddities, Groom Lake, and Vulcan's Hotel Resort and Spa. Of course, there are about a thousand other places that require you to know your True Name to enter, these are simply some of the most popular.
How do I find my True Name?
To know one's True Name, there are three paths. The first is to search deep inside yourselves on an incredibly long trip of meditation and discovery. The second path is to die. If you die, you'll automatically gain knowledge of your True Name. But if that doesn't sound fun, you can head on down to your local multiversal DNV (Department of Name Verification) to find out what your True Name really is, without the whole dying thing.
But, you may ask, how do I even get to my local DNV? Well, the place isn't really a physical area, so your soul will have to temporarily ascend to a higher plane to find it. If you were to actually travel to said plane, finding the DNV would be no problem. Simply believe that you're there, and you'll be there! Now that you're there, you can find out quite a few startling details about yourself and the nature of reality as a whole.
Why should I know my True Name?
There are certain rumors that the wait at the DNV takes a technical eternity, but this is obviously untrue! Just ask any one of the seventeen-septillion souls still waiting. That's a certifiably finite number! Though the wait may be long, it is quite definitely worth it. Knowing your True Name grants you access to most places. Not only that, it's just a fun thing to know! Existence Registration is also an important thing that you must know your True Name for (though most people fill out these forms upon death, it's always good to get a jump on the process!). The knowledge of your true reality is always important.
If you tell another your True Name, and they reciprocate theirs to you, you and that person will have a lasting and infinite bond between one another. You will quite literally be bound together by forces yet unknown for all of time. To do so is dangerous, but if there's someone you really trust, it's always an option. If you do share this bond, and anyone is to call you by your true name in distress (wherever you are, as long as you're not in the Exclusionary Zone), you'll instantly be summoned to their location.
Anything else I should know?
Though True Names are fun to know, telling other people might not be the best idea. After all, if you give someone your True Name, your very existence could be ravaged. Para-Identity Fraud is a massive problem, so oftentimes is best to keep things to yourself. If you or a loved on has recently fallen victim to Para-Identity Fraud, please contact
Thank you for reading this short pamphlet on true names! We hope to see you at your local DNV very soon!
— — - -
The Yeartrip
—Glenous Dai-Li
GENISIS
Spring closes on the city. It is my favorite season.
I spy a commotion in the center of town. There, a man speaks of terrible things.
I hear what he is saying. His words are etched into my soul.
He speaks of a terrible scourge. Niðhöggr and his manic followers.
How those terrible cultists follow their lord wherever he goes, and burn anything in their path.
I have heard of them, but they have always been more a legend than a fact.
For a moment I stand in shock.
The city bustles around me. Everyone straining to hear the words of the sage.
My village, my home, my family, is in danger.
I gather the supplies I can. I must return home.
Pack over my shoulder, longknife sheathed at my hip, I walk on.
I know my duty. I know my mission.
My path will be long and winding, but it is a noble path.
LOTUS
It has been many days. Finally, I decide to rest.
There is a cave up ahead. It looks like a good shelter to me.
I walk in tentatively, cautious of bears. Or darker terrors.
Darkness awaits me. I strike up a fire and slump against a rock.
I am exhausted. Sleep drifts upon me slowly, but inevitably.
When I awake, I am standing.
My eyes meet a damp grotto. It is dark, but the walls are covered in glowing worms.
In front of me was a body of water. Floating there are pink-white flowerheads.
They lethargically spun in the pool. A crisp wind blew from an opening in the ceiling.
The flowers… smell so nice. I am tempted to grab one.
Then I notice something on the stone below me. Petals from the floating flowers.
Some had bites taken out of them. As if someone had grabbed a flower and eaten it.
I realize now. This is some sort of trap. A temptation.
These flowers are dangerous. I must leave.
And so, I make my way groggily out of the cave.
I still have mountains to climb, and deserts to cross.
DUSK
As I crest the hill, I glance a wayward town.
The Summer sun beats down upon the back of my neck. I am hot.
Water was my aim as I walked into the village.
Eyes watch me out of windows. Faces loom in the dark.
There is something horribly unsettling about this town.
I walk to the well, drawing water from its ancient bucket.
I refill my canteen, noticing the creaking of doors behind me.
Hearing figures shambling behind me, I turn. The sight that followed mortified me.
There, armed to the teeth before me, was a band of Niðhöggr's followers.
They talk about how this town was theirs. How they don't like unwanted visitors.
Drunken tongues mutter curses against me. Clumsy hands draw swords.
I have what I need, and conflict is not something I want.
So, I run.
HINDERANCE
I watch the leaves fall from the trees. Orange and yellow colors sinking down in the air.
Trees are odd things. They are beautiful, but so easily loose their beauty.
The barren limbs of the once-beautiful are now my obstacle.
