The Books of Siel Evolo V2

The Book In Dream
By Siel Evol
Written February, March, and August 2020


The Book In Inspiration
Awhile back,
In those gilded days,
When I was a young man,
Yet aged by a unnatural world
Of violent,
Peace And quite,
Of degraded
Solemness,
I served a guild
An agency of a large invisible machine,

Selling my wares to all who crossed my path
Broken toys,
Rusted contraptions
Imbecilic inventions,
A tricksters work
Young and old
Distant or all too near
All who lacked wit
Purchased my product

My superiors sent me an invoice
An order,
To extend the arms of our crafts
An offer to me,
For a journey of deception


I boarded a engine,
Took a trip across the continent
For 2 days I sat in my car
A chamber made of rich woods, and red leather
Writing letters, and drawings, scrambling mechanically
Outside the world was different, yet same
The smoke stakes that tapped the skies
The bustling cities
The wheat which sucked the endless fields
The streams flowing with silent fish
Yet all black
No matter how empty or crowded
Tall or low
The landscapes were shrouded
Blacks, grays, lit by beams wrestled out of a chamber in an ironic heaven

As I reached the midlands,
The sun crossed down into chaos
Whatever clammer in the constant hills
Collapsed into dream
And as did I

The slow drift into sleep
One of the few good things,
In a time of alien pleasure
The approaching darkness
One afflicts upon oneself at ease
A contemplation of death
A contemplation of peace
A contemplation all things really

About halfway through,
As my world dwindled into rest
And the fragments flew into memory
An unworldly freeze had befallen them


I climbed up
Not uneasy, but not at ease
The train still moving
Yet something haveth stopped
Not the world
Not the time
Merley the motion of life

Suddenly I heard a song
A whistle through the luxuriant cars
A song that echoed a distant place
Of floating doves, and hidden rabbits
Of places of vines, and ancient marbles
Of gracious women, and godlike men

I writhed my hand onto a copper latch,
Clicking into a new scene
A energy
A power
A being
Something fallen down
Landed onto a ungracious Earth
A winged figure
With robes like a ironed cloud
Skin as white as milk
Eyes the color of the rare nebulas
Male or female
Alive or holy

Playing this distant song
Of a distant world,
Of a distant time,
Of a distant god,
On a whistle made of chrome

I was mezmerised, stopped against my will
The air craddling me, my senses absorbed

The being rose from it’s rose throne
And collapsed upon my impure form
Holding me, sending me into a kalidescope of xenous fear, yet indescribable joy
And at last world dwindled into rest
And the fragments flew into memory
And sleep like a doll had befallen me


