The Eve of Ruina

This is an unfinished short story that is going to be part of the collection, if I decide to do that. Or possibly I'll take this story a lot further, I have a lot of potential ways I can take this already lined up. Tell me your thoughts.

The Eve of Ruina

The Gods called upon him, and to their every whim he must answer them. He is their chosen one, the lone prophet of the true Gods, the true seer of knowledge. His name is Azaziah, his mission is the total conversion of all the peoples of this puny Earth. The world was to succumb to the will of the Gods and their avatar, but first the rituals must be preformed.

Entertainment for the night came in the form an act of Nature and the Gods so powerful and intense that it rocked the most materialistic-atheists and turned them into the Gods-Fearing mortals that they truly are. As Azaziah climbed the Great Hill of Babazola, he was battered with the strong force of the winds, their howls raging against him like a blood thirsty beast. It mattered not to him, he must reach the peak of this mountain before the climax of the storm, or everything would be ruined. Everything must go according to scripture, according to plan, according to the Gods.

The plan that Azaziah had in mind and the plan that the Gods held, though, was to be illuminated as quite different. The trek up the mountain was quickly taking its toll on the weary muscles and ground up bones of Azaziah, and his breath was growing heavy. Although his will for the most part stayed resolute and true, there were a few thoughts in the back of his mind urging him to just quit now, turn back, or even just lie down and die.

"You're an old man, Azaziah, but through the Gods will you shall have an Eternal life of bliss, with no weary muscles or broken bones." The prophet began speaking to himself, becoming delusional and hallucinating - or perhaps becoming incredibly lucid and perceiving reality through more facets than usually available to the human senses. In quite a short amount of time, the old man realized that the words came not from his mouth, but from the mouth of a prodigious Angel - or demon - messenger of the Gods.

"What is it that the Gods desire, O Angel of the most high?" Azaziah managed to speak his words through raspy breaths and coughing fits, continually plagued by the burden of the sand-mountain and the holy jihad of the wind.

"The Gods demand a sacrifice. A blood sacrifice." There was no emotion in the strong voice of the apparent Angel.

"A blood sacrifice? Where am I going to find an animal in time for the climax?"

The Angel said nothing, and Azaziah grew worried. As the grim realization finally dawned over him, his journey acquired a theme that was much more somber and stoic than the ecstatic, sensuous excitement that usually gripped his loins and his heart for this ritual. He knew that his body's leash to physical existence stifled his soul, it dampened the Holy Fire that burned deep within his chest. His body, his brain, his emotions, they all betrayed his true inner nature. By all rights he should be glad to die for his Gods in such a glorious manner, on the eve of destruction!

"Oh glorious eve of Gods waging war

The midnight sky to rage and roar

Much blood to spill and incense to be burned

A prophet shall die and much will be learned."

The Angel quoted from the most holy of Holy Scriptures, the Apocalypse of Babazola! Suddenly, his heart was filled no more with doubt, his will solidified as much as anything can be called solid, and the fire burned within. An unexpected gust of wind blew Azaziah over, causing him momentarily lay in the sand, staring up at the sky. The image that burned straight through his retinas and into the very fibers of his being would be the most profound experience of his life time, which was to end shortly.

In the night sky, a masterpiece of artwork was being crafted with utmost care and delicateness. Contrary to the subtle nature of the artist, the inherent spirit of the art was violent, chaotic, passionate, dangerous, deadly, and powerful. It was geometric, it was pre-historic post modernist, it was an abstract still life, it was a landscape painted as a portrait. It was, in fact, the most beautiful piece of art ever known to man. The title of this piece was, "Nature", the author of it, the Gods.

Dark, brooding clouds swirled around in a decadent display of a Deity’s delight; a cacophonous orgy of the elements hydrogen and Oxygen frozen by the high sky and made beautiful in their unity. The picturesque orgy in the clouds revealed some of the nature of the prophet's ordeal and the ritual of the Gods, the Eve of Ruina. Through the marriage of hydrogen and oxygen and the divorce of life from this Earth, an ecstatic and sensuous exhibition took place.