The forest before me, more a thicket of branches and twigs, halts my path.
To go around would take too long. To go through would take too long.
My people need me. I cannot take too long.
Sighing, I make my way though the impediment.
Many cuts and bruises result from the snapping and thwacking of branches.
Eventually, I leave the forest.
As I exit the forest, my vision is completely consumed by a towering form.
I was at the base of a massive mountain range.
Snow-topped peaks like blades piercing the sky.
Groaning, I begin to climb.
DELICATE
Snow twirls in the morning air, pirouetting as it lands on the grassy plane.
The few trees in the area wear coats of frost, crystal stalactites hanging from their otherwise barren branches.
Leaves replaced by slight icy fingers. Beauty replaced by beauty.
I stand, frozen in my place, afraid to take another step.
The white snow on the field glinted perfectly. I don't want my footsteps to mar the scene.
I fell sorrow knowing the perfect image won't last forever. How often do I wish to disappear to a picture just like this?
My pack is heavy, my clothes not fit for this bitter weather.
How I wish I could stop my journey, and lie here for the rest of my life.
But rest favors the lazy. And sloth has never been a vice of mine.
I take a deep breath, frigid air in my lungs.
And I trudge onward, thinking of a warmer place.
My mission is more important that this beauty.
I'll remember this place.
PENULITMATE
I sit below an old tree. Winter is fast coming to a close.
On the road to my left comes another traveler. Cloaked in brown, he approaches me.
Sitting, back turned to me, he takes out his provisions and eats.
In silence, we sit. Eventually he asks me where I am going.
I respond, telling him of my mission. Of my home.
He nods, returning to his meal.
He leaves once finished. He goes down the way I just came.
Towards all the obstacles I just surmounted.
I wonder how many other travelers there are on this road.
But my quest is my own, and others cannot help me.
I set off again, walking down the dusty path.
Towards my home. Towards my destiny.
The end was nearing, and I was nearing the end.
FINAL
major trigger warning for violence and suicide
There is a deep quiet across the village.
I wish I could be with them.
Instead, I get to suffer still, and all the more.
"Only the dead have seen the end of war."
That's what is said. But only the burnt have seen the end of fire.
If only I was there. Not because I could have helped, but because I could have died with my people.
I walk amid the darkened remains of buildings, smoking planks sticking up into the sky like the charred ribcages of some large beasts.
Embers dance about in the air, twirling through the haze.
I spot something in the corner of my eye. It is a small, untouched, stuffed animal.
I reach down, picking it from its place among the cinders. How it survived the fires I have no idea.
I wonder who owned this little thing. It looks like a bipedal dog, or a wolf.
I stash it in my bag as a memento, and keep moving.
I am distraught. This is my home.
Right over there is the well I helped to create. To my left is the house I chopped down trees for.
Nothing but ashes now.
But I carry on, not really sure what I'm looking for. Then, I reach the center of town.
There, in the square, are the impaled bodies of my friends, family, and neighbors.
The old, the young. Women, children, even pets.
I fall to my knees in horror. No tears escape my eyes. This is too terrible for tears.
I silently explode inside. There is a tipping point for all people, and this may well be mine.
Everyone I've ever cared about. Everything I've ever owned. Gone.
My mother. My father. My sister. My brother.
My friends. My foes. My lover. My neighbors.
Reduced to some perverted and grisly holiday decoration.
Why can't I be up there too? I consider it. There's a longknife at my belt.
I'm not sure I can live without them. I'm not sure I can even get up.
I stay there for hours, empty, and alone.
My hand slowly reaches down for the knife.
The fingers grasp the hilt. I have not used it much, and they feel like strangers upon the leather surface.
Then, I make the choice, and I join my village.
It was not right. It was not noble.
It was sad, wrong, horrific, stupid, and I'm sure a host of other adjectives.
But it was my choice.
From dust to dust. From ashes to ashes.
— — - -
For centuries, I, watching humanity grow and prosper, have sat on my stony alter observing the world. I was once a monument of my time, built by the labor of a thousand slaves and workmen. The technologies they created to carve me and the magicks they used to imbue me were supreme for their time, far surpassing the idols of past generations. They first called me Ba'al (though I have had several more names), and they worshiped me. I used to be set in temples of gold, in hanging gardens, in grand libraries and high castles. I observed the greatness of society, the cunningness of man, the light of creation. Now I am set in a place of half-defunct commerce, observing people walk around haphazardly with bags full of trifles. Holy water once flowed from my mouth and from my hands, providing baptism or other sacred rites for hundreds. Now, my basins are full of near-worthless coins, and only because of a superstition held solely in jest.