The Book In Gluttony

         He woke up, but the sun was not blasting in alarm, for it was quiet and creeping. The
shining floor was draped in a sweet orange by it, the furniture pinked, the rusted frames and crea-
ky knobs shining, reminding him of the thousands of jewels he heard so much about, swept away
to plunder in the war he had never seen but had been so shaped by. “Why what a beastly and ti-
tanic thought compared to the solemness of the rays that caused it, so different than the island of
peace in this chamber.” He looked dull for a moment but his mind quickly rearranged. “But per-
haps, is the knowledge of such times, and natures, is it not a compliment, not a gratitude to the
almost inorganic safety of the moment. If it was just a world of peace, the slightest clamor would
be the subject of epic, of lamentation and memory.” Regardless that was unimportant and silly,
no such world could come into existence, not by the hands of an orchestral being, or pantheon,
nor even by the hands of even more impossible chaos. Even more so it would be boring. He
scarcely ever awoke at this hour, to apply it on a hollow and unfruitful monologue would be an
act of unthankfullness.
         The bed, chair, and shelf were made of heavy, yet unsculpted lumber from the forest be-
yond the window, beyond the valley. The boy pumped his long arms against the the flat mattress,
the skin on them woken and suddenly disciplined into action. He stood up and raised them still
lulled by his rest, revealing his slim, yet hardened body, his hands just stopping before reaching
the low, beamed ceiling. As he walked towards the crevice in the wall, he slightly flinched from
the sun, his pale skin adjusting to it, a costume which would have been completely white had it
not been for the blood animating it.
         Dozens of cluttered volumes lined the shelf, some in tongues that he could not even rec-
ognize, some taken into antiquity by the sun, but some speaking in words he knew. He chose the
same one he had chosen many nights before, not to say he did not read all the other ones he
could, it was simply his favorite. His fingers instinctively flipped for a index, but he was lost,
and simply fell his eyes into whatever stimulated his reel.
         He saw the ships, the shore, the forest, and the goddess sung perhaps too much about. It
was not so much he liked the chapter and it’s cast on it’s own, no to stay there forever would
have been torment, to anti-climatically halt and settle in her palace would be dull and like an
end, struggle no more, yet far from peace, an unfulfilled life. It would only be perfect if he could
continue journeying and learning the whole of the world, till he reached the edge at least, in
which he would hopefully have found what he was looking for, and if not to fling himself off the
edge into an even more quiet dream. But still he did not admonish the goddess, no he loved her
and pondered on her soft milk skin, her fertile figure, her golden locks and her star like eyes. To
not even see her would be an incomplete life, but even after the fulfillment of instinctual passion,
was there not something more past the void it birthed in it’s singular end. Like the book itself,
was there not another book out there, so much better, sweeter, exciting and deeper, perhaps not
even far from his reach, yet he would never find it? Or perhaps it was invisible from his eyes, or
perhaps it did not even exist.
         “Whatever”, he interrupted himself“It’s time to go.” He pulled off his night shirt and
threw it on a table in the corner that creaked in it’s age, then leaning for his wardrobe. His body
was tough, yet his skin pure and smooth, like marble, or limestone. It had been sculpted by a life-
time of work of course, yet it had seemed subliminal that it could be weaponized at any second,
at least compared to most people. “Physical strength is a mark in a way, a beautiful one yet a
source of fear for some.”, he thought as he put on his gray collared shirt, peering into the tiny
mirror, the dust obscuring his long silver hair, the little glass that was clean allowing him to peer
just a bit into his amber eyes mostly obscured by his bangs, eyes of melancholy.
         He reclined on the floor, pulling the hunting rifle out from under the bed. It was a virgin
tool, it’s wooden frame untouched, it’s iron still shining, it’s barrel still clean. He was thankful
for that, and knew he probably wouldn’t even need to contemplate the thing at all, but it still
symbolized the world of terror and struggle that still existed to some extant even after all those
years, and so far away. It would have been easier to put it on his shoulder, but he did not want to
live by the sword, no it was just a precaution that any somewhat intelligent man would take.
         At the bottom of the stairwell, just next to the stores in a tiny room, was the kitchen, and
seated there was his mother. She was an old woman, 60 years old, but she would not have been
like that if she had not birthed him at the unfit age of 43, especially in a time antithetical to crea-
tion.
         The house was a decent spring temperature, a rarity for the old shack, but she was cov-
ered in winter wares, her only visible features her wrinkled white nose and sunken eyes. She had
been solemn to speak ever since he was born, and her age was not improving that, her words
nothing more then coughs and moans. In front of her lay a paper from a few days before, the date
glaring pointlessly, May 16th, 1903.
         He nodded at her knowing what she expected and prepared the large bowl of tasteless
broth on the stove, and placed towards her a pilchard of water. The woman grabbed towards the
goods, and began slowly absorbing them. He was not neglectful, it was simply he had little time,
the majority which had to be spent making money for her, and she asked for very little. Even
when he had given her gifts she still ignored them. He was certain something worse than aging
had taken a hold of her all those years ago.
         “I’m going”, he said sternly, her only response being a microscopic nod as her face was
immersed in the soup.
         He tied his boots on, slipped on his black trench coat, grabbing his purse, and grabbing
his empty sack, slipping the rifle into it’s socket.
         Just as he walked out the door, he saw two shapes dancing in the sky, one like a ball, the
other like a knife. The smaller one was flustered and sloppy, the larger concentrated and neat. It
was a falcon chasing a pigeon. “Damn it”, he thought to himself. The creature was going too fast
for him to shoot, but even more so it was full of such majesty that it would seem like a sin, at
least in his weak understanding of theological matters. Now he could shoot the pigeon, dirty lit-
tle thing those were, but how could he explain that?
         “Brr”- The falcon struck the smaller bird, ending it’s life unceremoniously. He thought
now that he had a chance to succeed in shooting it and obtain the information, however the little
string had already been broken and had crashed several yards ahead of him.
         The little roll of paper lay in the wet grass, just slightly unraveled waiting for him. He
picked it up and squinting from the sun, read the text:
         “Hello Mr. Durant, we may have never met before but I have heard quite well of the effi-
         ciency and security of your work, and after all this pigeon I purchased seems to know
         your location as I was told by it’s former owner, and thus I would like to hire you to re-
         cover a parcel of heavy importance for me. It seems during the war my father buried his
         most treasured possession around your side of the river, right at the corner of the oak
         near the old burnt out mansion. He is quite old and weak, and I but a girl who can not
         possibly traverse this land on her own, and thus I put my trust in you to bring them back
         in accordance with the receipt he possesses. As I said we are across the river, and past
         the hills, however at the edge of the town and just a stones toss from the sea cliffs, the
       church made of blue bricks and with the very tall spire.
                                                                         I wish you much speed
                                                                                        Father Kliff’s
                                                                                        Daughter
         He had never known of a girl who could write, or more so someone young. Most his age
grew up in the aftermath, and there was too much to do that had to be done, which did not in-
clude writing. He could read at least, however he could never wrap himself around writing. This
seemed like an interesting job regardless. Knowing the details, he walked towards the shed and
opened it up.
         Suddenly he stopped. That was the shovel his mother used to bury his father just before
he was born, back in the city. “To use it... would it not... would it be an insult to his memory?”
He was not emotionally bothered by it but felt some “psychic” kick coming from it. He knew the
feeling wasn’t singular to him though, many religious folk he overheard talking about holy relics
and such associated with this or that prophet, but even more so it was of a personal feeling of sa-
credness. It was the only one right for the job though, the others were simply for planting toma-