At the command of the messenger, Azaziah picked himself up off his feet and continued his ascent to the top of the Great Hill of Babazola. Upon reaching the summit, he checked his robes for his incense, but to his great dismay he found nothing. The Gods, however, provide for the faithful.

A strong gust of wind had apparently blown the remnants of some odd plant up the hill, and not to be one to spit in the face of good fortune, Azaziah quickly scampered over and gathered the brush.

Casualty of Solipsism

This is a short story that I'm debating whether I should continue on with, or leave it as it is. I suppose if I get hit with some inspiration for it, I'll continue. I've been thinking of making a series of short stories based on my many seemingly-conflicting-yet-married-together-in-an-orgy philosophies and spiritual views. Hopefully they'll shed some light for myself and others on the nature of reality and how we percieve it. Anyway, here's Casualty Of Solipsism, a look into what it would be like to travel along the left-hand path with a narcissistic, solipsist worldview.

Casualty of Solipsism

As I paced around the room, I wondered how much longer this fairy tale can keep up. How far can I take it? Can I mold the entire world; will the universe bend to my whims? Has my solipsistic world view defined my narcissistic existence, or has my ego determined my philosophy? How can I trust myself?

Apparently, I can't. The two dead hookers lying in a puddle of blood and feces is a grand testament to this. I'd have to take care of the other one soon, before she walks in the room with her saggy Mexican tits and her collection of dildos. She'd cause a scene, and I can't have that. She'd wake up my redneck, white trash neighbors and I'd be off to some maximum security prison where'd I'd wake up each day to an ass full of semen and my resilience left for dead.

I took another line of cocaine and decided I'd strangle the bitch. Much less noise that way, although truth be told, not half as much fun as beating her over the head with whichever blunt object of choice happened to be on hand. Before setting off to increase my counts of homicide, I decide to liberate the oppressed urine from my tyrannical bowels onto the lifeless corpses of the low-class prostitutes that littered my floor. Really, they shouldn't have insulted me like that. I'm not some sort of depraved fucking homosexual; they should have told me they weren't really women.

It's not like they had much to live for anyway. I was freeing them of their flawed material existence, and all things considered, I should probably be awarded a medal. Maybe in their next lives they'd be born caterpillars or something, although I've never seen a she-male caterpillar. Shit, I've never even seen a caterpillar in action, getting all hot and heavy and finishing off with a money shot. Oh, but that's right, caterpillars undergo metamorphosis into butterflies. A bunch of fucking pansies they are, I guess butterflies are the GLBT of the insect world.

Not that this has anything to do with the problem at hand. I stepped over the heap of dead bodies and fluids, exited my room and closed the door carefully. The spic whore was in the bathroom, brushing her hair with all the attention only a woman of the night could give to her strung out, disease ridden body. I stroked my cock until it was erect, strutted over to the bathroom, bent the harlot over the sink and shoved my male figure of dominance into her filthy cunt. She acted surprised, but I knew she could barely even feel it. Not that my prick was small, far from it, but this bitch was a classic case of a "hot dog in the hallway". I'm pretty sure I could fit my foot inside of her. Either way, I wasn't fucking her for my pleasure or hers, hell, the only reason I was hard was because all this killing had my blood pumping, regardless of all the cocaine swirling through my veins. I just needed a distraction.

She was still preening herself as I began to choke her, strangling her with the gentle assuredness that only a man with an ego the size of an elephant and a cock buried deep in a pussy could muster. It didn't take her long to stop struggling and give way to my asphyxiation, and as soon as we both went limp, I slammed her head into the mirror and let her body fall onto the sink, and then the floor. A job well done, I think. It wasn't possible to make her death anymore fitting, I'd wager. I'm sure she always knew she'd go out with a bang, or at least while getting banged and jacked up on blow and hash. Or maybe she was just trying to save up enough money until she could return to back her family in Mexico, marry some nice young man and share the gift of herpes with him.

Fuck! I've probably got it too, now. No matter, I can take care of it; I can take care of anything.

