The Bones of Snakes:

Tlazolteotl looked over the bow of the Black Ship, noticing fluttering of the windless sails and the creak of ebony deck boards. The ship had a mind of its own, required no crew and set its own destination. Tlazolteotl reflected a moment as the Island of Sarpedon grew larger on the horizon. Nearly a week ago she had returned to her destroyed jungle village, and then tracked down the Tyrant of fire who was responsible. Now a passenger, or perhaps a puppet in larger play, she found herself cloistered by the visions of shamans and hags. She was caught in the current of larger tides. 

The Black Ship had brought her to a strange land, filled with trees and birds whose plumage decorated the soil that birthed the Tyrant of fire. On this foreign soil she had found temple housing 3 blind and filthy hags that spoke to her in the language of the Amazon. The hags warned her of the Dawn which followed her and the desire of the Black Ship to hunt larger prey.

The hags were killed, there deaths offered as a spite to the gods they served. The 3 blind hags held a large crystalline relic, a creature of vision. The Eye was able to talk to her, not in words but in colors and drumbeats. The Eye had showed her visions of her homeland, and of the strange world, Tlazolteotl was taught to trust such things. While the new world was different, the practicalities of the hunt remained.

The Eye showed her the prey that she would have to prepare for, in black and gray swirls the vision unfolded: A round stone door led deep into the pit of the Gorgon, a creature born with second sight and a lethal gaze, a serpent who had honored the cycle of life and lived in mortal skin. Her hair was that of vipers, eyeless fanged snakes that hissed and tasted the air. The creature was known as Medusa, adorned in the blood of gods and titans.

The Eye showed Tlazolteotl how to use the Crystal in battle, she could see without sight, light without light. She had planned to fight the Medusa in the dark, using the Eye for vision in the blackness of the lair. Beyond that she had no idea, she would wait and see, and patience was the hunter’s crown.

The Island of Sarpedon was larger and densely forested, a wall of brambles surrounded a monolithic stone, marking the entrance to the cave of Medusa, the pit of the serpent. From the shore she saw no sentries, no signs of human beings, not at first. She had learned from previous conflicts, that creatures of this land could see or sense her further, the shadows of the jungle did not cover her as easily.

She gathered her wooden spear, the crystal Eye and her blowgun. She had no curare to grind, no poison to treat her darts, she figured that Medusa would not be affected by any such affliction.

Tlazolteotl’s bare feet crept softly into the trees, slowly approaching the bramble around the monolith. She closed her eyes a moment and held the crystal, her vision stretched out over the forest, looking from above and below. She saw clearly the path through the bramble. She saw a root outgrowth of a large Cyprus tree, its fingers clenching the earth with enough space to fit beneath an angry knuckle. She saw the entrance to the cave, and a garden of stone statues. The Eye showed her soft gray whispers of drumbeats coming from the statues as they squirmed with a paralyzing hell, creatures caught in the gaze of the Medusa, frozen in anguish.

The Eye scoured the island, finding no other life, Tlazolteotl relaxed and let her eyes open to the beauty of the forest. While it wasn’t the song of the jungle that she knew, life was bursting from the canopy. She decided a meal would be needed before descending into any caves. She stalked and killed a large pig, nearly as large as the Andean hogs of her village. She ate well, buried her campsite and headed for the Cyprus root.

Tlazolteotl crawled under the roots and made her way to a small clearing. The cave entrance lying beyond the stone statues. She eyed them cautiously, sneaking past them as if they had eyes. The cave entrance was roughly hewn from a huge single stone, a circular door was rolled aside in a deep groove. The door was made a slightly better cut stone, and from the look, appeared unused. She slowly rocked the circle until the debris of age was loosened. She strained and pushed until the stone circle could cover the door, then she rolled it back into the open position.

Tlazolteotl descended into the cave of barren stone.

The cave was less a simple opening and more a hall leading down, the rock descending sharply without stairs or notice, leading to a large cavern. The air was acrid, white flakes of skin could be seen in the fading light of the surface. Tlazolteotl grasped the crystal Eye and let the images fall into her. She could see the bones and skin, a broken skull or rot of leather garments, a thick swirl of green and brown revealed a crude structure of hacking knives, a butcher block and piles of stone rubble.

Tlazolteotl stood still as the vision unfolded: The Eye showed her the Medusa, a coiled snake with the torso of a woman, scales wrapping around her face and arms, and eyes that were closed in sleep. Nearby a bow made of bone and quiver full of arrows fletched in black feathers. Surprise was hers, but she was cautious, last time she had been seen before she could learn more.

She watched the Medusa sleep, listening to the rise and fall of her breath, searching the room for a position to strike. Tlazolteotl skulked to the far edge, squatting on the butcher block. There was no light here, there was no torchlight, no candle light, no dim shadows or creeping sunlight, the cave was pure black. Without the crystal Eye, she would have stumbled over the rocks and clutter of the cave. The Eye kept the image sharp, the swirls becoming lines and forms, the vision became a second sight.

Tlazolteotl readied her spear, taking aim with 8 deep breaths of preparation. She rose from her squat, the vulture skull mask and spear resembling a demon with a single fang. The tattered feathers disappearing into her hair, the chitinous legs of creatures bobbed a moment as the spear was raised to the lethal angle. The two-pronged hunting spear was light, the wood smooth, and the point a thin needle. On the exhale the spear was loosened from her hands.

The spear landed in the throat of Medusa and choked out a gurgling shriek. Tlazolteotl froze, returning to her squat, she lowered her mask, hiding her face, even in the dark. Medusa spat blood, uncoiled and with a preternatural speed grabbed her bow and quiver. Even as the blood spilled from her neck, she clawed the stick from it, grabbed an arrow from the quiver and with a murderous gaze looked into the black.