toes and spices, to use those would take eons, and to buy another shovel, a good shovel at that
made of hard to come buy materials, would be a struggle. He slipped it into the slot opposite his
rifle.
         “Struggle... that idea again, struggle?” He then seemed to feel a sense of sympathy. If he
was the shovel would he want his entire life to consist of one gloomy event and then to be
thrown into a shed, like a healthy man thrown into a crypt? “Oh but it’s a tool it can’t think, it
can’t feel.” No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise the foolish feeling re-
mained. He gripped it, and raised it out into the sun.
         He knew his task. Across the river. He peered from the top of the hill, past the string of
woods, past the port, and past the river. The landscape then seemed to rise up, they were hills
from his view, but surely on the other side cliffs. Just squinting he could see what he believed to
be the church.
         But first he had to make his way to the mansion. Just as the town was somewhere below
his house, the mansion was at a higher altitude somewhere in the western hills. A path extend for
some time, but eventually it would start into jutting rocks and lumber.
         The valley extended for quite awhile, but the larger portion of it was flat, covered in tan,
green moist grass that squished under his boots in an almost satisfying way, the sound full of hu-
mor as it broke the silence of the landscape.
         The sky was a warm gray, the sun now trumped by clouds. The perfect weather. For when
it is too cold everything gets stuck in place, when it is too warm everything melts. The furnish-
ings of the land colored in a subtle yet pretty way by the weakened lights of morning.
         The human scribbles on the world became more visible, the birch no longer gray and hos-
pital, but charred and devoid of life, other then the crows which flocked above laughing. They
seemed to be incarnations of pure darker natures, but he liked them nonetheless, how their feath-
ers shined purple against the sun, their laughter strange company. Trunks lined the ground like
ancient obstacles, ash coming off as he walked over them.
         Even before the seventh day, death existed as a force beyond what existed, the main ob-
ject of aspiration, fear and conflict. It sculpted the chaotic elements, fashioned them like a gener-
al. The trees just kept piling up, higher and higher, a darkly beautiful mound of empty life. Of
course it wasn’t all bad or all good, or more so all positive or all negative. “Everything, even the
tiniest thing has it’s benefit and vice, it’s gifts and takings.” No decision or action could fully be
considered in all it’s accomplishments and repercussions, sure the trees would die, but they
would also nurture the other trees and in a strange way add to the history of the land, enrich the
soul of it with their ultimate destiny.
         But to think of it as an act of nature, that too would be a false answer. The trees had fallen
not in age, but in the actions of barbarism. The landscape had mostly recovered and such a thing
did not seem obvious, but anyone who lived there knew the story of the place.
         It was one of the few places in the mostly quiet region that had been touched by the carn-
age, and thus a monument. Though not one like a grave, or a statue, no, more like the ruins of a
ancient prison where bards still sung of it’s horror.
         Even though the Southern Islands were infamously associated with the epoch of the vio-
lence, the Northern regions were still hit.
         Long before his parents were even born, the industrialist crafted their “strongholds” in
the once luxuriant landscape, every week pulling up in their carriages all done up for that day
just like the day before and the day after. That was one thing he didn’t understand about struggle,
he knew the lust for it, but he did not understand the gluttony of it’s fruits, perpetual mechanic
cycles of consumption. “For what? “If i just could leave the valley for once and have everything
I felt missing of, that would be enough, regardless of money.”
         Not thinking much about it he walked into the hollow palace, smelling the strange, yet
satisfactory poison of those white paints in age. One might think it to be an asylum, an orphan-
age, or some other undesirable place, but at one point it had been home to one of the wealthiest
families in the world.
         He rested on a crumbling bench and lit a potentially expired cigar. People often found it
strange when he pulled out the thick thing and lit it up. Whenever he passed through a village, he
would sit on the haystack and puff away, the girls passing by always remarking, “Oh a face like
that is one of a prince, not of a prospector. Stop sucking that vile thing!” He would then laugh
and offer it to them and ask them if they would think otherwise after trying. He liked smoking,
no one was going to stop him. Sure the girls thought he was “a prince” but whenever they wit-
nessed his build and strength in action, they would usually coil away. Most girls didn’t like the
warrior type, maybe if he lived years before the war he would have been the talk of the town and
beloved, but no, he lived in the wreckage of warriors and barbaric sentiments.
         Warrior at most was associated with the anarchist who lived in the caves farther North,
the ones who’d rob churches, beat the sick, and whisk village girls away to do all sorts of vile
things to them. But in a world of such things, how long can mere agrarians withhold? The small
government of the town was sucked up in religious moralities and such, which upheld a working
society... but the soul of the warrior was gone. The blood that flowed in the ancient heroes, gone.
Only would the sword be taken up, by the executioner in internal affairs, to put down some town
degenerate or some murder, but the whole matter was all said and done when they were caught.
That was if anything ever happened, aside from the constant persecution by the mountain sav-
ages.
         He looked at the walls. They were blackened by dust and smog, aside from the pretty lit-
tle white squares of paint where frames had once hung, ripped from their pictures purely for their
elemental value. That was the ironic part. Sure the financiers, captains of industry, and all the
kings of the gilded days were gray hearted men, but they kept the world going, even if rotten
their souls, at least at a steady pace. Ever since they, and their poor families who stood in the
crossfire, were whisked away by the mob, and by them, the ones with skin like the sun, every-
thing of the world was slow, at least by what he was told.
         What was left of the Southern Islands collapsed into disrepair, having become infected by
the ruined ones, materials like the ones that made up his shovel, were suddenly three times as
hard to come by. The world had been reverted, if not, halted at least.
         “The shovel.” He picked up the spade, and walked to the front door, nudging the cigar
deeper into his mouth so it would not fall during his duty. Just as the letter said, the tree stood
there, it’s wispy branches bending with leaves tickling the ground. It was old, but not in it’s twi-
light. He felt a prescience from it, like one might feel looking at a photo of their great grandfa-
ther, or a painting of God, and instinctively made a tiny apology in his mind for disturbing it’s
soil.
         After a few dozen throws of dirt, something that would be a cause to sleep for most, he
felt the shovel tap against a package. Pushing the dust away, he clamped his fingers on the con-
tainer.
         It was a rusted tin chest, sealed tightly, emboldened and hardened by the soil. The box
was heavy, so he made up to dent it open, take it’s contents, and leave it to the savages or the
Earth it came from.
         “Clink, clink, Clink!” The box broke and revealed the shadow inside it. Delicately lifting
the lid, he peered at the contents. It was not a treat to the eyes at first, but it was definitely not
something he had seen before, at least out of context. A thick, round steel barrel, with several
gears at either end like clockwork. He turned it on it’s side and peered inside it, even more com-
plex then the outside, better than the most expensive clocks and cars in the town. Unlike most
things he had neutral feelings about such technologies, though he knew of their wonderful, and
terrible double potentials. Aside from that he knew little about it, and lifting the hefty thing over
his back and into his dark green sack, he thought about how comfortable and happy it must feel
in their after being in the ground for so long.
         The sun began growing tired, but somehow felt at it’s peak blasting the landscape with
light. He had come to the town, full of life compared to the hills he had traversed that day. All
the stores were built out of thick round stones, topped with white painted wood, buildings, with
windows full of squares of glass, the short with wide sharp interlocking roofs, the tall with flat
tops. wind chimes blowing outside the blacksmith, all the bars lit up, straw hatted men stacking
packages outside the shops, children frolicking in the twilight without the little knowledge of life
that hurt.
         “Coo, coo.” “Birds do not abound at this hour, where could that sound be coming from.”
He spotted a shop that was part brick, but mostly tent, exhibiting dozens of cage, some draped in
