scy fy intro

1

The light refracted through the water as if with every sound the brook murmured lazily, it appeared like iridescent flashes of bright, healthy teeth, falling in and out of sight as if the small waves were lips, lips that hid and revealed the glory of a lazy smile that teased and dazzled. Charming hollywood narcissism woven into the mild waves of aqua that obeyed the beck and call of the Moon.

It reminded her of when she had been a teenage waiter working a quiet shift, enjoying time spent flirting with patrons and colleagues, content with a servile vocation because attention was lavished upon her through the subtleties of society that she read fluently and easily .

If fame was a mask that ate into the face then she had become the idol she was proclaimed to be, and she relished in her new life.

Then her hand penetrated the water carefully, acquiescing to the cold, reaching for something that would force the acquiescence to evolve into something new, something that would transform the regret that arose from disturbing the murmuring of the water, into joy,or at least something that would resemble it.

But what she wanted wasn’t there, with no promise of arrival later. She withdrew her hand slowly and held it outstretched over her reflection, diaphanous drops of water with the potential to intimate to her choosing not to, choosing instead to escape her grasp by falling from the great height as if to be away from their mother was to not exist as they were meant to and as the sons of the brook ran to to their mother, her reflection changed with the arrival of every escapee, every runaway, every transparent leap off her hand causing it to shake, shimmer and shatter. She wondered if every  reflection that appeared anew as the water consumed itself was a reflection of another part of her, one that looked the same but celestial, or cosmic, occult or fictional. A liquid eye seeing all realities at once, blinking as it’s children returned to the womb, each blink shifting it’s vision to another perspective, each perspective more bizarre than the other. She wondered if one reflection would be of the sky showing her body under the lake, devoid of life and consumed by the water as the drops were.

 “Macabre”

Flesh, blood and bone today.
One out of the three one day in the  years to come,ossified thereafter.











2

“You can live in harmony with nature if you're of the same species as those that gravity enforces the banality of organic earthly life upon. We don’t belong here anymore. We have the gift of honest consciousness which whilst making us an invasive species, is proof that we are not of this world and as such we aren't slaves to stems and peaks, the gelid currents of air above or streams below and all encompassing. We are destined for bigger things, yet we still respect the sanctity of nature however as those with a sentient soul, amalgamated with the consciousness of both the celestial and the holy,  tend to do.”

She stretched her long legs outwards as she spoke nonchalantly, tendons and muscle tightening as she forced them to touch the end of the velvet covered chaise-longue. Her arms did the same but reached upwards with the polished, gleaming fingernails of her open palms catching the light that seeped through the white wooden shutters intermittently, giving him the impression that she was exerting all her force to push away the shadow of a large sun that threatened to engulf her, a mime parodying a woman soon to be kindling for a fire that would continue then achieve razing her house to the ground.

As he pondered this to protect himself from the articulate brutality of her words, she appeared as if she wanted to move, but lacked the minuscule amount of ambition required to motivate her to move to another part of the room, settling for apathy instead like a cat who spies it’s owner’s lap but settles for coarse carpet under its claws instead, out of arrogant indolence.

“Quite frankly when people talk about 'humans' or 'people' they're referring to us, the species of human that has ascended for better or worse. Feel free to hate us for slights against the world you still belong to, the world we have left in all but unrecognised nostalgia of sentiment. Feel free to harbor that resentment for as long as you want but while we colonise the stars that lie beyond the shining corpses you see when you look up towards the sky, not just tonight but in the millennia to come through accumulation of the descendance of spirit, I hope that resentment evolves into malformed vainglory about the life you're forced to live so that you never wish for the life we now have”

She was lying on her side now. Her head was on the headboard, her face towards him. Her right arm was dangling over the side of the headboard, the pink tinged glass skin of her upper arm resting on the side of her face with a wrist dangling in the space between the mahogany desk and chaise-lounge. He noticed the nail on her thumb slightly grazing the velvet and it struck him as what would be a beautiful metaphor for the nostalgia she felt for a world that had spawned her centuries ago but that had raised him decades ago, if he were to write a novella about this moment.
She waxed anacreontic platitudes about it but he was born here.