Medusa was the only mortal sister of 3 great cursed serpents, and what she lacked in vitality she made up for with cruelty. She could see in the dark with ease, her eyes could see deep into oblivion and saw the vulture demon hunched on her butcher block, the remnants of her meals piled nearby.

The was bow raised, and Medusa dipped the arrow in her own blood and fired back with a hateful hiss. The eyeless snakes on her head echoed in a choir of whispers. The poisoned arrow hit the mask, a skull made from an Andean condor. The arrow shattered the skull in a splintering crack. Like a thunder cloud emptying the rain Tlazolteotl’s bare feet hit the ground, a reflex when discovered, scampering up the stone cave. The arrow had missed Tlazolteotl, destroying only her mask.

The shrieks of the Medusa were mixed with gurgling, the cry of a creature drowning in blood. Another sound filled the darkness as Tlazolteotl climbed up the stone path leading out. The carapaces of dozens of creatures swarming. The sound grew louder and louder, a building tide of chittering. Tlazolteotl got to the entrance and began pulling and pushing the circular stone door over the cave opening.

She could see with and without the Eye now, and the source of the tide of chittering was clear: From the bloody throat, and rising from each blood drop was a humongous scorpion. Dozens of 4-foot creatures with barbed tails were falling over each other to reach the exit, a wall of pincers and mandibles. Medusa’s body was still in her death throes, coughing and thrashing, screaming and wailing, the clawed hands ripping at her own throat, as if the wound itself could be torn out. Each self-inflicted rip creating spray of blood, and dozens of such scorpions would grow from tiny droplets. A hateful red and black ichor poured out of Medusa’s veins, but Tlazolteotl strained in an emergency barely shutting the lair opening before the wall of chitin reached her.

Breathing heavy, she carefully removed the aperture that her mask had been attached to, the feathers and bone pieces discarded by the cave entrance. Tlazolteotl could hear the creatures on the other side of the stone slab, their bodies grinding lightly on the stone. She hoped her mask worked. The craft of mask making was one of deception, angry creatures, both human and unreal could haunt the living. A mask could be created as a prison for the hate when the hunter claimed life. She hoped the Medusa did not see her face.

An hour passed, and the drumbeat slowed, the chittering could still be heard but it was apparent the tide of giant scorpions could not pass the stone door.

Tlazolteotl noticed the stone statues were changing, as the gaze of stone began to unwind. The rock became flesh, each crack and decay making a corpse splintered in fault lines. The Medusa was dead, there was no doubt now, desiccated remains serving as witness in the overhead sun. The drumbeat slowed to the march of waves and clouds.

There was still the long wait, the scorpions still chittered eagerly at the stone barrier, hungry arachnids with nothing to eat. Tlazolteotl waited for 4 weeks on the Island of Sarpedon, she made new spears, hunted the game, and repaired her grass skirt. She waited until the chittering was gone for 3 days before rolling the stone door open again.

Inside cave the rank and rot hung like a thick cloud. The scorpions had starved, there carapaces folded in on themselves in reverence of death. She navigated the darkness with the use of the Eye again, guiding her inside the darkness of Medusa’s lair. Tlazolteotl gathered the bone bow and the black-feathered arrows. The scorpions had eaten the flesh of Medusa to the bone, nothing remained but skeleton. The skull of Medusa was prepared and affixed to a new mask. The barbed stinger sacs of the scorpions were drained, their venom used for new darts. She ground up the remaining bones of Medusa into a powder, and carefully contained them in a small hog-leather bag.

She left the stone door open, letting death finish its journey into the lair.

Tlazolteotl boarded the Black Ship and within moments, the ship was sailing towards an unknown destination. With the bow and spear in hand, she was eager for whatever prey could be seen on the horizon.

The Eye:

The Black Ship sailed from the rivers of the Amazon. The great river washed clean the single passenger of grief. The waters flowed over a sleeping woman, a hunter, whose life had been born under the eyes of the jungle. Her village burned, her world destroyed. Now she lay on the deck of a ship traveling to a port that perhaps all ships return to.

The Black Ship traveled down the river and into the night, up the stars and down the blackness between them until it came to a port in the Kingdom of Dust, a place where all things go, and all things return, a cosmic junkyard of indistinction. Then after what Tlazolteotl may have considered a full night of sleep, was the passage of an age or two, or perhaps the return to an ancient age. Time dissolved and the river flowed again. The Black Ship, by wave and current found its way to the Island of Graiai.

The small Island of Graiai was entirely visible from the deck of the ship, Tlazolteotl could see handfuls of trees and a stone temple rising from behind them. The construction resembled temples she knew, square towers with stairs leading up a single face, leading to a ritual chamber or living quarters.

Last night Tlazolteotl had dreamt deep dreams that she couldn’t quite remember. She left sharp, refreshed and interested in this strange land. The grief of her loss seemed to have been dragged down with her dream, as if the blackness of the night erased the ashes of her village. Tlazolteotl was a hunter and if nothing else remained she would hunt. She prepared her blow gun and curare, put on her mask and slinked down the side of the Black Ship.

Into the water she waded slowly, her grass skirt brushing the tops of the waves. The sea foam settling briefly on the tops of her bare feet as she walked up the shore. She paused a moment in the cover of bushes, listening for any creatures. The birds and insects sung songs she had not heard before, yet none of them were the sounds of men. Cautiously she began to encircle the small island, drawing closer to stone temple at the center.