colorful blankets, but the ones out front exhibiting all of their inhabitants. He then had the idea to
purchase one, but not for himself. “Sure, I’ll lose some money, but their more likely to recom-
mend me if I replace their lost property. Surely they’ll be grateful to see me coming back with an-
other bird and at that as a gift!” A boy about two years younger then him was haggling prices,
and showing off the creatures, he seemed knowledgeable about them despite being so young
looking. Not that he could hear whatever he was saying, though his hands said it all with their
swift theatrical movements. He wore worn lined pants, and a simple brown buttoned leather coat,
however contrasting with his well kept blonde hair, and dark blue eyes. Strange, most of the time
dark eyes were boring, but his were fascinating as they were something that was not usually
dark, blue, like a duck that should be brown suddenly black. “Sir, I told you the price was five
pennies, not four, please just listen!” The gruff bearded man shook him, almost looking like one
of the bankers who had died those years before, poorer at that. “Okay, okay three, three will do!”
The man threw down the grimy coins quickly spinning away as he carried away a white spotted
pigeon.”
         The boy went down to the ground to reach for the coins, but they were gone. He looked
up, almost in fear glaring at the source of the shadow that hid him suddenly from the light. Du-
rant held out the coins to him his left palm wide open exhibiting all three of them vividly. He
held out his right, and shaking, the boy let him lift him from the ground.
         “Quite the aviary you have here”, he said eyeing around his inventory, though maintain-
ing eye contact through his cloaking hair somehow with the other boys wide twitching rabbit-
like eyes. “Aviary that’s the word for a collection of birds right, I read it once at least I can’t be
right, no I think I read it twice, I must have!” “That’s the word for a collection of these fellows
isn’t it?” The boy giggled weakly,. “Well perhaps, but I think that word might be fitting to some
prettier birds. When I think of aviary I think of a wonderful collection of dressed up looking
tropical birds in a royal greenhouse or on tour at the zoo, like parrots, and peacocks. These are
just pigeons. He thought about what he said, and acknowledged the meaning, though what he
saw now seemed to validate it still.
         “Why I’ve never seen a bird like this, he’s no pigeon is he, I’ve never seen a pigeon this
brown and clean looking. Why he has a wonderful voice.” The boy smiled, but once again began
to continue the debate over the value of his stock. “Oh their just mourning doves, nothing more
than pigeons with a new splash of paint. Their as stupid as them too!” He was pleased with the
boy’s humbleness though he did not understand the belittlement of the creatures. The conversa-
tion continued. “Why are they called morning doves if it’s evening. Surely if they were morning
doves I wouldn’t see them right now, clearly their doing a bad job!”, he said with a smile, stick-
ing his thin finger through the cage and letting the bird peck at it. “They are called mourning as
in weeping. Their not going anywhere, then I wouldn’t have anything to sell, and even if they
wanted to leave they are still too foolish to get away from me!”
         “You seem to mock them for being foolish eh? But why must they be so intelligent, they
do their job, and unlike the pigeons they look quite lovely. Their feathers are so smooth, and
their color melts into the woods. Say what marks did you get in school!”
         “Umm”, he seemed confused but in a curious fashion by how the conversation grew. He
leaned towards him the shadow covering his eyes reeling away slightly, revealing his true gaze.
“Well, to be completely honest, I got... well I’ve never really told anyone.” He leaned towards
him and whispered the statistic, though he did not hear, nor did he really care. “Say do you know
how to read.” He looked even more embarrassed now, and Durant knew he was feeling slightly
uncomfortable but it brought strange joy to him. “N... no, never, I remember I knew a few letters
but I couldn’t even read a primary textbook, why you don’t think I’m a fool do you!” He smiled
even more. “No not at all, not never, it was just that I love to read, even though I doubt I even
know what’s going on half the time, and I feel your missing out, you can feel other times then
now through it after all”, he said stretching out his hand. “Well”, he said more comfortable.
         “My sister used to read to me before I went to bed as a child, and I can remember at least
half a dozen of those tales and tell out them all... well only if. “It’s obvious you are pained by
something”, Durant said softly. “My father died in the Southern Islands during the rioting at the
banks, just cause he worked for those vile men, swept away into God knows where just for work-
ing for the wrong man.” He intentionally left out the fact it was from before he was born, it
would be less of a fitting pick on this weak boys heart. “Oh, I’m sorry about that. Well yes, my
mother and sister were taken away by the mountain savages while aiding my father in his hunts.
Happened when I was just six.” “Your quite the honest man aren’t you”, he said lowly in praise.
“Well, thank you, I pride myself in that, haven’t ever told a lie not even a tiny one!”, he said tri-
umphantly. “Anyway my father hasn’t let me leave this town since, I spend most of my time tak-
ing care of them”, he said lightly gesturing towards the cages.
        “Hmph, well no wonder your so frail”, he said pulling out a rather large cigar and light-
ing it with a snapped in half match from his pocket’s depth. “No it’s not that, it’s just there’s not
enough food to go around, hunting has been scarce ever since.”- He knew he was bullying him, it
was obvious he was easy to get jumpy. Though as cruel as it seemed to the boy, he felt he didn’t
mean it in a ugly fashion. “To be frail is a good thing, to be frail and untouched with soft warm
skin, not sculpted and beaten, with cold stiff skin.” “Your sculpted?”, he said confused again. He
didn’t care to answer his question. “How much for this one”, he said holding the cage of the
dove that had been the source for much of their conversation. “Three cents”, he said defeated.
Durant looked down at him. “Oh you should know better than I that this bird is not worth such a
rough price, it is five isn’t it?” “No you are mistaken”, he exclaimed weakly, “It surely is three!”
        Durant stroked his hand against his chin. “Why I thought you said you were the most
honest man ever. I definitely think I saw those ruffians shaking you down like that, just a few mi-
nutes ago, and paying quite little for a bird that was definitely less than this one... or perhaps my
reading has led me to strange madness?” He looked flustered again. “Well, no, that was not a lie
I was simply being kind, looking back my price was too high and”- He put his hand on the boy’s
head. “Please don’t lie any further. It’s five, six for a pretty thing like that”, he said, proceeding
to place the tokens in his hand.” He coiled his fingers around the cages handle, and walked away
with the pet. “Sir, thank you, but this is too much, I surely can’t allow you to make me this
greedy!” Durant peered over his shoulder towards him and smiled, pulling a handkerchief from
his pocket and tying it over the cage,
        “Don’t let other’s take advantage of you like that, alright.” And even though the boy still
called to him he continued walking. “Why I agree with my advice wholeheartedly, but somehow I
don’t fully believe it, at least towards him, but why?” The whole conversation was strange and he
was surprised by the words that had sprouted from his mouth, the train of thought was of a differ-
ent new engine he had not known before. He embarked towards the dock, continuing on his way,
        The river was a collection of millions of crystals. “Why if drops of water were a bit big-
ger surely they would be worn as jewels”, he thought to himself stepping along the maze of
docks. Most of the ships were parked for the night, resting on the quiet tide, however some sail-
boats embarked south, to reach the former city by morning. A particularly small rowboat sat at
the edge of the docks, heavily shadowed by the larger ships and easy to miss.
        On the boat sat a old, but fit, leather skinned man, most of his face obscured by a wiry
beard, his head completely bald. He could not see anything it appeared, and had protruding mag-
nifying glasses suctioned to his face. “Excuse me sir, I’d like to get across the river”, Durant said
to him sternly. The man bobbed in the vessel, unphased by his remark. Durant cleared his throat
and spoke again. “Sir I said I would like to get across the river”, he said again, this time louder.
        The man pivoted his aching neck towards the tall boy who loomed over him. “And?”, he
said. “You expect me to just take you across without paying! Why than your a fool and don’t be-
long anywhere near these waves!” Durant looked sternly on the man. “Most people would as-
sume that I were going to pay even without asking, why the hell is this old bag so demanding.”
He thought about what his reaction should be, pondering as he gazed at the man who could prob-
ably not see him. “Of course I was going to pay, who the hell would ever assume their customers
weren’t going to pay. Tell me where I can take my trip elsewhere then!”, he commanded sharply.
