26 October 2010

Night Terrors 12 - Infiltrate, Destroy, Rebuild.

Night Terrors 12 - Infiltrate, Destroy, Rebuild.

Castor drives in his sharp car and sporting mind toward the city of death, seeking a paradise lost and dreaming as horizons end. His commotion is a streamline, swiftly traversing stolidly cursing what could and might have been of his wrecked ship and uncouth decadence of this planet of which he rides. The emitter plays a favorite song, one he has heard many times echoing the voids of space and the wind blows his hair and cools his face. Near the boundaries of the city, he finalizes his list and checks it twice as he make the radio loud as possible, folds the seat back and away from the steering-wheel, and begins to ride the car like a board on a water wave.

Castor: "Reinitialize the location transponder on the vehicle."
Pollux: "Consider it done."

With a glance of the eyes, followed by a simple gest wave of his hand the deadened control panel illumines with new life as the vehicle careens toward gridlock traffic, Castor's eyes narrow and focus on the heavy sunset haze.

Pollux: "Do you see it?"
Castor: "I do."
Pollux: "Good, I think I'm bored."
Pollux still no more than a subroutine in proxy in their current condition, spoke of the endless city.

The car crashes the back of another unsuspecting driver, who was humming an annoying adult-rendition of a nursery song, sung by someone with repetitive rhyming disorder, a collision causing a near decapitation and a concussion in three cars beyond it. During the impact the abrupt force and momentum throws Castor in a streak over the cars and toward a light-post at the side of the bridge. He grabs the post with one hand as he effortlessly arches before vaulting over the edge, spinning about it once with heavy momentum, and in spiraling once slides down the pole and over the ledge of the lengthy overpass, landing out of sight and beyond mind into the shrouded divine masses wandering under the accident of the far further streets.

Castor roams the street, walking against the throng taller than they are by eye level as they pass him effortlessly and oblivious. He wanders the streets until he sees what he is searching, an obvious currency machine located further along the sidewalk, he approaches the line and waits his turn.

Police Radio: "More units to the St. Matthew bridge at the Oceanic Street dock."

Two walking patrol officers at the end of the block hear the announcement and assay to pass through the busy thoroughfare to the accident location. Castor waits in line to use the ATM and when it is his turn, he approaches the machine, places both of his palms on the screen, and hangs his head low as if exhausted, beginning to access the network as the person next in line becomes impatient, hollering obscenities of the rube sort.

Next in line: "Hey fucker, move it, it's not a hotel!"

Castor turns and looks at the unruly person while his eyes are full of mechanical nanotechnology silver ink, startling the next in line into silence. The ATM prints a receipt as long as his forearm covered in an indecipherable alien language and dispenses a stack of money in large denomination as the entire machine slowly dims and disconnects its connection with the main network and electrical grid. Castor takes the money, turns, and punches the bystander hardly in his stomach causing him to instantly keel over and fold in half on the ground, but before falling to the walk Castor also takes the unprepared victim’s wallet.

The two cops down the street witness the assault, and chase him from the scene, daft and dash he eludes through the multitude and into traffic with both constables in ready pursuit. They follow him with a nearing ease, as they are sentinels of the city, born and bred to extinguish the crimes of civilization, large and following him with formidable speed. Castor leans forward in his escape and as the excursion trails out into between the lanes of traffic at near halt near a traffic signal, he reaches into the passenger window and pulls an innocent through a partially opened vehicle window, throwing the unsuspecting person into the path of the closest chasing police officer.

The second officer is close to encounter, only one lane the side and eager to don demise against Castor steps onto a vehicle in traffic and lunges, only to crash into the glass too thick to break of another vehicle in trivial pursuit. Castor had grabbed him midst air and thrown him in a spiraling vault, himself falling to the ground and early to rise. Pollux's voice, the compatriot of cartography and hidden counterpart, spoke genuinely somber in his mind.

Pollux: "We’ve attained surveillance brother."

Castor pivots his step without hesitation, dashing in a new direction. A camera has begun to witness the course of events, surely the first of a fleet, to avoid too much evidence he darts into a storefront. The flatfoot keen to follow, fully fomenting anger with Castor's evasion, follows through plight as pursuant, but obstruction unavoidable as broken aftermath causes janitorial droids to not only clean a mess but also inhibit any further following of Castor and Pollux. Automaton machines defending a digital deity as Castor kicks open a rear door to an employee area.