Often, I hear mutterings of what 'Jeremy' did, or who 'Sophia' is now courting as youth loiter around my pool's circumference. My ears and eyes are not what they once were: clogged with lichen after years of very little cleaning and chipped at the edges after dastardly lazy upkeep. Once, people talked to me, gave great sermons to the effigy of their god. Now, people talk around me, barely using more than four words in their meaningless gossip. When priests of old used to great me, they did so in respectful, elegant, flowing robes. Now, though moldy cataracts obscure some of my vision, I see that those who approach me now wear light, simple garbs unfit for even a peasant. Even the rouges and vagabonds, brought before me for some fell judgement in their prison rags, wore more than these fools.
Years prior, the armies of men would come before me for blessing on the eve of their battle. Those soldiers were great of stature, glimmering armor and cape serving as an example of their empire's grandeur. The enforcers I see now are nothing like them; indeed, they patrol aimlessly, kitted either much to seriously for their profession (for I understand the insignificance of the place I now stand), or much to leniently. The cavalry of the past rode fine-bred stallions and noble war-horses to battle. These soldiers ride pathetic mechanical sticks with motorized wheels attached to the bottom, carting to and fro with no objective in mind.
I wish to once again be in a place of worship, not in a place adjacent to a food court. No one even knows of my existence. If they did, they would surely hail me as a god again. There are many of us, trapped in stone or metal throughout the world who still go yet unknown. Some, like me, hold their original visage. Others have had their spirit transferred into some other great statue. Indeed, I have heard whisperings through the ether that the great colossus of New York has twenty seven idol-spirits residing within its copper confines. I do not envy those left outside, for I am sure many have fallen victim to the birds.
I have heard talk that I am to be taken down. Men armored in bureaucracy with portfolio sabers and briefcase shields have been arguing with the land-baron here for awhile. Apparently, I am too 'hideous' and 'gothic' to be the centerpiece of this place. Some, like the land-baron, argue on my behalf, stating that an ancient statue is great for tourists. I do not wish to stay here any longer, however. My only hope is that I am put in a museum.
Maybe then I will be worshiped once more.
— — - -
It's something of a motif.
I can't imagine my home without it.
It splits my city, state, and country in half.
It rushes from the Rockies to the ocean, and it is one of the great qualities of the United States.
People often forget how beautiful and mild the states are, and that's because of the river.
We take for granted the land and the water. It roars from its churning origin to the sea.
It has gone by many names, Missouri is one of them.
Named after those who lived in here before.
It calls my name.
It beckons.
I stand upon the bridge.
I do so wish to join the river.
Ol' Falls is an odd town.
It should be a nice, quaint little city free of crime and grime, with smiling Christmas card families around every corner.
In many ways, this is true.
But there are still the homeless and destitute.
There is a perpetual gray that hangs over the whole time that snuffs out any hope for change.
Ask anyone who the mayor is, there's a good chance they won't even be able to tell you.
And they definitely didn't vote in the last city election.
There is yet some faith here.
Many surprisingly grand churches, for all that matters.
The river is dirty in this part of town; Downtown always has been.
I run out of things to think.
I run out of time to think.
The universe seems to repeat itself constantly here.
How long will I allow repetition?
It's something of a metaphor.
Water brought life to the world, now it will take it away.
The river rises up to meet my falling already-corpse.
My tears will join the river.
— — - -
It was an especially good book. Please, do ask the title. And it was one of those nights: lit by the lamplight, spent reading into the morning hours. Or at least, that was my plan for it. But tiredness gets in the way of rapture often, and so I arranged myself a coffee. Considering myself quite the barista principale, I took my best glass mug from the shelf, and gingerly applied ice, cocoa mix, and chocolate syrup to the mixture. The coffee was already sitting in the pot — I had made it that morning in reconciliation for the former sleepless night spent reading. Such is my perpetual system.
After I had concocted my soon to be delicious ambrosia, I opened the fridge for the final ingredient. And too my shock and horror, there was not a drop of creamer in the fridge! My mocha would never come to fruition without that sweet pumpkin spice taste. Dismayed, I considered my options. Drink it cold and black, or go and buy new stock. So, whatever else to do but travel to the nearest Walmart? A brand new interchange onto the interstate had just been opened, and would take me to the supermarket with the haste my situation was due.
I stashed the coffee in the fridge, grabbed my keys, and hurried to the door, yelling goodbye to my partner. It opened and shut with soft creaking, and I was alone in the night. Ah, the peace of a night after rain. The sun has gone to chase the serpent Apophis, and in these moments where our oppressive war-king has left his slaves unwatched, rebel night creeps in to grant all those who wish quiet bliss. If only for some 10 hours. I breathed in deeply, walking to my vehicle and waking it from its slumber. It's a piece of shit, and can't even accelerate over 4 RPM without jittering and stalling. But it's what I could get, so I happily christened it 'Meg' on account of the small metal fin cresting her small metal body.
