12/19/16

it was a cold winter evening. the chill of the air was sharp, tactile. a simple wave could send shivers up the arm.

it feels like i've been walking forever.

trudging through the snow and ice, looking for a light, in vain.
a glance at my phone revealed i had not a tenth of power left.
each breath was colder than

gusts of the frigid winds began to wear me down.

it almost felt as though i could feel my very core freeze.
as if my soul had became solid ice, waiting for me to collapse and shatter.

but just as soon as i thought it couldn't get any colder

in the distance, though the night was moonless, pitch black, there was a light.

it ran from head to toe.

something was scanning me.
reading me up, and down.
amber eyes pierced my very being.

the energy; the life in me returned.

i shuddered.
adrenaline rushed through me with the gaze.
and suddenly it all became so warm.
so warm.
the iced eyes drew closer.

i began to run.

"they would not catch me" i thought.

each lunge became more and more difficult.

i turned.

they were there, very near.

i drew my sword.

and with a flash of red, the smell of burning flesh; a blood curdling screech echoed across the tundra.

it was a monster of darkness. a beast of cold. a devil all its own.

the scent of sulfur and burned hair, but the beast, no where in sight.

it disappeared with the flash of red.

surely,

i am dead.

suum defessus.

The night was coming to an end. a layer of spilled booze coated the floors of the bar where numerous patrons were indulging themselves on greasy food, and slowly drifting away, drink after drink. here in this bar sat one patron who stayed though all his friends left, with the bartender who was to close this now quiet evening.

he too had been drinking this evening. he looked up from his empty plate and he caught sight of the clock behind the bartender, who was tediously cleaning the many glasses that piled behind him. a weak, red glow flickered from the digital clock 2:45.

tall, with unkempt and curled brown hair, the bartender relaxed and stole away from his work with a drink in hand, making his way over to his last patron. he seemed somewhat anxious and, as stated before, everyone went home but this last patron. rather high cheekbones and blue sunken eyes, clad in somewhat tattered clothing, he raised his glass to his face as he sat at the bar and lowered his head after his sip.

"Is there anything else I can help you with this evening sir? Do you maybe need a ride?" the bartender inquired of the man.

the man looked up from the porcelain and with a sullen edge, nodded his head, stating with this that he needed nothing of the bartender.

the ominous glow of the silent television set that was set to static, hummed. the bartender nodded in turn. the gentleman then said "i'll be going shortly, though i have no one to go to now. not even my own shadow follows my footsteps anymore."

the bartender leaned against the lacquered birch bar and questioned the man. "What do you mean your shadow doesn't follow you anymore?

"under the night lights and street lights, he walks along with better men than i. he is all the wiser. he became more of me, and where i used to leave him behind, here i am now; in his dust."

he rose to his feet and stood. his shoulders were broad and his patched canvas jacket looked quite warm.

"don't let what you love slip away from you."

he turned to the door, set it ajar, and slipped away into the cold winter night. he plucked a string in the bartender's heart, the start of a concerto of sorrow. he placed his drink and wept.

Sand Man: The Divine Clock Maker

"I HAVE HEARD tales of this man, this immortal being of utter and sheer power. He controls a world which is said that all worlds meet, and all mortals will see.", my grandfather said with his raspy, withered voice.

"He claims all, child. He knows all as well. The past and future are well acquainted with him. What he cannot see is our current time, they are obscured views that only we can see.: That being said, is it safe to say that my grandfather believes our lives are predetermined? Yes, you could say that might be true. Grandpa closed his eyes now. He drifted off to sleep. It was late, so I too fell fast asleep at the foot of our household hearth.

I woke in the midst of a lush, green grove. surrounded by tall oaks. Light danced on the grass as it pierced the canopy of oaks. I looked to my left and saw my grandpa sleeping next to me peacefully, without a note being spelled from him. I rolled over onto my stomach so I could push myself to my feet, once standing, I filled myself with a deep breath of the crisp and cold morning air while stretching my arms. It was such a serene environment. I could hear birds chirping, running water on a brook, the leaves swaying as they're buffeted by the gentle gusts of winds the flow through the forest.

I stumbled from the clearing down to the brook to wash my face off and try to wake myself up. The birds flew away though, their songs ceased. I knelt before the river and dropped my hands into the water and drew water to my face. The water was warm, until it touched my cheeks. It was ice cold.

Something was wrong. The water trickled down my face to the creek, but I couldn't hear the droplets hit the body. Not only this, but I couldn't hear the leaves rustling with the wind. I reached for the brook again. This time, when my hands touched the water, it too, was ice cold. Withdrawing them revealed that my hands were no longer hands. They were bone and ligaments. I was overcome with awe and pain, Beneath my hands was a murky mixture of blood and tainted water. I rushed up the hill, tripping the many stones that covered its bank until I met the treeline.

Suddenly, the leaves of the canopy fell in troves the forest was disintegrating at a rapid pace. I made it back to where the grove once was, but the leaves were all gone; stolen by am icy wind. Grandpa was still sleeping on a big boulder. I screamed cries of anguish and desperation in hopes that he might wake up, but he still slept on the rock. I reached to grab him with what was left of my hands, but the strenuation of the muscles upon the bone, collapsed them. Grandpa's eyes shot open, pitch black, he said: "Time is coming." and he turned to sand.

➡➡

     A BRIGHT LIGHT pierced the darkness of this very large and empty room; only flecks of dust are found littering the gray and void space. From the light which gave life to the room came a pair of withered hands. The hands were completely identical A snap from the fingers of these cadaverous hands spawned a box, whose enormity dwarfed the hands. The hands cracked the fingers of one another, and then promptly delved into the box.