At the base of the temple was a wide staircase. Rough carved steps with a little overgrowth decorating the entrance. Leaning on his club stood a bronze skinned man, wearing a beautiful lion pelt, wrapped casually around his hips. Tlazolteotl approached closer, under the cover of the thin trees. She was almost within dart range when he called out.

The man had sensed her, raised his hand to his mouth and shouted “Might as well come out and get this over with demon. There is no use hiding, there is only one way up these stairs and that is through me! I am Hercules, there is the blood of gods in my veins, you can not outlast me, you can not defeat me in combat!”

Tlazolteotl watched the shouting man, she recognized the body language, a sentry, a hostile guard. She loaded a dart and quickened her pace to close the distance. A shift exhale and the dart flew, its mark hit true. Hercules plucked the dart from his skin, gave it a curious look and tossed it aside casually.

“Your poison can’t harm me demon, I doubt your stick can either. I see why the fates have sent me here, I am here to bury you. “

Her feet froze, she braced her back leg and let her spear fly. The spear was made only of wood, a two-pronged spear blessed by the shamans of her village. Then as if part of a single motion she turned around and ran for the trees. The spear flew as true as the dart, but Hercules swatted the toothpick from the air with his club, laughing. The stick disappeared into the bushes as he lowered his head and began the pursuit.

He chased her through bushes of the Island of Graiai in frantic double-backs. Tlazolteotl was more nimble and quick in the bushes and trees than the tall man, she spun and juked, planning 5-6 moves ahead. Hercules was tireless, and he loved the chase, the duck and dodge invigorated him. The sweat of his body shining like a golden oil. The size of the island limited the chase but when the action moved away from the temple, Hercules would glance back at the staircase in concern. Tlazolteotl took the chance of momentary distraction to find cover. Noticing this reaction, Tlazolteotl drew Hercules far enough away from the temple. When she was able to hide long enough, he started to return to the stone stairs. “Hide in the darkness demon, you can not defeat me. You will never reach the temple of Graiai. The gods of Olympus move against you, what chance do you have? This Island will be your tomb!”

Tlazolteotl could hear the frustration in his voice, just another brute, an impervious brute but a brute nonetheless. She held her breath and slowed her heartbeat until she was certain the man returned to the temple. She sat in her hiding place, a crook between two trees, for an hour, thinking on a way to outmaneuver the man.

She needed more, she couldn’t understand his words and his skin was impervious to her darts. Tlazolteotl wasn’t certain the curare was useless; many creatures of the jungle have thick hides, perhaps a more direct approach was required. An hour later she slinked to the back of the island, out of view of the temple. She waited for night and started her scouting of the brute. The man was easy to observe, he glowed with a preternatural light, a soft hue of yellow seemed to spill out of him.

He seemed bored, occasionally changing posture, peering into the darkness, humming a song to himself and effortlessly did pushups. She watched him, patiently waiting for something. Nothing came the first night. Tlazolteotl had no problem not sleeping for at a few days, however, Hercules was not so willing to simply sit out the conflict. He could sense that the woman in strange grass dress was watching him. He respected her quickness and was eager to finish the chase. The taunts continued into the second day; “Each hour that passes only increases your failure demon, why prolong the inventible?”

Tlazolteotl understood none of his words.

The second evening revealed his weakness. In the darker hours of night, Hercules produced a wineskin and took a heavy quaff. He leaned on his club and seemed to doze a moment. Tlazolteotl watched, thinking it a ruse, a trap to draw her in, she simply continued her observation. He dozed for a half an hour and then woke suddenly when he nearly fell from his standing position. His club barely saving him from a fall. The golden light seemed to glow brighter from within him and his vitality returned, his vigilance renewed.

Tlazolteotl had only a couple more days before sleep would be inevitable. She would have to act the next time he dozed off. Whether it be a trap or not, his focus seemed unending. She prepared all of her curare, distilling the poison to its most potent form. By the third night her second sight had shifted her vision into the realm of the unseen. The glow of the brute was nearly blinding, never before had she seen such a creature. She was a hunter, and this man-thing was now her prey, and as the hours of the third day ticked by, she held on to the simplicity. 

In the later hours the wineskin came out again and again Hercules dozed off. This time Tlazolteotl was quick to action. She rushed from her hiding spot, ran to sleeping man, who stood dozing on his tall club. She took out the dart prepared with the entirety of her curare, held it between her fingers carefully. Her bare feet did not make a sound, barely touching the earth, she closed the distance.

 The whisper of her grass skirt rustled once. Once was enough, as Tlazolteotl overtook Hercules, his eyes snapped open. She had counted on his superior awareness, she needed only a second of delay. The dart was thrust into his right eye, and the curare flowed into him. Hercules froze, his body was paralyzed. Tlazolteotl pushed the dart further in, then backed off. The brute almost resisted the effect, but this poison was not something he had ever faced, the exposure was pure. He slowly collapsed into a pile of flesh on the stone stairs.

Tlazolteotl listened from a few feet away, the breathing took an hour to turn silent. No creature had ever survived the curare that long, nor required as much. After the breathing stopped, Tlazolteotl took his club and smashed his body until the iridescent golden glow was nothing. She collected her spear and started up the stone stairs. She had no curare for what waited for her inside the temple.

The ritual chamber at the top of the stairs led to a small living area. Soft noises could be heard within, mundane objects were aimlessly strewn about, littering the halls. She listened to the voices, and as with the brute, she understood nothing.

As she entered the halls of the temple however, the voices seem to turn and twist. They started to form words she understood. “The vulture is coming……. Quick find the eye, we must have it before she arrives!...I found it, give it to me, it is my turn to see!” Tlazolteotl made out the voices of 3 different old women. She cautiously crept down the hall to the red glow of firelight.