Ah, I seem to have forgotten to mention that I am terrified of cars.
Regardless, in this world even the Amaxophobic must get from A to B. Even if it was night, and I was headed for I-90. Steeling my nerves, then bashing myself for having to, I set out from my suburban block towards the greater town in hopes of claiming the spoils of shopping in under ten dollars, since that was the only cash I had on me. My block was empty, save for a single SUV without its lights on, though I swear I see movement inside. The roads were empty, save for a single cat that's eyes shone from the glare of my headlights as it darted across the street. The interchange was empty, save for the streetlights that had not yet dimmed in accordance with all the others; these new young bloods shone arrogantly against the dark, vomiting cool beams on the black pavement.
And in the sky, the moon was blood. Large, just large enough to be odd. "But it shouldn't have been," said my inner monologue, suddenly snapping me into consciousness, suddenly birthing flowering logic. "no, for there is no lunar eclipse this night." It is instead, I reasoned, the Harvest Moon still catching reflected glimmers from the setting sun's blazing trail. Of course, the more fantastic side of my brain began a long soliloquy about the moon, and its cadre of analogies and myths. There is something off, though. Something disquiet regardless. Perhaps it is the way the moon rises above the dark terrain. Perhaps it is my subconscious replacing one fear with another. But there is an odd discomfort in the air.
As I enter the merging lane, I ease the accelerator. 40. The lights are gone now. I sit against the abrasive fabric of my seat, both hands on the wheel. 50. On the interstate now, a semi is passing me on account of my slow pace. I eye the speedometer, but dare not push the throttle any more. 65. And then it begins, the real terror. It grips my sides with razor-sharp talons. I look too see the blood of the moon has dried, turned to that off-parchment shade of barley. 70. The road shakes, or my car shakes, or I shake. Perhaps all of the above. Other cars thunder past. 80.
What am I doing?
Terror.
Terror.
The rest is a blur. I make it to Walmart, but that same disquiet haunts me. I cannot help feel cold inside, as if something horribly wrong has happened in my absence. It is a feeling I cannot shake, even as I retrieve my prize from the dairy section. Not once is my body taken to a shudder. There is some time limit ticking in the back of my head, some alacrity I must exercise, some great peril I am in. I discard these fictions, taking a moment to cool off in the parking lot. I will go the longer way home, through the city, instead, if only to cool my nerves.
I mount my alloyed steed once again to ride into that black night, stifling that ticking. The moon shines orange, and my fear of it has gone. Or has been banished, for now. It seems as if I am going to be well, after all. Especially once I get that sweet blend of coffee and prose. Like stimulant, like fire that must consume you, and you enable it. I almost get into a crash with some SUV whose driver apparently doesn't believe in stop signs. Its people like that that give me this fright. Justified, no?
I return to a house broken into.
My girlfriend… I do not hear her, even though I entered noisily through the connected garage. But the glass window looking out to the sidewalk in the entryway has been shattered. I don't own a gun, I'm far too prone to depression to keep one safely. I wish now that I had. This is the thing I have feared since I was a boy: thieves in the night, here to steal lives if need be. No boyish fears of monsters under my bed. Burglars and automobiles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I call the police. If the intruder is still here, I'm dead anyway. I should wait outside in my car, but Eve did not call out to me, even when my entrance was obvious.
So of course, I go looking. I can't remember when I dropped the creamer, but later the police officers would tell me how confused they were on entering my house. For the plastic canister had ruptured when it hit the floor of the parlor, and left milky gore and crystal shards spilled in the moonlight. I live in a split level home, and up seemed the sensible option from there. I crept up, fists balled, as if I could fend off my potential assailant. But I never get too see who robbed me. I open the door to the bedroom, and my eyes go wide.
Terror.
Terror.
She is there amid the debris of the ransacked room, on the ground, lifeless. Warmth bleeds from me, and I fall to my knees. As I hold her in my arms and cup her head in my hands, I cannot help but release a guttural sob. Face, so, so beautiful, stained from the red that has dripped down from the gaping, crimson blood moon imposed on her forehead, rising above those two sea-green stars and bright lips.
I wish I could tell you I moved on, that grief overtook me for a time and I got over it. No, I cope, but I never got over it. All the coffee and therapy in the world wouldn't help me get over it. I still drink coffee though, obviously. Yes, I can make levity. But I can't really drive any more, and leaving the house is physically painful. Every night I sit awake and I wonder what it would be like if I had swallowed my fear and taken the short way home back then. Then, perhaps, it would have been me instead, and I wouldn't have to live with this knot in my soul. Night offers me no more solace, and all I can think of now when I see the moon is that scraping, horrible, blood-curdling—
Terror.
Terror.
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