Blue

This is most likely my shortest, and um...silliest? I guess short story:

Blue

This is the story of a blue cat. Not the sad blue, but the actual color blue. The cat’s name was Blue, ironically. Other cats did not like Blue.

One day Blue decided to get some fish at the wharf. To his disappointment, other cats had claimed the wharf and had eaten the fish. These cats did not like Blue, because he was different from them. Even though cats don’t see color like humans, blue has its own unique scent.

None of the cats would let Blue have food. They hissed and they clawed at him, and Blue grew sad and hungry. He hid in an alleyway until he was so hungry he decided to jump into the ocean to get some fish. When he jumped into the water he realized he couldn’t swim! Blue became blue in every sense of the word-he was sad, he was drowning, and he was Blue.

Six Seconds To Live

Heh, one of the first short stories I wrote. One of my best, too. I wanted to write something completely original, something I had never heard of before.

So I wrote the last six seconds of someone's life as they fell to death, thousands of miles up in the sky.

Six Seconds To Live

This is it, this is the end, there’s going to be no tomorrow. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to be happy about, nothing to be sad about. I will become one with nothingness, I will no longer be incarnate, I will cease to exist. Species-Me will cease to exist, a dying breed of people will have well, died out. Perhaps I should have tried to do more in life, but now it’s too late, it’s too late to do anything else. I suppose that in this dog eat dog world, I became obsolete in the rat race of evolution and power shifts.

It’s kind of funny how it happened, any way. Not that it really matters any more, what was funny or what was not funny. Nothing matters anymore because the end is imminent, more so than ever. Of course it was always in the back of my head, a phobia that we all have, but now it has become quite unequivocal and in the front of my cranium. Dear, dear brain, you have served me so well in the past, and no longer will you be able to help me. Well, thinking back, I suppose you weren’t that much of a help seeing as I’m in this situation now. And quite the predicament it is, no perceivable solution is jumping out into my face, although I’m sure the ground will quite shortly now.

Now I’m watching all these people on the ground, wasting their time as it seems to me at the top of the world. I’m trying to hold it all inside now, and retain my dignity, but it’s becoming quite hard. Soon those people down there, having fun, enjoying their meaningless life will awake to a rude siren of death amongst them. I do hope something ironic happens, such as me falling onto a bench full of food…It’s hard to see where exactly I’ll land now, but I can still see the stupid little ants, roaming about, foraging for food, working for the queen ant.

Oh hell, I feel so full of angst now, so full of hatred and spite towards the world and everything containing it or inside of it. Although I suppose it is to be expected considering my plight, and most other people would be acting in pretty much the same way I am. But it still feels so horrible, not that the impending sense of “DOOM!” is really comforting me much. You know, knowing that the end is so close that you can taste its horrible morning breath upon your face really changes your view on the world. Being up and looking down really alters your character, although being up looking down, and watching down get much closer makes things oh so much different than from a position of safety.

Knowing that it will all be over soon doesn’t help much either, because that does mean everything will be done. All my suffering, pain, all my hurt will drift away with my sudden demise, the most instantaneous solution around. Hah, the way I’m looking at it, it seems like I’m committing suicide rather than just dying by accident. Although, like I said, it is to be expected that I feel this way. God, it hurts when I breathe…

It would seem that without my finite suffering, pain, loss, and hurt, that I would be in an euphoria of pleasure. I suppose death is not one sided as some people would see it, though. Death isn’t really inherently evil, people just look at it that way because it takes away those that they love, thus the vision that death is evil. No, it is not the bringer of terror and evil to this lands, that is another. Rather, I think the bringer of terror and such is really just us: you, me, that strange guy next door, the old lady across the street.

But that’s quite besides the point I’m trying to make here, if I am indeed trying to make a point at all. More likely I’m trying to make a “splat”, at the rate of speed and direction that I’m going in. What I’m trying to say is though, is that death is not evil nor good, when the bad goes away so does the good, thus creating the sweet neutrality of slumber known simply as death. Not the creator, and not quite the destroyer, death is more like the eraser.