A dispirited Castor in desperate haste tears the pipes casing electrical conduit, grabs the wires and screams as a torrent while his eyes turn silver and begin to glow with conductive heat, the silver springs course into his eyes and soon the power to the building dies. He glows slightly, burning forever endless, as would any in darkness but soon remits to cold circuitry and referred corruption, the weighted hanging doors fall like castle gates. In the eve of sunset he slips the confines of the building with only electrical authorization, the windows shattered, the walls tattered, and the establishment's security tapes scattered, into the violence of passive future whilst the voices of shadows converse highly intrigued with the cybernetic trespasser.

13 October 2010

Night Terrors 11 - Sullivan and Scion

Night Terrors 11 - Sullivan and Scion

An art fair, the type that celebrate the yesteryear of days gone by where old garb and wit are the common display, provided for a charge to the locality. The likes of archaist language in lavish attire, surrounding the prioresses and young dukes tasting the wares and bartering fares as a shadow vacant in the sky above a one-room tent-house with a curtain hanging across, between its middle, to separate a small cot and pot-bellied stove to provide a solitary brisk evening and a single tenant heat. Afore the hung partition within the draped tapered lofty panels of the entrance, pinned upon the outside of the red tent cordon to large button hooks and bound in large golden ropes with tassels on end to lifeless lay. Within therein stands a wooden table, a partisan sat upon a hewed log made into beveled stump sits a man in a blue walking cloak and an equally velvet pointed cone hat, one what that its top lay lifeless from fulcrum crux lifelessly draping over the back of his head.

Sitting across, before and facing him is a young demure lass, prim and prose of humble attire, unlike the norm of the world beyond the festival and yet nearing the style of the patrons of the fete, a new way of the old, reserved and shy. Between the two, before and currently a crystal ball upon a dull and hammer driven paupers crown, no peaks or points, only a ring to balance the glass filled with smoke, as a silence is broken the prophet speaks the words of fate before action. At the edges and exits, near the entrance and penance throng, men of the army sieve through the crowd, they begin to infiltrate without speech and violate the solemn peace of festivity as they encroach to the tent of a distracted visionary.

Stalking assailants parsing the ground quietly through the brushwood, and running through the open paths, each strikingly similar to the seer, fair skin and hair, yet the enemies teaming with enmity are different as their eyes have solid black blood filling the glass orbs that hold it behind their face.

The fortuneteller jumps to his feet, but not with sparing time to acquiesce the hunters of he, the members in service to their leader sack him. First he is put in bonds, wrist to wrist, leg to leg and placed into a burlap bag from the scene, and binding both ends with ropes and dragging him sideways from the camp to their vehicles, carelessly tossing him in as if quarry of the hunt only to drive from the location. The commotions of their careless disown throws dust and dirt from the vehicle lot and in caravan down the narrow lane, in the absence of light with total tumult, captive he wanders into frantic sleep without wit of where.

He later awakes surrounded by foes of darker sight in a dimly lit interrogation room of sorts. A two-way mirror panels a portion of one wall adjacent the door, which he can see without any way but true reflection. As his captors beyond the glass watch their servants of night-mirrored eyes latch the harness of a straightjacket and toss him into listless disparity, he brings himself to his feet and tries to kick the guards, but they push him down with ease.

Sullivan: “Tell me why I'm here.”
Guard 1: “Supposed for a purpose.”

The door opens and a slender man with stamina tensile strength apparent with the muscular contours beaming from his nearly perfect black suit enter as the guards bring him in a chair for him to sit.

Interrogator: “Tell me what you do.”
Sullivan: “I help people try their hopes.”
Interrogator: “I need you to help me try something.”
Sullivan: “Try and make me!”

Sullivan runs and throws himself against Mr. Jack, but with the bottom of his foot, with his knee sharply bent, he kicks the prophet swiftly and all but gently against the padded wall, one, which its covering has long ago, began to wear.

Sullivan: “I was just about to offer my services.”
Interrogator: “Oh...were you?”
Sullivan: “Tell me what this is, who are you, what authority do you have to ask someone like me anything?”