The old man chuckled revealing a trio of teeth, two made of silver on the top and one on the bot-
tom made of gold. He swiveled his hand and with his thumb pointed towards the water said, “I’m
the only one who works at this goddamned hour, so it’s either my way, or ya swim!” Durant as-
sessed his situation and decided to put his assignment first. “Fine”, he said holding out four coins
to the man. “Presumptuous again”, I see he said speaking in a voice like a sick owl. “6 coins that
will be lad!” He cringed again. He had given more then enough coins purchasing the bird, but he
was contempt with the price of the purchase for some reason, perhaps not even because of the
creature itself. But to hand over six coins to this credent seemed like too much. “Whatever, I’ll
lose more if I don’t meet my deadline!”, he scolded himself.” He placed the coins in the dusty jar,
bolted down at it’s base to the back of the boat next to a compass, lightly boarding into the ves-
sel.
         Immediately like an automaton, the man began rowing, his movements completely sym-
metrical, almost uncomfortably accurate. He reminded him of the decrepit ferry men he had read
of in various mythologies. Durant could not imagine a time when the old man who stood before
him could embody any other nature than death, an inherently lonely being, that was vile, yet one
felt pity for. The silence had become eerie, and the man’s energy, judgmental. Durant prepared to
break it.
         “How long have you been sailing”, he said in a strict yet friendly manner. “Sailing, I
wouldn’t call a job like this sailing, though perhaps it fits it simply by definition.” “Forty, one
years”, he coughed. “Why someone like you care?”, he scolded. Durant controlled his frustra-
tion. “It was simply because even at your age, your movements are quite swift, you are a well
trained sailor.” The man smiled and then laughed a weak bitter laugh. “Lad, I’ll tell you this. No
maritime cough* school will whip you into shape as much cough* 13 years of servitude and gag
* gag* two bloody wars.” “You lived through the other war?”, said Durant surprised. Few from
the time of the pre-Angelic conflicts had survived till modern times, most worn out by the other
ones and dying quickly in battle.
         “Yes, and if there is anything worse then two wars, back to back, it’s a period of peace al-
lowing you to get back up, and then being shoved back into the goddamn’ dirt. I wouldn’t have
said this all those years ago... heh heh... but the road to my freedom was paved in all sorts of
blood... heh, heh. No matter how bad it would seem to anyone else, those few years of riches...
cough* they were all goddamn worth it.” Durant was suddenly reminded of the Angelic War,
which he had heard more about. Sure the man may have been a slave or whatever, just like the
factory workers, but the acts, the stories from the mansion made the “acts of justice” times more
terrible then there name made them out to be. Suddenly his fascination towards the figure, turned
to disgust. He did not want to hear of his “acts of justice” for he already could write them in his
own head. No “act of justice” could be good if it reigned indiscriminately and brought all sorts of
dark carnage on those who did not deserve it.
         The boat docked. He was in the eastern town, less “industrialized” if one could say it in
that day, with white barns spaced out along the hillside, the fences like great static centipedes,
the towering stone windmills like monuments to the eternal spinning nature of the Earth and the
Sun.
         He nodded to the man, and got out of the boat. Unlike near the mansion, the road had
been paved, though it was under-maintained and one still had to watch their step. The hill would
go up, stop, go up and stop again, each time becoming steeper, the structures tethering on their
foundations.
         Cage in his right hand, sack on his back, he struggled up the hill, watching the unstoppa-
ble sun collapse further and further into telluric dream. He felt powerful at least for a second, ris-
ing higher and higher as the the senior of the world went lower and lower, even if a mere illusion
like the figures against the cave wall.
         “Choo, choo!”, several yards above him the train snaked along the mountain, the only
mark of color the faded red engine, all the gray cars rusted and many missing faces, the clinking
on his ears like the feeling of sand falling in ones eyes. Like a tiger starved in a cage for weeks,
yet still with a fighting urge, the vehicle kept moving even as the times and men it lived through
ripped away at it’s body. The metallic caravan vanished around the mountain.
         Cautious, like a young girl he skipped across the tracks, then turning back and looking at
them for God knows what. Aside from that the countryside was well taken care of, and the
grasses quite the sight against the dying lights. Despite the paths brittleness it was a much easier
journey, and in just a few minutes, he saw a crucifix sticking from the hillside, eventually reveal-
ing under it the nautical blue structure. At least a hundred feet below lay the shore, emerging
from the sea which seemed to extend forever, the nighttime abode of the sun to ancient man.
         Up close the building was quite good looking, unlike the other structures all the stones
smoothed and shining like the sea below, not a single shingle falling off. The glass would have
been rather dull during the day, but with the last rays of twilight, they were not unlike the jewels
of the war. It was a peculiar building as it was not a cathedral but seemed to contain numerous
levels, the higher even branching out over the cliff, a terrifying yet stunning overlook of the
ocean.
         At the steps of the church stood a girl in blueish robes matching the ocean below, that
went down to her feet, wearing a white blouse under it. She looked like a nun though she proba-
bly wasn’t as her thick long light brown hair blew in the wind, easily showing her, rounded yet
angular bright green eyes, quiet at the moment in wait. Up close he noticed a silver necklace, the
top like a cross, but the bottom like an anchor.
         She smiled at him mouth closed, her face not creasing at all but her eyes growing wider.
“You must be Mr. Durant”, she said holding her hands near her chin. “Come in and if you wish I
will serve you a drink.” Durant was not thirsty, nor did he want to trouble the girl, but he predict-
ed she would insist on it, and so walked into the church silent.
         He remained standing out of respect for the place, but she gestured for him to take a seat
in the front aisle. None of the ornaments were made of metal objects, perhaps having been melt-
ed down cruelly out of necessity, but wonderful stone idols stood in place of them. Flame like
bulbs lined the walls but they were covered in dust and seem unused, large torch staffs standing
in for them. She went into a small cupboard and pulled out a cheap jar, filling it from a dented
pilchard of water. He noticed as she was pouring the drinks, despite her conservative clothing,
and thin dollish face, it did not restrict her busted, somewhat chubby figure from showing
through in the back, and in the front when she turned around to him. He did not know it but it re-
minded him of something, but even if he knew it he would not know what it was.
         She handed the jar towards him, but Durant suddenly remembered and looked surprised.
“Isn’t that water used in ceremony, wouldn’t it be disrespectful to drink from it?” He didn’t think
much about religion but he had respect, for the traditions at least, perhaps not the codes though, a
feeling out of superstitious fervor. She looked confused for a second and then realized. “Oh I see
you must think it’s holy water. Oh silly, no, that’s kept up front, under the altar, if I did that why
it would probably cause my father to break his silence just to scold me!” He realized how quiet
he had been, and remembered his own mother. “Hmph my mother doesn’t speak either. Though I
don’t even think a war worse then the Angelic could shake her!” She lit up and became keen to
talk more. “You lived through the Angelic War you say. Did you see them?”, she said excitedly.
“What should I say. I know I definitely didn’t live through the Angelic Wars those were just be-
fore my birth. But... but I feel an urge, to lie... like when I bought the bird!” He resolved to lie.
Nothing wrong with a little lie like that, just to make the conversation more interesting. “Indeed.
I was two years old, though I was young I remember it quite vividly. Saw one of them fly over
the roof of my apartment in fact, I lived in the city when it happened.” “Perhaps, that was taking
it too far... few people had seen “them” few knew if “they” even existed. Something about it
seems slightly wrong. Whatever I already said what I said.” “Oh wow!”, she said even more ex-
cited her cheeks and soft features of her face turning a pinkish red. Suddenly, the lie didn’t seem
that bad anymore. “I was two years old as well. That’s amazing, that you even remember in fact.
I myself have vague memories of the war, though I swear to God, may he forgive me, I saw one
perched on the balcony just from my cradle. Why I wish I was older then, then I could have
called my father over and told him all about it!”
         “Your father? What is his job here exactly”, he asked inquisitively. “Oh he was a priest
before the war”, she said happily. He had never met someone so fond of events related to the