She silently entered the room to find 3 hags dressed in tattered robes and dirty faces. All 3 of the hags had scars covering their eyes, and their hair a smear of oil and wiry threads springing out from underneath their cowls. One held a crystal the size of a fist, a clear quartz with a faceted eye suspended in the clear medium. The hag holding the crystal spoke first: “Welcome hunter, we mean you no harm and speak to you in your tongue. We can see your face, a vulture crowned in ashes, you are known to us, though we do not know your name.” The hag passed the eye to another.

Tlazolteotl stood motionless and listened, she knew of shamans and prophecy but said nothing since they did not know her name. The second hag spoke once the crystal rested in her hands. “You travel by the rivers of the Black Ship, but face something down the stream that you are not prepared for. We are an oracle of stories, the seers of fate, readers or the book time through which the Eye shows us.” The hag passed the crystal with shaking hands to the last hag, who squirmed in her filthy robes.

“The Eye tells us that we must give it to you, so you may have sight without sight, light without light. The creatures that the Black Ship hunts are the Gods of Light, both mortal and eternal. The ship seeks to prevent the rot of eternity, and it has chosen you, a hunter without a home. The Eye says you are a vulture who will pick the bones of the very sun apart.” The hag shook violently and nearly dropped the crystal as the first hag quickly grabbed it form her.

The hag winced as if in pain. “The Eye asks that you kill us, that our duty as an oracle be erased from the reach of the gods of light. The Eye demands that we return to our eyeless darkness forever, that our duty as oracles to the gods of this land be ended.” The hag collected herself and set the crystal down at the feet of the second hag, and then collapsed in labored breath.

Tlazolteotl had not slept in 3 days, and the maddening words of the hags were bristles of agitation.

The second hag grasped the crystal, her fingers straining. “Hunter I can not hold the crystal long, the last words I can speak for you are these: Beware the dawn, she follows your footsteps with a heart seeker.” The second hag drops the crystal and the third hag desperately tried to grab the crystal, but it falls out of her reach.

Tlazolteotl picks up the Eye and looks into the clear crystalline. A whisper rises up in colors of blue and green, “Kill the hags hunter, their fate is finished. I will give you the second sight without the depravation of sleep, I will show you the hunt of the deepest jungle.” The green and blue words wrapped around Tlazolteotl with a vision of the great Amazon river, talking to her not in words but in images and colors; a roaring river, filled with powerful churning currents that flowed down to the mouth of a huge black ocean.

The feeble hags died quickly from the spear tip. Their thin necks offered no resistance. The decay seemed accelerated, as if the forces of decomposition had been kept at bay by the crystal eye for unknown years. Their bodies were reduced to ash and dust in a few moments.

Tlazolteotl valued the warnings of the hags and shamans. If they were telling the truth, then another hunter followed her, and creatures of greater tides were watching. She would need all the tools she could find.

When she returned to the shore the Black Ship was there, impossibly close, as if floating on the water. She climbed up to the deck and looked into the crystal, a shaped eye sat suspended and yet seemed alive and aware of her. Tlazolteotl felt ready for what the Black Ship had in store. A quarter of an hour later the ship was crossing a foreign sea to place that was known to the Eye as the Island of Sarpedon.

Silver Cord:

From one end of the earth to another, a black ship docked in a small jungle bay. The occupants of the ship traveled from Spain in search of gold. Their luck had paid off with a small reward: They survived the journey. The landscape stretched out like an old man’s hand, the scars of ancient rivers formed a dark valleys and crooked claws of vines and insects.

The mast hung over the sailors like a thick curtain, they scurried away in relief as the ship shook them off like a wet dog.

The sailors occasionally made the sign of the cross in nervous habit. The jungle was alive but filled with a dark bureaucracy that gave no clues to the rules of the land. The shore offered no resistance, and the sailors made short work setting up a camp. They sat for a couple days while scouting parties searched for signs of human life, gold or any other reason for the long journey. During this time the sailors acclimated to their new world, growing more comfortable with the cries and howls of creatures they couldn’t see.

Something else rode on the ship from Spain.

A creature of their minds, a stowaway that grew from the rotten thoughts of the sailors. This creature was invisible to the sailors, hiding in their superstitions and biological blind spots. A large floating eye hovered above the ground and growing from its sides were small vine-like stalks that contained additional eyes. Each one of the eyes watched the sailors carefully. The journey had been an unusual hardship for the creature, it had nearly starved, as nearly all the thoughts of the sailors were consumed. All that remained were conquest, acquisition and domination.

The sailors found a small village on the 3^rd day, they raided it without insomuch as a greeting. Gold was spotted in heavy decorations, buildings were lined with crawling serpents of elaborate craftsmanship. With the assault rode the floating eye creature, an invisible tyrant of fire and destruction. With its gaze the Eye Tyrant directed the actions of the sailors. They burnt, killed and looted the village, they left no one, nothing escaped the gaze of the eye.

They returned to their ship, dragging makeshift containers filled with mangled gold.

When the ashes of the village turned cold, and when the first rain rinsed the blood into a dull brown, a villager returned to the smudge of earth that was once their home. Tlazolteotl was her name, and there were none alive that knew her name now. Her village had been erased. Tlazolteotl searched the ruins for any sign of who would burn their village. The trail was clear, the marauders made no effort to hide themselves nor showed any sign of taking prisoners.

Tlazolteotl swallowed her grief with silent tears and began human hunting preparations.

She started by collecting curare for her darts and scavenged a few items before the dirt claimed them. One of them was her hidden hunting mask, made from a large Andean Vulture skull. She smeared wet ashes over the skull and began her hunt for the unseen marauders.