A voice interrupts through the grate on the wall behind and seemingly through the looking glass, the voice of an important villain in the employ of the Invinidine Corporation, and similar in appearance toxic features and all. One notable difference being that he is dress regal and fantastic as if courtly and imperial.

Scion: “Wait! Don’t answer that…”

Sullivan looks with frantic haste, in dissolute fear, his chest stretches like a bird without wings, his back arches in dreadful angst as he tries to stretch the straightjacket. The malaise of terror begins to cover his eyes with a glaze of separation as he coils from fearful instinct. Intense contortion he looks to the flickering lights in the ceiling and his eyes offer the signs of pain without the sound of lament.

Scion: “Are you going to help us Mr. Sullivan?”

Sullivan vehemently becomes exasperated, his eyes suddenly awash, his frantic emotion drowns in violent sadness, all yet he does not make a sound whilst he begins to cry, though not one note crosses his teeth. He stares at the mirror swiftly after looking to the man in the chair and vaguely smiles with contempt insurmountable of fear and joy where silence is broken.

Sullivan: “…Yes…”

Spoken in a sigh of relief, and further delve into melancholy Sullivan falls in broken hopes, emotional pain, and wounded struggle to the floor as the two guards and inquisitor gracefully leave the room, taking the chair and the light with them.

10 October 2010

Sneaking Behind Myself

This Saturday last, my network connection failed and I was compelled to disavow my DSL ISP and attain lease on Cable-Connect. Only a small count of my days later the cable was connected and I still could not attain network connectivity, so I discovered the problem was both a failed on-board NIC and a long since failed Wireless Card, replaced the card and achieved a connection. After being without connection for such a long time, the new terminal speeds are 20 times faster and I have been previously in time several days. I wish I would have snagged a lottery number or a better coat, but for those days, I could not attend to my business, sneaking around my previous self. When I returned at my departure, I have come to realize that I have not lost time nor wish to gain any anew. In my journey, I’ve finished the plot to the second book and sketched a cover without the means yet to upload it, and I though everyone, (the site counter marks unique visits, not total visits…or what has been read) could use words of wisdom, maybe a reflective supposition. I get more from listening to metal, than from most conversations. The voices are no more than what they were when my mind was young. If I write what people say, I would not have anything to write that is my own.

The next volume (M2)will be much more violent than anything I’ve ever seen, the grammar precise beyond finite, with a darker morose verbal assault wholly full of metaphorical nonsense and evil magical acts, I’m trying to send a message into time, frightfully so. I feel that the books are advanced, with malice and vernacular of higher if not highest education, but I feel that it is not only complex but equally well written so that despite the intricacy the text will be easily understood. I wish not of words glossed ambivalently because the reader cannot read them, but of words learned with inherent aptitude, with the apparent simplicity of seeing and believing. Writing or typing the old words for the first time, the surface of everything becomes grey, dull and lifeless, a chromatic distilled electric static that bathes everything, my instinct being often that if I detect any imperfection in the surface of time I must leave my musing meditation. In this course, I believe that I have lost my short-term memory within only moments, as if being a blonde-haired person was contradictory or like something. My only recourse has been to wager with the gods to learn the plights and means of their magic, and write a message beyond this time. If I were to say that I don’t know what is reality any longer, than I would be insane, but if I cannot see the reason that god has given, I’m just melancholy. So in refute I tell of deities and divinities and let every voice of my mind tell the tale and their whispers, and dare bid you read the allegory with great caution.


I don’t pay taxes so teachers can tell kids what I believe or what they want to teach and especially not what the living believe, I want students learning the truth and making their own decisions, if I wanted them to know what we think, they'd stay home. I want them to learn what works of history by empires that survive not pirates and criminals, by proven science and not emotional categories. Teachers barely teaching essentials between the chaoses (if at all) because society needs them to instill its whims certainly cannot end a burdening welfare state and liberal socialist activities without boundary. Liberal activists fail to join this reality time immemorial, dishonor earned is not by failure, only deceit in education or advocacy of participation rewards. Quitting is dishonorable, if your opinion is that no one is better than another is, you have quit training pupils to be the best. There is no battle to succeed, defeat the roaming horde without condition. Never shall one die without ever knowing absolute. Our children are the leaders of tomorrow and the guardians of time. Defiance is with the corrosion of conformity at the first moment of silence you go mad, but if you break your toys, you cannot play.