war. “But when the Angelic war happened, and he saw the pictures from the Southern Islands
he’s felt jealous he could never see one in person. So he’s devoted his entire life to traveling the
region and collecting stories and whatever pictures he can find, the parish has sponsored his trav-
els. He’s been making a book, the Gospels of the Angelic Wars as he calls them. He planned to
get it published!”, she exclaimed proudly. “Could I possibly see this book”, said Durant, howev-
er more interested in her cheerful nature than the war stories which he usually frowned from.
“Oh”, she said looking slightly glum for the first time. “It’s incomplete. I doubt he’ll ever com-
plete it in fact, hes quite old. I keep pestering to him to let me finish it, but he says it’s no place
for a girl to be writing of such insane things. And that aside, he rarely talks, it was a surprise
when he told me to send for you in fact!”
         Durant thought it a shame. He had never seen a book by a woman, and most seemed too
caught up in pomp inappropriate in a gray world, but regardless her letter was nicely written, the
hand writing too at that. And many would be keen to read such a work. “Speaking of your fa-
ther”, he said more professional in voice. “I have his package.” She looked stunned for a minute
then jumped back into the discussion. “Oh yes, yes, yes. Thank you, and thank you even more
for not stealing it. There are too many misguided people in this country, but your reputation
seems good enough!” He chuckled and smiled earnestly..
         “Well even if I did want to steal it, I don’t think I’d know what to do with it! It would be
like a squirrel taking a screw!” She laughed and twiddled her fingers slowly. All her movements
were so beautiful, innocent and smooth. Just watching her seemed to make his mind clean for a
moment. For a third time he saw the jewels, the plunder of the war, but this time he was not sad
and afraid, he wanted them. “You don’t?” She said surprised but curious. “Well... yes”, he said
leaning down. “I wasn’t ever a mechanic in my life, I’ve known a few, but I’ve never seen a ma-
chine like that. “Well then you must!”, she said shooting up like a blue flare. “Come, my father is
waiting, the day is finally here!” He then remembered. “Unfortunately your carrier was struck
down just before it delivered the letter to me.” “Oh”, she said looking very sad, though the frown
not lasting very long as it appeared from her face something to have had happened in the past
several times. He had already removed the handkerchief and held the cage out before her in of-
fering. “Oh wow, thank you so very much! He is so, beautiful, and his voice... why it’s like if
someone made a cat’s purr into a birds call!” He smiled, glad to see someone was as fond as it as
himself. “Hopefully he doesn’t meet the same poor fate, would be even more of a shame.” She
looked up from petting the creature. “Oh, oh no!” He noticed then just how often she made the
exclamation. “I’d never send out another one of these fellows after hearing what happened, not
on my own will at least, especially one as dear as this one.” She seemed to blush again. “And
anyways we won’t be needing to use them anymore, tee hee!” She lay him in an alcove display-
ing some saint and grabbed him by the hand, another surprise, and ducking a corner they ran up
the stone steps past a dozen rose red candles.
        Durant had never seen a thing like it in his life. On the balcony where the organ should
have stood, a monolith of a machine stood, like something to control the engine of a train but
more complex, with dozens of colorful buttons, meters, and such things. Coming from it was a
jungle of cords snaking along the ceiling into the tower, now that he could see it up close the in-
terior of it was much larger and rather industrial in nature, an orb hanging above the room and an
opening in the ceiling. It took a second for him to decipher what the contraption was for but then
he realized and felt a sense of fear.
        “Oh don’t look so afraid son!”, said a tall, thin bearded man, hunched over in a wheel-
chair, dressed in religious garb. He struggled to push out his words, but he was trying. “That...
that thing! Those were used by the industrialist to protect themselves during the Angelic Wars,
isn’t that... that one of the Energy Missiles. How... how the hell did you get it?”
        “Woah, woah, woah son!” he said laughing but concerned. “A. That technology existed
long before the Angelic War, and... B. you wouldn’t call a kitchen knife a sword would you!”
He thought about what the analogy meant, and then understood it. Still he didn’t like it. “I under-
stand”, he said cooling down. “But before I hand it over... please explain, I do not want a bad
conscious.” “I see”, said the man. “I understand you should have no reason to trust me, hell I’m
a stranger. But I lived through the Angelic War. I fought for what was left of the former govern-
ment. I could have used that thing anytime I wanted. But I buried it away and waited for this day.
What could I possibly want now, I’m an old man. Give me power, money, and I wouldn’t be able
to do anything with it for long cause our Father in Heaven is almost ready to take me. I just want
what is best for my daughter”, he said pulling her towards him.
        Durant understood everything he said and felt calm. He swung the pack off the side of his
back, the shovel and gun still strapped to it’s side. The machine looked even more brilliant
against the backdrop of the alter. He handed it to the man.
        “Where making history here, and your a part of it”, he said chuckling and turning towards
the machine. “And don’t think I mean that in a antagonistic way”, he chuckled.
        He opened up a glass chamber at the panel of the machine, dusting off the device, and
perfectly clicking it in. He flipped through the manual, seeming to have been read many times,
flicked dozens of switches, pressed dozens of buttons, all except for a large blue one which lay at
the far right.
        “Are you ready!”, he said smiling at his daughter, hand over her hand. She smiled, and
seemed to not be able to wait anymore. “Go, on press it!”, she said giddily. The priest smiled and
hit the button almost a bit too hard. They all spun around and watched the wondrous events.
        A, sound, almost like a extremely loud single low banjo string, could be heard echoing
through the chamber, vibrating through the structure. The orb began spinning, faster and faster,
like some astronomical object, spinning faster and faster till he could not see any of it’s distinc-
tive markings. Suddenly the whole ceiling became like a stormy sky. Tiny bolts of lightning,
flickering in dances, crackling warmly, lighting the scenes on the walls most brilliantly. And then
below, the ancient bulbs lit up. The amount of fear that remained in Durant left, and he felt im-
mense wonder, perhaps this was what it would have been like to see one of them.
        “Crackle, crackle.” A lighter radio like noise came from the panel. The priest picked up a
device like a phone and put it to his ears. “The device is operational, I repeat the device is opera-
tional!” The crackling increased on the other end. “Message received!”, said a man in a thick ac-
cent he could not recognize. “Oh, thank the Lord it really worked, after all these years it really
works.” Durant was amazed, but he did not know what it did entirely, it was a spectacle none the
less. Almost as if he had thought out loud, the girl spoke, still staring at the device. “Free energy,
free fuel, free light, free communication, that is what shall come from devices like this!” Durant
finally understood, and smiled at what his seemingly normal task amounted in. But more so, he
was more fascinated now by what he realized the girl reminded him of, staring into the magic.
“The goddess. I have finally found her incarnate. Such things are real.” He smiled even more,
the others too awestruck to realize he was gazing at her luxuriant figure leaning over the railing.
         The lights calmed, down, the sound quieting, however the feeling of energy remained.
The priest extended his hand towards him, and he shook it. “Why most people would have stolen
that thing, though you really did live up to your reputation. I trust you enough.” He looked to-
wards his daughter and then towards him. “Dara has been begging me to take her to a restaurant
on the other side of the water, but I am too old and weak, and trust few.” “Dara, so that is her
name”, he thought to himself making note to ask for names more. “You proved yourself, so I
want you to do one more job for me if that is fine.” Durant looked shocked, no one had ever of-
fered him two jobs in a row. “Sir it is a policy of mine not to charge extra for back to back jobs.
After all, it still is not the end of the day. I would be happy to take her.” “A third lie. But I am
simply rejecting payment, is that not an act of goodness?” Durant felt like something else was
driving him, but he did not care, nor have the time to identify such an emotion. “Well then son. I
wish not to humble you more. My boat is the blue one, just like this building, near the dock with
the cross on it. I’ll be sure to recommend you”, he finished speaking, dropping 8 coins into his
hand. The man suddenly looked tired. All the talking must have required immense energy, after
all Dara said he sparsely talked.