Tlazolteotl did not sleep on this hunt, she followed the trail for 3 days slipping deep into a second sight. The lack of sleep had shifted her vision to that of the unseen, the bugs and vines flexed in a heartbeat. The river crawled with a deep shadow, casting a mournful dread over the hunt. Vibrant songs flowed from the mouths of birds and snakes. Over the 3 days she painted her skin with any plants that held color, resembling a kaleidoscopic dreamtime creature.

At the end of the 3^rd day Tlazolteotl found the black ship and sailors.

Watching from the forest line she counted each sailor. She could see the floating eye easily, the creature did nothing to hide itself, it was gloating in victory and salivating over the gold. The sailors seemed to ignore the creature and went about trying to organize the plunder. The black ship sat silently in the bay, uneasily close to the shore.

Tlazolteotl waited until night, and when the twilight hours settled in, she saw the silver cords. Each sailor had a thin glistening line from their head and gathered in knots at the base of the floating eye creature, like a fist clenching the reins.  

The wait continued until all of the sailors were asleep, the floating eye even drooped its vine-like stalks in comfort and ease.

Her curare was fresh, and her aim lethal.  Tlazolteotl had no trouble sneaking into the camp, hiding in the firelight shadows and getting into a good position. She blew her darts at each one of the sleeping sailors, the poison paralyzed them.  Over the next a couple of minutes their breathing stopped altogether. The brutes had no strength against the silent and dark.

The sailors laid in shallow breaths until finally the last of them expired. The floating eye snapped awake, the silver cords were gone, the puppet strings disolved. There were no more human slaves for the tyrant to command.

The center eye glared out a silent scream as it torched the forest line with a red beam of burning fury. The smaller stalks let out terrible streaks of blue and black fire, reckless flames of rage. Tlazolteotl watched and waited again, she waited until the fury burnt itself out a little.

For 3 hours the floating eye rampaged the shore in destructive frustration. Tlazolteotl was waiting for the rising sun, at the first glint of gold on the horizon she rose from her hiding place too. She appeared as a multicolored bird, covered in ashes. She screamed the cry of the Kuntur, raised her single spear and threw it at the largest eye.

The floating eye was momentary confused, the night of frustration and the days of indulgence had made it lazy. The eyes did nothing when they saw Tlazolteotl, they all looked in a blank stare, half blinded by the sun. The spear hit true and the single eye burst, a fountain of black ichor flowed from the creature.

A few seconds later the floating eye exploded, blowing parts of the eye stalks all over the morning shore. The scene was silent expect for the heavy breath of Tlazolteotl. She stood on the sands for the better half of the day, watching the sun. She had no village to return to, no people to belong to.

She took off her mask, washed herself in the waves began to feel the inevitable weight of sleep growing stronger. The waves seemed to wash the black ship closer to the shore, a hypnotic heartbeat rolled over it and drew Tlazolteotl’s attention. She had never seen a Spanish clipper ship, or any clipper ship. The strangeness distracted her from the sleep and tears she could feel beginning to overtake her.

Effortlessly she found herself onboard the ship, as if her legs had carried her there without a second thought. Moments later she was asleep, her mask and blowgun set neatly next her. She drifted into a thick dream, wrapped in waves of a greater blackness. She disappeared over the horizon as the black ship set sail for an unknown port.

The Cycle of Life:

Hutch opened his eyes with slow motion inevitability, he would have chosen to keep them shut if he could. He laid there for the next 20 minutes waiting for time to slip away, staring blankly at the orange and red picture on the wall next to his bed. Hutch studied the picture every day, he wished he could have stayed asleep, but his brain dusted itself off and toured the boundaries of the painting until the morning silence passed.

The picture was a sunset, painted by a novice, rough edges, sloppy brush strokes and a perspective usually seen in tourist renderings of tropical sunsets filled with purples and blues. However, this painting was casually devoid of any rich colors. The reds and oranges were flat, the colors could have been replaced with a dull gray and the impression would be the same. Hutch found the criticism familiar, and after the tour of the square canvas, he stared at nothing.

At the end of the 20 minutes, Randy, his caretaker knocked softly and brought him his breakfast, medicine and a fragile connection with the world. Randy was the only person Hutch saw anymore, he was bedbound, age and infection had crippled him, not only from physical degeneration but from numbness. All his friends were gone, his family was gone, he was old and was simply waiting for the last heartbeats to be counted.

Randy was not so close to the grave. Randy had dreams, ambitions, he savored floral decorations, Indian food, and the new Flaming Lip’s album. Randy had plenty of life to spend, his heartbeats were countless. A young skull filled with all kinds of chores and tasks yet to complete. Not that Randy had any goals, his momentum was all that he needed.

Hutch and Randy had lived together for 10 years now, each day Hutch slipped further into the black, one piece at a time, one limb at a time. A couple years ago Hutch lost the ability to walk, his feeble vitality turned him to paper. Randy had cried, sobbing that his love was disappearing in front of his eyes, each day a tiny gram of flesh disintegrated, vanishing with the sunrise.

Randy loved Hutch since he was 19. Their winter-spring relationship had been both a mentorship of life and a companionship of sincerity and trust. There had been no knife holes in Randy’s heart, he had never known betrayal or heartbreak.

Over the last 2 years Randy had done everything for Hutch. Every physical requirement was addressed, every pill and meal had become a ritual of slowly slipping maintenance. Randy tried to remain as clinical as he could; lovingly tending sores, preparing meals, and changing the bed.