The history of the controversy over the benefits of liberal arts education versus training for the job market, touching upon educational elitism, accountability, and the value of a college education, logic begs the argument that neither vocational nor liberal education should be seen as an isolated end, but only as a part of the process of lifelong education.

New Sorrow

Feudal aspirations of Asia, the language wars of Europe, the tribal wars of Africa and the American frontier, and the world wars, as a race to our acclaim was the murder of vital and innocent people, this has only lessened as it is how less beneficial to us now as it conflicts with our caprice, we can be saved. We can lead this army home with the proper incentive. We are a composite water society, and have been since the advent of paper until its digital demise, water is a beginning to life and its consumption will reveal the great valleys of the salt-water abyss. Reason begets truth, such is humanity, but truth defeats reason, you can preach that communism is superior, or your monomaniacal plan is what is best had for all, but when it comes to tax, the truth will set you free for whatever picture you've painted sell your lies somewhere else, or get a bigger bag. Leeches only show if you have blood to give, partisan politics is not fundamental to patriotism because sectarian ideals do not progress make. Trust no false messiah that calls for revolution, it is a shame that greed and religion and war has set us back countless years, killing for wealth in the name of faith to best our own egos, murdering the innocent wise leaders, with sound mind and solemn body to replace them with darkness and anxiety. The great names are gone and used for subterfuge with names of audacity. Why am I to overlook one politician to choose another in partisan politics? I'll write my own name on the ballot and hope I’m the last one standing, an American, not a partisan lie, if shrinks are quack, why are politicians so important, trusting both of two sides is conspiracy to insanity, and is the very reason children leave the nest. Preside over the foolish, your politicians will either leave you or conspire against you, as any other who cannot tell you their loyalties to your country. Some people do not say the pledge of allegiance, as if this is not their country, it is their choice, but know that it is better to serve your country than to serve the weak, because our country for all intensive purposes protects the weak, not pulling them. In the beginning was the word but now we have the faith, I want to tell you as much about religion without ever mentioning religion only our goodwill, charity and blessings all of these so that you may miss heroes and become creative, with merit and care for the future of every face on earth. 

An Old World

I am a thrall, the socio-economic status of slave peasants under international corporate feudalism or the secret monarchies or aristocracy, futile being a sound word, whether it be for reparation or revolution, beneath an endless under a toppling oppressive obelisk of taxes, medico-politicos, socialists, merchants, senility centers, insurance, dilettantes, the executive branch. Politico-medicos, tax collectors, bias bureaucrats, congress, marshal services, the party, military intelligence, the department of the bureau, and mandated purchases. I’m not sure how they find this any different from the wars they’ve dreamed other than their evil has manifested as oppose to being in a book somewhere, not that any of these are very different from any other, are they any more than a house of cards?

In a country devoted to states sobriety when there is none, often on both sides of confusion, lie, cheat and steal to repeat the like, an invalid, incompetent, welfare state, labor and appreciation for production, yet there are so many paid to avoid innovation and proportionally many more set sight on destroying creation. I feel like a king or beyond as with a push of a button a play will spurt onto my television, too many days blaming god’s plan and not enough time trusting the hopes of my psychosis. None the less, a country devoted to sobriety when there is none, often on both sides, the fountain of youth has clean water, food is a reward in the case your betrothed wants other things first change or remove your personal reward, only then will you listen. My time is a book with no end and never the same page, each choice a leap into the unknown, but I must hide it from thine eyes. Whence interaction I want reports of ill atrocities, and you can do this with your eyes closed, yet as I wait for tell of the world, as I know it to be, the others are one of they, or one of thee.

Every doctrine of truth is necessary to learn in the overcoming of cold sorrow who is the deceiver of the earth. Are forthwith, both to speak the truth, but one philosophy is wrong and one will evade purpose by means of incompletion. To learn, we must come out of all the lies and into the truth. This is the way. Avoid minimization of the importance of any truth that is hence in this day. When the dark times come, any doctrine is of little value in salvation. Empirical faith will correct the errors of imperial hope, and renew the errors held in high currency among the leadership. The realm has nothing if all has meaning without order, united by faith that divines us to unity with life that the living desire. Unbelief makes us one with deceit, the devourer and the dead.