         Just before he could catch his breath, Dara began descending down the stairs. He got up
and followed her, letting her lead him out the door and into the cool Northern night. They stood
at the top of the hills, together staring down at the port which was surprisingly far below. It was
early in the Eve, though the nights were still recovering from the winter.
         “Dara”, he said. “Let me take your hand, these hills are quite dangerous, especially at
night when they all blend together.” Unlike most girls, she did not hesitate due to his towering
nature, and put her soft palm in his, softly curling his long fingers around hers. “It was amazing
wasn’t it. You’ve never seen anything like it, have you... well you did live through the war but
still.” “No I did not”, he said shaking his head. “I thank you for hiring me. if it wasn’t for you I
would never have seen such things. I am quite thankful for that.”
         They reached the dock, and though they were heading to her fathers boat, he glanced at
where the old slave had dropped him off an hour before. He was gone. Durant was slightly glad
in a strange way, there was something ugly about that man, regardless of his suffering. He spot-
ted the boat and helped her in, it was just as her father described, albeit longer than he imagined
in his mind, much more like the long vessels he had read about in the story, than the rowboats
which went back and forth along the river.
         The story again. It struck him all of a sudden and he had to hold in his strange excite-
ment. The “goddess” was right there in the boat with him. The thoughts he had never really felt
began trying to dig up from the primal sides of his soul, but he pushed them down and tried to
listen as she described the planets and constellations which canopied the landscape. He could not
remember any of them.
         He roped the boat to the dock, and reached his hand out so she could rise from the ship.
She sighed happily, and looked out on the evening square. “I haven’t been here since I was a lit-
tle girl”, she said. “Everything seems so new!” Though he had been to town more times than he
could count in his life, he seemed to experience the excitement vicariously through her face and
words.
         “Now then your probably hungry, I’m hungry too!”, she laughed looking up to him. He
was not hungry, and it appeared she was simply trying to justify her own yearning, though he did
not mind as it was cute. “Well, I’ve heard it’s just South of the harbor, and right on the water. I
heard they make the most delicious mushroom stew, oh I hope they still serve it at this hour!”
         She took him by the hand and they ran through the lamp lit port, almost bumping into
people a few times, though despite his size, he helped her steer clear of any collision. Many girls
dressed up for the evening stared at the bizarre sight of such a short, conservatively dressed girl,
dragging someone with a height as staggering as his. He didn’t mind it though, he was used to
people staring at him because of his height and was somewhat proud of it for some reason.
         He felt, liberated from his life for a bit, even that he traveled and learned almost the en-
tirety of the world, that he was fulfilled and happy. Though he was with her for a moment, it
seemed like a finale, a summit, not unlike those that encircled the town, though much brighter
and loving in nature, without dark history, and full of giddy life.
         She finally spotted the place, like a bar but not dreary and lit with warm lights, the interi-
or blending into the patio, where stood handsome wooden chairs and round little wooden tables
which lined out front. She sat down, and Durant put an order in for her. He did not hunger, but
the stew did smell quite good, despite his dislike of most mushroom based dishes.
         “Oh Mr. Durant, I’ve known you for just a few hours... but I feel I shall fall ill when you
bring me back and journey for home. You’ve shown me and given me so much, for so little...
how exactly do you make your living?” He smiled, his hand on his chin, his young white hair
wrapped around his neck like a wondrous scarf. Her praise ignited him, and he felt there was lit-
tle he could say to turn her bitter. “Why, Dara, my darling Dara”, he said leaning in towards her,
and intentionally showing his shining cat like eyes. “You really think I would do all that, for all
of my clients”, he said putting his long fingers on her shoulder. “Well... well yes”, she stuttered
not sure what to say. “Hmph”, he laughed obviously. “That would be a waste than, there are so
many ugly people in this world who will kick at you, and demand so much, even when you did a
job well done, you can learn to expect that in a job like this.” “Oh”, she said getting redder and
redder, her mind obviously tripping over itself.
         “Well... well I think that it is a rather, sad way to look at everything, everyone has some-
thing to give, even if they don’t realize they are giving it... and aside there are thousands of beau-
tiful people all over this country even in a time like this, just undiscovered, at least that’s what I
came to in my studies you know... reading the B”- “Dara”, he said showing a fang like smile.
“You think, I”m one of those people don’t you”, he said whispering his lips almost touching her
nose. She turned completely red, and seemed to look like a goose. “What... no.. I mean yes... yes,
but not like tha”- He held her soft cheeks in his hand and he forced her lips to his, feeling her
confusion, her minute terror, feeling as it turned to submission and love. He pulled back and pet-
ted her hair, moving his fingers through it like a harp,
         “Dara”. he said sternly and softly, her staring in wonder at him, still in ecstasy. “The
things, and feelings I felt for you... I’ve never felt them before, heh heh. All of a sudden his mind
seemed to leave his body and see the whole of the place, rushing through his memories in confu-
sion. “Tha... that was a lie... I... I know it bu... but why, I’ve never felt anything like this... what
could possibly be occurring???” Suddenly he felt empty, and began wheezing, he felt hunger,
but not the whole of the shops stores could satisfy him.
         His eye became like an eagle and his head swiveled away from the girl in front of him,
and looked frantically, like it was in danger, yet he felt little fear. He smelt something. Could that
be what could fulfill him? He stood up and he spotted, he spotted his prey? Yet he felt something
else, something better. He did not move any further, for he knew it would come to him, he had
become an abyss in the form of a man, he was a glutton, but he loved it and felt power. He just
had to wait and in one night all would be fulfilled. He was like the sun, orchestrating the planets
that ran along him, but he wanted to pull them in, to warm them up and dissolve into him in one
eternal monument to passion. His entire life, his his interest, his deeds, all things he saw, it paled
in comparison to the realization.
         “Hey! Hey didn’t you buy a dove from me earlier, said the short blonde boy skipping to-
wards him. Durant smiled, his biggest smile yet. “Why, indeed, and quite the good purchase it
was! What is your name by the way, my dove?” He stared normal for a second, but then his mind
stumbled too, but he resolved to answer it anyway. “Oh.. what, why name is Cael mister!” “Why
he said “Oh”, just like her, the same exact length, the same exact tone.” “Well Cael, he said
drawing him forward, perhaps as he felt simply from his energy. “This is the goddess I purchased
it for”, he said gesturing to Dara, who was utterly confused by the chain of events.
         “Oh hello there Dara!”, he said immediately shaking her hand.” “Interesting”, he thought
most cunningly. “He seems more comfortable around women.” Dara’s trance was broken, and
she seemed happy by the boy’s giddy voice. “Did, you like the bird”, he said his done up hair tilt-
ing to the side as he talked to her. “I take quite good care of them, don’t you think!” He was con-
fident.
         “You and Dara have something in common”, he interrupted. “Hmm?”, the boy looked at
him perplexed like the birds he sold. He extended his arm to Dara yet again, not even seeming to
have to move a muscle to pull her up, despite her weight she seemed light as a feather. “It’s a se-
cret, no one but me has ever seen it”, he said sternly but tastefully. “Though we will be safe in
the Inn.”
         He lead the girl, away, and without any command the boy followed, perplexed but curi-
ous. He could feel Dara’s heart beat, and she was still in the throws of passion. He was not fulfil-
led yet, there was more to be done.
         They reached the inn, a two story building with a green shingled roof, a light like a tem-
pered morning coming from the highest window.
         Durant held the door for both of them, outstretching his arm like a swallowing wave. The
closer and closer he had gotten to the structure his movements had become less precise, his fin-
gers moving like a second hand. “Ding... ding... Ding”, he tapped his fist against the rusted bell,
staring into the rich mahogany office, looking at all the twisted microscopic fibers on the rug
feeling their shapes, hungering. Everything around him was twisting just like the fibers, his mind
like the sphere in the church, uncontrolled power, without a home and banging at the door into
the palace it belonged.
         A thin young woman, though far from as striking as Dara, walked up to the desk. She