Over the last 2 years however, Randy found himself wondering about his future after the inevitable. He tried not to think on it, the idea filled him with anxiousness, as if the dread of his beloved’s death was a rashy itch. The idea spread around his brain, each day adding a little more darkness to that part of Randy’s brain that didn’t want imagine life-after-Hutch.

Then came the guilt. Thoughts would fill Randy’s head when he brought the morning medicine and breakfast, how easy it would be to end Hutch’s misery, just a little pillow, a little struggle and then nothing. The idea would catch itself in Randy’s throat, choke the tears out of him and throw him into a pile of self-loathing.

The darkness required as much maintenance as the chores.

However, this morning, at this breakfast, 20 minutes after Hutch had finished his tour of the garish sunset painting, Randy came into the room deep in tears. He had enough, he could not carry any more weight on his heart. A quick motion across the bed and the pillow was over Hutch’s face.

Hutch didn’t struggle, he was ready, he relaxed into the darkness. Randy looked down at Hutch with a numbness, the deed was done. Randy was free from one darkness, yet another loomed over the horizon; nighttime horrors were being born in the back of his skull.

No Stars:

Bordano Rast Reflection Hour 22:19 

They delivered 11 yards of wood chips on Friday, all of them from trimmed trees and dead snags in the neighborhood. The chips were full of bits of bark and twigs, pieces from clipped trees. We were on a list to get the pile, whenever the arborists trimmed, someone got the wood chips.

I shoveled a third of it yesterday, my arms are noodles and I need a good long sleep. I will get the rest of the pile tomorrow or the next day. I don’t mind. The smell from the wood chips is pristine and rich. The steam rising from the 7-foot pile is a clear sign that the machine of decomposition is still working.

Bordano Rast Reflection Hour 03:15

I still have a sizable pile remaining after yesterday. I worked into the night, I saw a glitter of stars dash against the sky. A rash of cosmic creatures all burning up there somewhere. The stars are something that keep me going. Last night I felt them most strongly, as if each one of their lights had a tether to me. I gathered some of their strength, down the long silver cords from the stars and into my arms and legs.

Star power keeps me alive most of the time, the rest of the time I sleep in the dark soil.

Bordano Rast Reflection Hour 15:41

Today was easy. The stars fueled my limbs with their stellar influence, I rolled the wheelbarrow up and down the hill effortlessly. There was no ache or pain today, the stars filled me up. I skipped dinner and lunch altogether, I felt so good without food. 

I don’t think the influence of the stars has ever been as powerful, as it was today. Billions of points of light bristled in my veins, as if my blood was somehow filled with the stardust of countless aeons. I think tomorrow I will sleep the daylight away and soak as much of that starlight as I can tomorrow.

Bordano Rast Reflection Hour 23:53

The pile of wood chips is gone, the star power is not. The stars have become my engine, I feel alive, awake and ready. I have no desire to sleep, and no desire to stop moving. I started cleaning my house, my yard, dusting, wiping, rebuilding, scrubbing. I feel like I have endless energy.

The star energy is growing inside me. I can feel each one of them, each of the billions of burning points of light. Each one has carved out a little place in my head. The awareness of the stars is also growing, I can feel the distance, I can sense the vast stretches of space between us. The great chasm of empty interstellar space is a small issue for stars. 

 Now when I try and sleep only the endless awareness of space occupies my head. The star energy at the tip of my tongue, ready for the next task. I know I should sleep, but all that waits for me is a monstrous abyss, an opaque and dizzying sense of vastness whenever my eyes close.

Bordano Rast Reflection Hour 01:07

This morning my right arm is no longer responsive. The hand and elbow are not moving, my shoulder is stiff but moves a little. I don’t feel any pain, I am going to the medical facility in a couple hours. There is no physical reason, no bruising or break, nothing seems wrong with the hand and elbow. 

The reason is clear to me, even though I am hopefully there is a remedy. The tether to the stars has changed, I feel less of them. It feels like a string was attached to my arm and the string is cut. I don’t feel the strength and energy that I felt yesterday. My arm is just a dangle of bone without the stellar connection. 

I really hope I can get the use of my arm back.

Bordano Rast Reflection Hour 08:27

I didn’t make it to the medical facility yesterday like I wanted. My legs stopped moving and my left arm became unresponsive by evening. I called the emergency services and they moved my body to a white room. I can’t hear anything, and my mouth is unable to explain the sudden unresponsiveness of my limbs. 

My eyes still work for now, but I am not sure how long that will last.

Under the Stone:

The landscape rolled to the drumbeat. The eyes of dreamer closed for a moment. The voice separated from the mouth, sight from the eyes and the body became still. Rough peaks spilled out in Ayahuasca soaked chanting, connections remade, vows repeated, and the veil was pushed aside. The world glowed in a verdant richness, seen without eyes, heard without ears.

The vision fell into the dirt, sinking into the soil, the rocks and the rivers. Deep into the darkness the vision fell, down into a spiral of pits and caves. Every motion shook loose a little more dirt, revealing darker tunnels into the black. The body winced and spasmed, as the vision sank into the decaying underworld.

The vision took shape, as shadows picked up faces. The formless black turning to skies and trees. The tunnels turned into snakes and then squirmed into the clothes of men. Each shadow honored the vows of the vision, reluctantly taking its place in the scene. A dim light was haphazardly set up, casually tossed into the vision, barley useful to make out the lines and motion of the subterranean play.

The stage was a vast green world, very similar to the jungles of the waking lands. The stage was a shadow of the world, outside the land of the living, deep in the caverns of the unreal. Creatures started crawling out of the shadows and into the light. They put on masks and draped themselves in the furs of animals, reflections of the waking world. They scratched and pawed, they growled and hissed, stretching the reaches of the vision. It took a few moments for the shadows to find their places, poised for the vision to unfold. Then the creatures all stood still, waiting for the moment in silence.