And how well I will know this eraser, considering what’s about to happen. I’m still mulling over whether or not to let my corneas take in the surface of my end, or to glue them shut with my tears as I hurtle towards my fate at an alarming rate of speed. Would it be better if I pretended none of this was to happen, and I was still in my log cabin in Alaska, sitting by the fireside, drinking hot apple cider? Ignorance is bliss, yes, but I have always been one to look for the truth, that seemingly distant enlightenment that most of us strive for. Should I throw away all my morals and values just to have some comfort in my time of death, or should I be a stickler for what is right in my eyes?

Not that it will mater anyhow, no one will know, and I will be dead. But what does matter is the here and the now, so what will make me feel better? Hah, what will make me feel better…What would make me feel better is having a future, having some hope in my life, having something to strive for. Maybe actually having something to think about rather than such a morbid subject such as my own journey to the grave would make me feel better.

There was so much more I wanted to do, so much I wanted to accomplish. I can’t believe I sat around all those days and nights, doing nothing, being nothing, and repeating the cycle. I could have changed the world, maybe stopped the spin cycle of greed, war, hate, and fascism. Alas, I am yet still here, I could never have imagined something could have been more depressing, this is the epitome of suicidal, one might say.

I’ve loved a lot of things in my life, and I’ve hated a lot of things, too. I wish I could take all that back, start all anew, and not bring myself to this position. Most of all, I wish I could tell those that I love to not worry, for I have nothing to fear anymore. My anguish is over, I can finally relax and just let things happen, above me. Mostly because I’ll be six feet under, but that’s besides the point. I just wish there was some way I could tell them all I love them. Oh god, and the night before this, I had gotten into a huge argument with my fiancé. I can’t even comprehend the magnitude of this anymore, my thoughts are getting more scattered and erratic, pure emotion is now taking over, I have become a beast. Rather, the beast overtook me last night, causing me to say many harsh things that I really should not have said. Would that I could, I would take it all back, so I would not have to shed the tears I do now. With my melancholy and somberness I could power a whole city, that is, if they found a way to use sorrow as an energy.

I’ve just realized-I still have her locket that I bought her in my jacket pocket. When I hit the ground, I really hope that it’s fine and not damaged. Perhaps I can protect it somehow, keep it safe from harm, as a final way of saying “I’m sorry, I love you.” That would be comfort enough, I think I shall. I’ll take my jacket off, and wrap it into a ball, and hold it in my hand, even though it’s dreadfully cold up here. Not that cold is going to matter in a few seconds. What does matter is that they will find it, she will see it, and she will cry, and appreciate the actions I took before my end. She’ll know that I was thinking about her before my final breath, and my long journey of death.

Here, it comes, the end…My last breath. I’m sorry everyone, I love you all.

Five in the Morning; The Words Don't Stop

What is it about writing, reading, thinking, and learning that I love so much? It's like chasing after the greatest high there is, but with only occasional hints of it with an occasional rush of bliss.

I love the smell of books, the feel of paper, the ink that rubs off on my fingers and turns them black.

I love feeling a keyboard at my command, feeding words into a document until page upon page is filled up.

I love holding a paper down while I scrawl my indicipherable printing onto it.

I love the feeling of making a sudden connection, the moment of Eureka, the apple of newton, the apple of discord.

Oh, Eris, oh lovely Eris. Oh Mary Magdalene, oh Sophia, oh Holy Spirit! Every word I utter, every sentence I write, every thought that I could ever think, they are your doing. You have imbued me, I have imbued myself, I am part of you and yet I am more than you and less than you.

Oh, Eris! How I love thee! All the paradoxes, the confusion, the chaos, all the reasons why we ask, "why?", they are all because of you! They are all hoaxes as you and I are hoaxes ourselves, as we are all nothing and everything! Duality, seperation, they are all born soley from an individualized, contextual perception at a specific point in space and time.

You are the reason, you are the rhyme
You are the spice and you are the lime
You hold me up while they hold me down
You make me smile while others make me frown

Praise Eris!