Incense Burner:

I received a written letter in the mail yesterday from Doctor Duality. His exile into the realm of death was welcome and unusual. How the letter got to me I can only guess. He has been dead for months now, wandering the afterlife in some sort of dreamtime fever, at least that is what he indicated in his letter.

The package itself was stamped with arcane runes, and the ink was of an iridescent and strange font. The markings were nothing I recognized. A blue light glowed from the address, yet I could make out none of the words or numbers.

The letter itself was very lengthy and would be a waste of time to repeat it word for word. However, the subject matter of the letter is worth generalizing. The letter started off with vague and verbose poetry of his environment. Far too many pages of descriptions of the afterlife, something not worth repeating, and it only frustrated me with its lack of any meaningful details.

Then he seemed to shift his correspondence to something he could observe from his ghostly vantage point, he could see the Land of the Living, but with a different kind of eyes. He saw a plague, a flood, a fire, and the future.

The flood was of people, populating the edges of the continents like a rising tide, consuming the world, drowning it with hunger. I found his symbolism a little dramatic. The fire was the planet itself, whose heat was rising. Trees and jungles were burning, resources were consumed in the orgy of hunger, licking the teeth of a great creature he only vaguely referred to as the Stone Leviathan. Again, the Doctor’s poetry was clandestine and apocalyptic, which provided no practical understanding.

The plague he saw was a little different. He saw people walking around with smoke coming from their mouths and slowly evaporating from their skin. He saw the embers of the fire within, like the tip of an incense stick. The smoke floated and swirled with each movement. Those stuck in their houses filled their rooms with the smoke, those walking spread their smoke in a trail behind them. When they touched anything, their ashes were left behind.

No one could smell the smoke, no one could see the smoke, yet it gathered where people gathered. The ashes piled up on the floors, in their cars, in stores and hospitals, on chairs and rails. Anyone who touched the ashes seemed to burn brighter, their incense stick would start smoking more.

Some tried to extinguish their incense stick before it consumed them, they kept their windows open, they avoided others. They tried to calm the fire, before they became piles of ashes. Some ignored the ashes and smoke; they did nothing different since they couldn’t see. They walked foolishly in the foggy world. Doctor Duality described great turbulence of smoke and embers as part of the fire which refused to go out.

He said people refused to set down the vanity of their projects, their legacies, their jobs and their hobbies. Whenever someone pulled their hands from their eyes, they smeared their ashes on their faces and continued their normal routines, unable to change. They wanted to burn, they wanted to keep the heat they once had, in fear the darkness would consume them.

He went on to righteously describe the vanity of human existence, to which point I skipped ahead a little, easy for a ghost to toss away the activities of the living. Besides, how can someone blame human beings for wanting to keep the ritual of society going, what else do they have? Is common existence worth the heat of the great celebration of civilization?

He seemed to anticipate my resistant, and reminded me that society can be rebuilt, organizations can reform, new economies can be remade, and they can be reforged without the senselessness of the past, or without the exhausting absurdity of tradition. What parts of society could not be set aside momentarily, what aspects of civilization are beyond change?

Lastly, he described a future sight. Which I can only guess is incomplete, what ghost can feel hunger? What disembodied perspective can see every edge of consequence? What hubris it is to speak of the future, yet his words haunted me, they felt like a heavy warning, and compelled me to describe at least in partial detail what he wrote in those pages of maddening existence beyond the veil of hungry life.

He described a future with increased authority, of technological order unlike anything today. Greater in control, so large in vision. So much that no privacy existed, where someone’s biological status determined their social access. A highly ritualized society with no secrets, with a great blindness to the unknown. People had certificates for obedience for their sanitary habits. Authorization dictated all. Human spite and angst demanded the use of more involuntary control, and in its use, a new crown was placed on the head of a larger creature.