An everlasting energy is all but gone, haste blinds finding the answers with your own mind. No two things are alike in the continuum. Everything is the opposite of something else, or is identical with added features. Everything is connected where any two things are in fact one. If a perfect cylinder made a mirror exists, the reflection would consume visible possibilities having no beginning or ending, a perfect circle has the same curve on its edge as the diameter. When everything elemental becomes as one and is distanced equally, time cannot be measured and compared to natural law, for the summary is as prime existence and conflicts with the ability to be existent and extrinsic no less than the excess of origin.

Religion is much like a boat that gets you from faith to healing, if you do not want to get aboard than you need not. Build a bridge and you will not need to wait for the ferry. Like most Vikings, I believe in Christ and for the record Christmas is for the imperialists, a birthday for a carpenter, while the hammer of Thor is trusty ever to return to his hand, a tale that made the Christians change the tale to passivity in fear, as to avoid contestation or confrontation. Both with magic but with the heresy to lessen the divinities in my daily prayers exists at the very mention of a generic martyr to feign them all. I do not need god because I already have one and his name is not his title. We are not slaves my name is not boss in my language or yours, why would it be another name for a pontificate of theocracy. Halloween is the hallowed day, the holy time of autumn perennial faith in the martyr Christ by way of sympathy for his death and the death of the harvest, where the soul will travel to see the spring again. The word for this day is Halowen. The little children dressed facade and running around is so that you do not have to tell them that everything outside is about to die for the winter, in so many words. To remember these traditions anymore seems to have gone the way of we druid. All hallows eve is where the Christ had slain the evils and died from the wounds the following day, Halloween. Viking Ancestry is such the same, in so many ways. For those outside the realm of the Vikings, this is not polytheism; it is apotheosis and the struggle toward quintessence, a hierarchy to remind us of the evils that arise from power structures. Many gods ruled by a higher power, the same as religion, except life comes before suffering, and humanity precedes the petty needs for persuasion in the feeble minds of dogmatic Neanderthals. In an intellectual clarity, there is no ethic without logic. It is in this respect of time that our analogy for the end of the world is Ouroboros, so that we must respect science for the truth is that we must consume to survive, but respect life unless to confront a predator.

An essay without politics is like a bad situation without politics. I do not negotiate with terrorists, do not negotiate with unions that are holding profits hostage, besides they make more than the slaves do. You seem to estimate that contributions will come from a new united front on organized labor, for hoping on that opportunity, you are intelligent, but the fact of the matter is beggars are most obviously unprepared. As if the people are to be in union with expulsion theory, try dealing with the issue that liberal journalism has not covered a current event in ever so long, and media runs when they are empty of videos showcasing moments in human regression.

Humanity is the account of the human experience. Self-respect permeates every aspect of life, even the slovenly of late, therein so the liberal mind makes of progression, without the ability to control all and every, disrupts into at very least anarchy, but in turn is a necessity as such to take part in the corrosion of conformity. The conservative mind, primarily through trial and error, discovers subjugates to adverseness to be in rebellion the bastards of conformity. For the first will not end the waste and the latter attempts to find easier ways to navigate a kingdom of ruin, either missing the point of independence and success of patriots and nationalists, all for nothing but exclusivity to destructive sectarian behavior that leaves the mind with an aversion to receptivity, diffusivity, and a preclusion division or prevaricating coincidence.

Counterculture, their individuality is their weakness, much like many spiritual casts these deviants of society exceed themselves with the nihilist attitude, self-aggrandizes by contemporary nonsense, so therein they should be called upon as a stereotype, devoid of symbolism, bonded to every careless monger by the common deprecating aspirations of life. I do not listen to political strategists because I do not believe in politics, I believe in patriotism.

Intellectuals, as profound as they may be, have no sense of tragedy and in the oft case when it is their own upon themselves, called it is irony and not misfortune, confusing realism with reality and accepting failure. You must stand straightly, or you will never win a fight, within our race there are those whom you will not be able to escape, but this need not be many, if you are even aware of anger or conflicts, remember your opponent is larger and older and those two traits combine for a peaceful existence. A true opponent is no victim and a true victim is no opponent, some people are too big to throw.