With a warm wind the vision began, the wind carried a familiar smell, fire. The village was burning, the ashes fell on the creatures as they ran. They stumbled and fell over each other to get away from the fire. Some fell into the flames and returned to shadows, ready to pick up the next mask for the vision. The light of the burning village grew.

The fire washed over their bodies. All the villagers were consumed, the huts turned to black dust, and the ashes fell off the bones of the elders. Each villager was played by a different shadow, each villager was represented, each face seen in the flickering dim light that showed just enough to know their fate.

The source of the fire took center stage, a creature different than the animals of the jungle. A floating eye with an entourage of fleshy stalks surrounding it. Like a vine made of flesh and eyes, with a single larger eye in the center. The gaze of such a creature turned the huts to flames, put the villagers to sleep and scoured the green foliage with a malice of greasy ink.

The floating eye creature was invincible to the efforts of the village. Neither spear nor dart could reach it, as if a wall of force protected it.  Anyone that got close, caught the gaze of the center eye and like the huts and would burst into flames. The creature was a tidal force of destruction, there was no survival for the village.

As the vision continued, a small silver cord could be seen from the floating eye. The cord stretched over the hills, the scenery rushing by in brilliant streak of green and yellow. The vision settled on a nearby shore, a large ship was anchored waves. The ship was so strange and alien the dreamer thought another monster was crawling out of the ocean.

The vision showed human beings from a distant land, clarity outlined their faces with steel helmets. The silver cord dangled loosely from the heads of each one of the strange humans. The floating eye was a monster of their world, a terrible ghost traveling the seas. The vision showed one last connection, one last reminder before release from the future sight. All things die, all villages, nations, worlds and dreams, even the unreal can die.

The unreal did die, the vision blurred, and the dreamer sank into ordinary sleep.

Magic Legs:

When I tell people that I can levitate I get an incredulous look. I mean as a species we have been to the moon, we interact with creatures so small that they can’t be seen with the human eye. By “we” I mean the royal “we”, I mean humanity, the rash of intelligence. Of course, we accomplish these things with machines. There isn’t a human physical equivalent of rocket fuel, there isn’t a human version of airplanes or microscopes, these are adaptions we created with our intelligence.

Showing people that I can levitate washes that look right off their face. With no help of machines, I can defy gravity and levitate my body quite comfortably about 7 inches off the ground. I don’t need legs anymore, I don’t need to walk or run, I simply will myself across the ground and wooosh my body floats over any obstacle. The look on people’s faces suggests that something inside is shuffling, something that is now possible that they haven’t thought of before, their eyes rolling around in their head to answer the “how”.

Like any decent human being, most people ask me how such a thing works. Perhaps I am hiding a small machine under my clothes, some people look around for hidden cameras, as if they are on the receiving end of a social deception. Some get truly unhinged, levitating is something so mystical and unreal that the foundation of their existence is crumbling right in front of them, at that point, I reassure that its all a trick, I tell them that I can’t reveal how, but not to worry.

Going to the grocery store has been an endurance test. It has taken years to explain, comfort and reassure people that levitating is not magical or threatening. Nearly everyone required an explanation of some kind.  Not knowing, or more accurately; senseless defiance of the physical law of gravity is highly unnerving for human beings. The birds and dogs and other animals seem to have no issues with my levitation.

I went to the grocery store the other day, just floated in the door 7 inches from the ground. I never trip over the curb. Most people don’t see that my feet don’t touch the ground, they are all too busy with their own task list of items to purchase and consume. I can float down the aisle effortlessly, looking for some new hot sauce or tasty treat. I picked up some wine and some nice-looking scallops. Hovering 7 inches higher does make me look a bit taller, and I can levitate higher, reaching any top shelf items.

Sometimes I wear a dress to cover my useless legs. They don’t do anything anymore, just pieces of dangling bones and blood. Maybe I can get some disability money, I can pretend that I can’t levitate. I can lay there with my slowly atrophying legs, convincing people that I am helpless.

I wonder how a denizen from 5000 years ago, a human ancestor that was somehow plucked from their primitive world and put in this one, how would they see the grocery store scene? How much atrophy would they see in their present-day cousins? We no longer need to hunt, live on the edge of hunger, no longer need to keep that tensile cord taught within their heads. How lazy would we seem to them? I am sure we could melt their brains with all the technology and information we have accumulated, and they would probably be amazed at the wonders birthed from the decay of ancient life. We no longer need to hunt, or hand wash our clothes, or any other such comfort that progress has given us at the cost of atrophying the stuff in our heads, slowly discarding useless processes. 

I don’t care if my legless are useless, I can levitate. It is effortless as imagining myself floating, it only requires a little concentration. In fact, I think I can teach people how to levitate, I showed my cat how to levitate and my cat has become an eye-level pet. They drink form the sink now, and my cat has killed 30 birds this week after showing her how to levitate. I am apprehensive to show anyone the mechanism, that there is no trick, there is no little machine helping me.

For now, I will keep my mutation to myself, floating from place to place. The magic is mine alone, my own secret glamour.

Fluffy Stuffing:

Ding, Ding, Ding!

There is no cause for alarm. There never is. The dishes are being placed onto the dish drying rack. I am in another room, sitting on a blue chair. The dishes seem far away, and the water from the faucet seems to wash them further into the distance. The alarm continues its dinging, I have no idea where the off switch is.

The chair pulls me in, I am aware of how heavy my arms are. I am the only one that hears the alarm? My friends nearby seem comfortably unaware. Maybe they do hear the alarm and have learned to ignore it. There are stretches of time where the alarm turns into white noise for a year or two. Their comfort keeps me from getting agitated. Why ruin a peaceful evening?