     The box shuddered rapidly and violently from time to time. The convulsions were followed by a series of esoteric sounds; a cacophony of sounds befell the now populated hall of gray. From the sounds of bells ringing, to the roars of mighty beasts, the mania ceased; the hands had returned from the interior of the mysterious box. The hands were grasping something unseen, however, it was clear that the what the hands held in their clenched fists was something of immense power. A miraculous and incredible light, more mysterious than that of the light that currently illuminated the hall, peeked through the cracks in between the fingers of the hands. The hands fluently drew away from one another, then clashed, creating a blast of light, and from this light, another pair of hands was made. Different from the creator pair, this pair had a left and right hand.

     Following the second pair's creation, the hands smashed together, again, with tumultuous force, joyous of what they had made. The spawned pair were confused by this display, but, nevertheless, awaited orders. The creator hands ushered their creation to the box of enormity. The creation did too, delve into the void of the box for some time, whilst the creator hands took the light that graced the grey room and clasped it between themselves.

     The creator revealed the "light", which was no longer light; it had been formed into a small, babbling little beast, pink as flesh, cute as a button., adorned atop a pedestal of bone. The beast wold babble and babble nonsense about how he lacked a means of moving about. He cried for arms and legs, and a torso for he to sit about. The creators took more light and did grant the miserable little beast his wishes.

     Meanwhile, the pair inside the box had tilted the box over, and dragged a great mass with them as they departed from the box. The hands created a sphere, flawless and lacking any evils. the sphere was blessed with light from the creator's gift, which, in turn, created Life.

     The Creator Pair had but one more bit of light and hadn't thought as to what to do with it. They turned to their ever-babbling creation to ponder. Time and reflection upon the creation allowed the Creator Pair to decide that the creation should hear itself, so it may be silent. With what light was left, the Creators gave the beast ears, and it was silent.

     The Creators took their creation to the pair of "Perfect" hands and gestured towards the now, silent little being, so silent, that only the murmur of its heart could be heard. The Perfect hands elevated their fifth digits to their Creator and plucked the beast and cast it onto the sphere.

     Life on the sphere flourished. The creation of the Creator's hands multiplied. Each beast was given a box; a box with infinite possibilites. All the creations were the same. Identical. The boxes which they possessed had infinite possibilities within them. Still, they were all the same. Their creators saw this, and lowered their fifth digits.

     But the Creators had forgotten.

      They gave their creations not the gift of sight.

      A day once came though, when a creation found itself taking pieces of the world around him, instead of what lay in the box, and crafted itself a means of vision. This single creation, could see.
   
      He saw that his hands were both that of right.

Ah-Loth (Three Plains/Planes)

I had heard the echoes of the lost calling to me from the city's most prominent temple. The echoes called out from the Astral Planes, where I was born. The darkest monstrosities come from that world. Even I am considered to be a being of evil.

The temple was dedicated to the omnipotent titan who rules all of astral-kind. Lothos. Here in the Terran Plane, those who escape Lothos's clutches live within a devastated island, known as Ah-Loth.

A gate from our realm, the Astral Plane, was opened in the Terran Plane. A light from the Terran world's heavenly bodies was release late one night. People from the "Earth", as they call it, believed this to be a catastrophe, the end of their world; the largest and most renown city in their world was sunk by this fallen star. It was a blessing to us.

The cathedral of which our god dwells was built in this new world. The fallen star was the product of an attack against Lothos. A hero among astrocities, Uurlok. He led a rebellion against the titan, but was obliterated by He who enslaves us. The titan lost an eye during the attack of Uurlok and his men. Because Lothos lost an eye, a gate to the Terran Plane was opened for a short period of time. The many slaves of the Astral realm had escaped to the Terran world, and spawned in the land, which was nothing more than a wasteland, but the escaped called it home: Ah-Loth.

The cries grew louder as I approached his statue. Anguish and sorrow beset my heart and tears grew within the heights of my cheeks.

A proud monument to his sin; he stood piercing the titan's right eye with a long, heavy sword. The expression of the titan's face could not foster the agony the titan had felt, nor could an artist depict the suffering Uurlok should feel as he was promptly ripped to pieces by the titan's gaping maw.

I presented my offering to his statue so that I might appease his cries for another day.

The titan watches from his void while the Terrans sleep.

Dream, dream, O restless ones, you may never dream. Kneel before the savior of astrocity kind, the giver of salvation and freedom, so that we might steal yours away.

Will

I saw him bound on his hands and knees, in a pool of his own sweat. For long, he writhed within his bindings, helplessly trying to piece himself free, his efforts in vain. Incapacitated, he lay there, slump in a pool of his own failure.

Sad, isn't it?

He was beautiful too. A work of God's art, from his long, flowing brown hair, his crisp blue eyes and a very defined nose.

His hair cut, locks scattered in a puddle of blood, which had poured from his now cracked and misshapen nose. What could have done this to him?

One thing.

It is a almost holy thing, talked about all one's life.

It battered his will, once wrought of iron. Tore his mind, cast of gold. Shattered his heart, once of glass.

His cold eyes meet yours and you feel them, piercing your soul, melting your heart.

Everything he does is a blatant attack of your home, your temple. He only seeks now to defile every temple he can; to steal the tithe and upset your font.

Nothing can save him, he is unbound. His soul was swept away from him, as he lay bound. Wisps of smoke rose above his head, the soul sought no more anguish. He forced it from himself.

He feels no longer.

His body is warm.

His touch is cold.

His eyes?

Much colder.

Your temple will become his own. A house of pain and sorrow. He will pray to your god so that he might be set free, but the same of him will happen to you.

You will know sorrow, you will know pain.

He will smash the stained glass windows, mutilate your effigies and destroy your altar.

He will become your god.

He will become all your think of.

All you dream of.

You will have many sleepless nights.

All because you let love crush you the way it had crushed him.