Was he?

When he was born his feet had touched the steel of a tray with wheeled legs after he was ripped from the bosom of his mother, a tray placed on titles instead of the soil below. At least he was born meters away from the mud and leaves, whereas she was born in the Celest, the True Earth light years from her infantile feet.

Sailors on a ship at sail may have steady feet during brief interludes of the sea at rest but without an anchor currently fulfilling its purpose, the steady feet were just attached to a sailor ready to fall prey to an ocean prone to seizures symptomatic of night terrors, night terrors that exist in actuality, in the Celeste.

He felt the sun imitating the woman’s previous stretch,  he felt it’s warmth creep through the gaps in the shutters as it pulled itself to its full height for a moment. Rays of sunlight caught the lenses of his glasses and pulled away what remained of the gift of primal sight then returned it almost instantaneously, as if the warmth and brightness had amalgamated then latched onto his glasses to give an intangible poke like one gives a drowsy child in class.

The sun had done its job. He awoke out of the reminiscence of his birth and the trance the woman’s monologue had put him in and prayed quickly to himself that he had chosen to speak to her when the world outside was golden instead of nigrescent as it would be sooner than he would have liked.

3

Chunks of fish littered the floor. His eyes rolled back and for a second he thought the voodoo had worked but affected the wrong thing, he saw the dismembered fish swimming in the bile, he saw their gills move as it swallowed what should be in his stomach, he saw them rejoicing in leaving the organic fish bowl that was his body not a lake, he saw them whisper to each other their joy in being free, free to writhe on and in the red soil that absorbed the bile together with the sun that here, was a stranger to him.

He wretched again. The bile was viscous, more acidic phlegm than acidic water.

The yellow splashed against the red soil then blended in.

Blood.

Blood, just one drop, one drop then a river, with tears as a consequence of the pain would pair perfectly with the yellow bile. A palette, a camouflage of pain that both hid and exacerbated the savagery of the continent.

He didn’t belong here.

He felt his hands pairing with another and allowed himself to be led into what appeared to be an earthen mausoleum. Gnarled, grotesque, wickedly misshapen and tall dark branches of a tree he never wanted to see formed the walls that created was he knew would be his tomb one day.

Suddenly he could see clearly again. He quickly realised someone had placed his glasses on his face. The shock rendered him numb. He sat there and inhaled deeply staring at the thick mud that had been plastered on the branches that made up the outside wall. He realised he was in a stereotypical mud hut, one similar to the ones people spoke of in intrigue back on the original continent.

“Isn’t it funny” he remembered saying in earnest around the school table as a young teen. “Isn’t it funny that the descended can live with walls of mud instead of brick and be fine with it?”

“Brother, brick is just mud in its purest form. You shouldn’t judge those people, people will start thinking you’re a wannabe ascendent.” was the reply, he can’t remember who had said it but he remember feeling as if he was being patronised and already judged when he in fact, did mean it in earnest, in curious naivety.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just find it funny that we have bricks and they have mud then the ascendants have orach-ore and well, basically I find it funny that all three of us basically use the same thing but well, different you know?”

“Brother I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

The mud stank. Death seemed to emanate from it in waves that hurt his nose so deeply it was as if death had come to life, ghostly skeletal soldiers were being commanded to charge at his senses by some nefarious creature using the mud as a medium that channeled it’s spite towards him.

He pulled his now mud stained white button down shirt towards his face and with his other hand, pulled his glasses off again. The lenses had begun to trap the heat between his eyes and the glass, causing the area around his eyes to sweat, which made his eyes sting.

I’m sweating tears he thought. I’ve lost the ability to feel anything but nausea, there’s no hope for me now and my body knows it. My body has succumbed to a twisted form nihilism to such an extent it’s shedding satirical tears for me. How did it come to this?