The creature was also described in great length. I dare not plagiarize the ethereal words of my old deceased friend, so my own words are all I can offer. Like a great woman, or serpent rising over the horizon, like second Sun, those new constellation burns so bright there is no looking away. Like the whore of Babylon, written by mad poets in the desert, she floats above society with platforms of orbiting nuclear missiles, satellites with glaring eyes of penetrate all objects. Her fingers stretch to every cell in every organism, goading all forms of life with her whips of urgent demands. To consume, to eat, to act in service of her tasks. She suffocates any new fires, presses the tide back into the ocean and chews on the stones of ancient ruins. She screams out a warning, unrelenting, commanding her Holy Order with absolute obedience. She is justice, she is life, and her claws are vorpal into the microcosm, cutting every bacterium, every virus with her talons. She is the sword of Damascus, she is the gate of life, and whose presence grows with each passing day. Her gestation is a hum, an alarm. She is the new organism, the new commandment, and with the crown of humanity broken at her feet.

I looked over the envelope and cannot understand the return address. I can only hope that my friend Doctor Duality writes to me again.

Abandoned Trucker Poetry:

Hoarding is a symptom of distrust in authority

Social distancing is the new handshake

Cash is no longer accepted, contaminated,

They printed it with our blood.

The front line is unprotected,

Volunteers are paid in moral currency,

Food workers hide their sniffles,

Mercy is lethal.

Smudge the numbers,

No tests, no infections,

Keeps the airports open,

Empty flights fueled on leaded gasoline,

We are expendable Italian handbags,

Consumed in a line of new workers,

Burn burn burn,

We are the fire.

Not enough masks to go around,

Airborne, fecal, sweaty hands and empty pockets,

2 weeks in isolation, 3 weeks coughing up butter,

No hospitals for new mothers,

No dentists, no cavities to be filled,

We look behind the curtain,

No magic to be found,

Oz is melting,

We are the rain,

We are the flood. 

The Fear:

By now, or soon, most of us will be heavily bathed in fear. Some will remain in denial, hope or some other kind of glamour to get through the day. I wish you the best, and this essay is probably not for you. This essay is about the importance of fear, or rather, what fear means in a practical sense without being drown into an ocean of darkness.

Fear in a biological sense is a shortcut to thinking, it compels you to action when you don’t have time to analyze all the information. When you don’t have useful information or don’t trust information you are faced with a monster of shadow. It is inky, it seeps into your dreams, grabs your throat and slams your imagination into the pits of the worst outcome you can conceive. This is to prepare you for when the nightmare becomes real.

Historically, highly complex events are far worse than people can imagine. The lasting effects flow into subsequent generations, unforeseen tragedies, and all sorts of other strange and difficult things to explain. The greatest and strangest in history I can find is the Black Plague.

The Black Plague started in 1352 and wasn’t understood until 300 years later when the world of the microcosm was finally seen with the invention of the microscope. During this time, there was only speculation. People thought deities were punishing people, demonic vapors were claiming the world with senseless death. Due to science we have a language for these demons, and methods for controlling and stopping them.

Folk magic was tossed aside and gave way to modern medicine, because things like fire and quarantine worked, and potions made under the full moon did not. The language of the world changed, science brought us out of those dark times, and did so without moral judgment. The proof is in the pudding so to speak.

Our ancestors who lived through those dark times became acclimated to the fear, it became mundane, trivial, something accepted as a fact of life. This is seen in artwork of the Danse Macabre, in children’s songs like “Ring Around the Rosy”.

For us, our lives include cars and planes, something contemporary which is very dangerous. If you have taken driver’s education, you have probably seen pictures of twisted wreckage or have lost someone in an accident or a drunk driver. To drive a car requires you accept the reality of the risk and the dangers before getting behind the wheel. After driving for a few years without an accident, the activity becomes mundane, a socially acceptable risk of society. Air flight is similar, as is being a soldier, from what I hear. In short: frequency of experience grinds panic into the mundane.