I am hoping for one of the dishes to break. A little crack in the comfort. If one of the plates shattered, it would be an excuse. I would jump out of the blue chair, raise my hands and join the choir of the alarm. I would speak in tongues, rejoicing in the destruction. Maybe I’d throw some of my favorite swear words in, some seasoning for the broken moment.

None of the dishes break. The gentle dish-washing operation drifts further away. I wish I could be washed and dried, set on a rack with my arms hung over a steel bar. Remaining motionless, hot from the water, awkwardly propped up on my side. The idea fades with further focus, the alarm rings out an urgent emergency. I look around casually as to not arouse suspicion of whatever may be tripping the alarm.

A brief scan shows nothing. It is usually nothing. The blue chair relaxes my lower back, something for my spring to unwind into. It is firmly pressed back into the chair. The dishes continue to drift away, the clanking becoming quieter and softer. While only a single room away, the noise has nearly disappeared, and the chair grown over my hands and arms. The heavy flesh sunk into the fabric. My head is fussing with the back of the chair, I can feel the stuffing clogging up my ears and head. All the sounds in the house begin to dampen. I angle my eyes down and see the chair has enveloped most of my body. The alarm is ringing full blast, no one seems to hear the volume increase. The alarm begins to fade as my eyes fall back into the body of the blue chair.

The alarm is finally dead. I am a chair now; my bones are made of wood and my blood has turned to fluffy stuffing.

Doctor Duality’s Dialectical Dissertation #8:

My morning coffee is black, a common description: coffee with nothing in it. Of course, there is hot water filter through coffee beans within the cup, an essential quality not worth mentioning every pour. For a moment let us gaze into the dark bean water while it cools. Black coffee takes a few minutes to turn from lava into a semi-precious nectar.

In this gaze into the tongue of burning liquid, I would like to expound upon the topic of absence, specifically nihilism. A common place word found in frantic conversations regarding lost teenagers, incels, mass shooters, losers, the unmotivated, the snooty intellectuals. These of course are examples of the word used as a colorful adjective, a derogatory aimlessness.

Words, in their delicate existence have found ways to mutate and change to mean a large variety of definitions. If words lose their meaning altogether then perhaps they tread affectionately on the term “Silly” or “Very Silly”, dismissive ways of ignoring meaninglessness. The glamour of words can be dulled quickly with repetition. The most heartfelt speeches or songs can be twisted into torture if put on repeat for endless hours. The band Skinny Puppy for example, sued the government for use of their music in torturing prisoners at Guantanamo.

Absence of meaning is a default position, at least that’s the mechanical view of existence, no meaning has ever been found under a microscope, nor seen in the stars. You could use the most sophisticated machine to analyze a song or painting, observe the most impassioned speech or perhaps hold a newborn baby fresh. Not a single mote, atom, speck, or piece of dust resembling the glamour of the experience could be detected. The meaning and importance of such things seem to rest solely within the brains of the observer, specifically a biological observer. Any other kind of observer has yet to present themselves to a microscope for categorical understanding.

As default human, my swirling brain does not allow a default perception of reality. It is muddled with glamour, impurities, distractions from a nihilistic perception. I get hungry, excited, angry, sullen ect ect. There is a seemingly endless tide of glamour to keep oneself washed ashore and on solid ground. Fresh from being born, babies feel hunger, something begins to have meaning, a point to organize actions around. Questions like: “How can I obtain food? Where is the bathroom?”

As age sets in and the glamour fails, the questions become harder: “Why should I go to work? Why should I wake up? Why is life worth living?”  These questions often have biological components, diet, sleep schedule, quality of work environment, if you have kids to feed and how many things still hold interest.

A few long-term sources of consistent glamour that I wish to elaborate for the sake of argument is: hate, love, and collecting. Hate is easy, love is dangerous and collecting never ends. The ease of hate makes it accessible to anyone, there is no end to the variety of objects of hate. Bored with life?  Are all the doors of opportunity closed, are the last years of life a decaying stench? Hate is cheap and can smolder for generations without any release.

Love is the most biologically successful glamour; its importance helps facilitate life and breeds loyalty. The love of nation, family, and spouse drive the most murderous actions. Please do not take my criticism of love as a call for its removal, this glamour is one I personally advocate for. If you need internal reference points as your source of locomotion through life, then this is my recommendation. The warning however, is that love is dangerous. The torture devices that live in the Palace of Love are perhaps the most exquisite and elaborate forms of machinery human beings have ever created. The microscope doesn’t hold a candle to the pain that love can inflict on the human heart. Love will keep you warm until your bones are dust, either from the fires of hell or the light of smiling eyes.

Collecting, or more accurately described as fetishizing in this argument, is the obsession with accumulation. This is seen most commonly with wealth and hoarders.  There is never enough, the hunger from collecting can keep the human mind occupied for lifetimes. A single (or multiple) idol is chosen, worshipped, possessed, and maintained. Providing anxiety over its loss, pleasure with its attainment. Collecting provides plenty of tasks to keep oneself occupied through life.

My black coffee is nearly cooled and ready to be enjoyed.

Nihilism for all its absence and rather large circumference, does little to provide any pragmatic solutions for keeping oneself distracted with important things. Can there not be room in this wide universe for the respite of meaning, an oasis from importance, and the burdensome tasks yet to be done? Can there not be an appreciation for the momentary relief of digging up reasons for life?

Such reflection has given me an appreciation for black coffee, not sweetened or muddled, a default bitter habit that still requires a degree of caution to consume.