looked perplexed for a moment, staring from Cael, to Dara, to him, and then back again. “He...
he is my... my brother”, he panted his eyes breaking through his hair once again in power. Both
looked confused, though they knew deep down that they must not interject. “I... I have a sleeping
bag... in... in my pack.” he was lying like crazy, but he needed fuel for the fire, it was all worth it.
Eyeing him, she handed him the key, though he noticed the duplicate which should have resided
under it was absent. “Whatever, I don’t care”, he thought, too immersed in his dreams. He smiled
at her too, though not like at the others, it was without spirit. “Say, do you own this fine place”,
he said trying to calm the woman, honestly having admired the paint and decorations of the
place. “N... no. She said putting herself back together. The owner works out in the river most of
the day, he... he has two jobs.”
         He welcomed them to the steps, and helped both of them up, Dara then Cael, enveloping
his back in his hand, attempting to hide his tongue twitching like crazy. “Stupid. There is no
point to hide anymore, I am free of it all!” Each step, seemed like a mountain, but he pushed
himself, panting, tired for the first time in his life by a climb. He was almost there, he was so
close yet everything seemed so far in the bizarre microcosm of existence in his mind.
         Together, the girl at the left, and the boy at the right, the moon and the sun, they stood at
the top of the steps, looking on in wonder as he crawled up the steps. With triumph, he forced the
key into the door, feeling the clicks, the mechanisms of the contraption, amplified by his twitch-
ing, vibrating into his hand, a wondrous shock. The furniture was dull like his house... but the
bed seemed like an ocean, but yet like a glass of wine he could gulp down and reach the epoch of
his inner cycle.
         For a moment he became obsessed with the piece of furniture itself, almost like it was an
idol of religious nature, like the shovel, but better, full of sleeping power, all for him. “Well”,
said the boy. “Where is is it! I was getting excited and you keep us waiting!”, Cael said moving
like a spring.
         “Come here”, he said, standing at the foot of the bed. Like servants they obeyed his com-
mands and stood at either side. “Heh, heh”, laughed Durant with power.
         “You probably didn’t see it, heh heh.” HE smiled even wider, his grin being a source of
power. “It was in you both all along.
         And with that he stretched out his two long arms, like he did so pointlessly that morning,
and wrapped them around them both, forcing them to the bed chest first, their two dear faces
meeting in the middle. He lay down staring into one eye each, though it felt like he was staring
into all of them, feeling he knew them all along, just finally unlocking them. “My dear darling
muses, night and day, water and fire, moon and sun. I am master of the world at this moment.”
         Dara was shocked, seeming to stutter, but once again he petted her hair, lulling her into
an even deeper ecstasy.
         Cael was trembling in fear, though Durant felt the entropy of his nature. He let him speak.
         “You.. your a... isn’t that... isn’t that illegal!” “Shh”, he said pushing his hand into his
shirt and further down his back. “My dove, look in front of you”, he said despite the obvious na-
ture of the statement. Cael made eye contact with Dara, and she made eye contact with him, Dara
perhaps realizing the absurdity of the whole thing but too enchanted by him to care what hap-
pened. “I... I don’t understand”, he protested, but seeming more and more contempt. “Don’t you
feel complete Cael?”, he said, his hand now at his lower back. “Don’t you feel like you know
your place in the world. Doesn’t my hand feel nice, doesn’t it feel good to be so protected?”
Cael’s eyes looked like a rabbit again, but his body became less and less tense. “Now you under-
stand”, said Durant pushing him over. “Now I know what I want.”
         He turned him over on his back, and climbed on the mattress, his eyes harmonizing with
the dull light, his long white hair canopying Cael. Oh so gently, he pulled off each button, some
breaking and falling to the floor. it did not matter, all that mattered was the moment, the epoch.
He threw the boys jacket aside. and pulled off his white undershirt in an instant, his upper body
only dressed in his handsome well kept head of hair. The prince was before him, and was all his
to taste. He began to feel neglectful, and turned towards Dara. “Remove your robes”, he said
simply.
        With Cael’s shirt gone, he clawed away at his pants, pulling his belt like a loose thread
and casting it aside to the floor where it belonged, his pants soon streaming away like a ribbon.
All that remained on the boy was a thin crisp cloth, a pathetic barrier against what was his.
        He then looked to the right, taking in the luxuriant sights. The girl sat, her body a thick
hourglass of fertility, all his to measure. Her breast full jugs, matching her eyes, her stomach full,
yet finely sculpted, without a crease or blemish, fully topping her smooth thick bottom which
covered a quarter of the bed like a pillow full of too many feathers. It was all his.
        And so he did it in order, loving the goddess, and tasting her flesh and soul, pushing him-
self into her, and feeling her body powered under his, drowning his hands in her thick, cream like
flesh.
        And then he went for the boy, ripping away what little was left of his dressings, and
touching him into undiscovered realms of pleasure, feeling his delicate figure, so darkly beauti-
ful, comforting and enriching the gray world as he lusted upon him.
        And then he lay with them, kissing back and forth, feeling lost in a sea of divine love no
one could ever have felt. His lust was trumped by love then, and he felt he had never been alone
before, Cael’s dear face collapsing into slumber, Dara’s doll like face, still smiling, still feeling
the unregistered touches.
        He was a god, no one could corrupt that feeling, no one could halt it, all that mattered
was what he wanted, and what they wanted, for he lived within them now. None of it mattered,
the Angelic War, his job, his mother, the mansion, the tower, it was all just scenery in a story that
climaxed in this event, in this divine victory. “A climax, a purpose fulfilled, a peak that cannot
be trumped.” He then felt stopped, the energy fleeting away and all he could do was watch.
“What... what comes after... after a climax... another climax... a... a end?” The shift was coming
the world was out of his hands and falling.
        And with one click of the lock, just like he had done upon beginning his inner cycle of
pleasure, the door swung upon. And there he stood just as he saw. The end, the brother, or per-
haps death himself. Yes it was, death himself.
        “What... what in the goddamn world you doing you twisted little son of a bitch”, said the
ferry man standing at the door, his eyes now revealed, empty like a skull. Durant’s fear was gone.
“Heh, heh. I was just finishing up”, he said smiling a big smile, though this time a different one.
He leaned over the other boy and searched the floor.
        “Finishing up what, ya freak bastard... goddamn I’m gonna have to tell the whole town
about this you ain’t gonna get out of here alive why I swear on my father’s grave you gonna
be”-, Bang*, Bang*, BANG*. The carpet was now redder. "Goddamn nigger", he scoffed harshly, yet
apathetically, even causing the already terrified maiden on his right to let out a gasp.
        For a moment, he remembered the conversation and pitied the man. But who was he, a
man of self admitted titanic attitudes, a barbarian simply chastised by age, to ridicule him. The
man did not deserve it sure, but he felt it once again, all that really mattered was what lay at his
sides, his bounty. He’d trample a dozen more if they threatened him so, he would need no justifi-
cation but himself, whether they be the monks in the Church or the savages in the mountains.
        “Your free, free at last, go and and sit at the table of saints, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA,
HA.” And with a darkly beautiful grin he made a second round of love to them, a choir of lights
gleaming from the sky near the church, hundreds of angels struggling out of the ironic heaven
and into the coming fields of death below.


Twins And Ruins

Twins and ruins
Cracked crosses, graves
Tired trunks, mosses
Puffing hills, streams

The sun,
Dark and quick
Is spinning
Each of it’s rays,
A new song

Against the candle twilight
Cloaking in it’s wake
It segregates
The tones of life
Not just of self
But of all shined

Her clouds are floating
What floats off?
Whimsical puffs of vapor
His smoke is cracking
What falls down?
Noxious clouds of gas
It smells like flowers
It smells like ash
Same nonetheless

Look at them
Eternally blushed
Forever struggle
Bottomless youth
Archaic wisdom
Swallowing passion
Shooting venom

As God pushes the wheel
Your mind is split
Their blood is same
You are not split
Their souls compliment
Look as they wake
Look as they stare like mirrors
Two pieces of the world

Put your suits on
Those black costumes
Strap your boots
Those oppressive hooves
Nestle your eggs
Those sleeping swans
Spin your revolver
That silver needle
We are going to the glass castle, push it into the river