A new wave of darkness is here, it is everywhere. Fear of the biological, fear of the abuses of authority, fear of people around you, fear of no end time for isolation. Perhaps you are pregnant, require daily medicine, or have no resources to navigate this new darkness. Whatever the fear is, there is no avoiding the outcomes. The flood is here, and the water level is rising.

Psychology describes this process in stages. First there is denial, a response to being incapable of looking at the outcomes, a mental short circuit to protect us while the water caries us back to the ocean. Then comes anger, usually at the inability to change the world, anger helps you face the world a little more, gives you a fire to keep warm against despair.

Then comes blame. Minorities are the first to receive the blame, and by this time those who are actually responsible have long since fled. The blood flows, and the wave pulls more people under, rips out a few hearts, and gives something for anger to burn. Afterwards comes justice, this is slower, calmer and more rational. Justice seeks to correct the unfairness of reckless anger, bring order to chaos.

Justice is a long way off, so keep your eyes out for justice, it can be seen by its lack of anger and its willingness to die for the weak and the sick.

Last comes renormalization, the new cultural wave, the new method of society. There will be new masks to wear, new holidays, and new language for how to swim in this dark ocean. It may never return to how things used to be, and justice may never come to those responsible. In psychology this is called acceptance.

There are also practical methods which seems to work throughout history. Stay away from religions, they are the first to interject their “end of days” bullshit to gather those who are desperate to understand the darkness. Avoid military, any conflict with armed authority means there is more reason to contain people, to impose strict control or remove certain people from society. Pay attention, watch how people react, watch for who needs help, who is growing unstable, and where the dark waters are flowing to.

Lastly, to keep social bonds true, don’t lie to your family. Small groups of people can move, change, pool resources faster than large groups or solo people can. Fear can be the beginning of truth; you must be able to tolerate it if you are to adapt to the new darkness.

Preparation:

Daggertown was one of those towns with dozens of stories describing its name. The details changed based on who told it except for simple feature of being about a dagger. Sometimes the story had a black knife, a holy blade, or some demonic curse afflicting someone wielding a dagger in some heroic sacrifice defending the town. It was no surprise the town itself resembled a thin dagger on local maps, conveniently omitting a house or barn in order to retain its dagger-like shape.  Regardless, the residents of Daggertown were happy to exaggerate tales to any travelers.

There were few visitors recently, war was boiling in the north, and the rumor persisted of loaming defeat. Soon the forces of evil would flood the hills and plains. Orcs, men, and various goblinoids were like locusts, their swarm would bury the cities of free people with violence and angry hunger.

The soldiers had already left for the grave and were dragging as many orcs and goblins down with them. The merchants long ago fled to safer lands in the south, and wizards hid in their towers. The brave soon became the dead, and the virtuous found ways to sacrifice themselves in moral fires.

Not all were so resigned to the grave quite yet. A band of adventures traveled from the south, heading to the war with new hope, new weapons. They had discovered a legend of ancient blades; swords forged in the flames of titans; weapons capable of turning the tide. One of the blades was already acquired through dangerous trials, a story repeated by one of the parties, a human bard named Quinayl, and on his side he carried a plain blade. His sword, despite its plain look was cloaked in enchantment, a veil of magic to hide its true power from the eyes of enemy spies. He was known as the Dirgeweaver, and his lute played the slow and weeping song for those fallen under this evil season.

The source of the enchantment came from another of the party, a high elf wizard named Tristan. He was young for a wizard, barely able to cast spells of the second circle. He proudly carried a sword as well, but his was enchanted to project a gleam of magic, this was however an illusion, a decoy to misdirect greedy eyes from Quinayl’s blade.

Tristan was a well-studied arcanist, and preferred the school of divination, hoping to find the location of other magics swords. His familiar Periwinkle was a ferret, and spent its time helping the high elf with tasks of scouting, and espionage. Perriwinkle was a creature of magic, and his ferret nose wiggled with sparkles of arcane energy.

In the quest of the blades, another elf joined them; Xeno Blackroot the wood elf. Xeno was a warlock, he was not well studied because his arcane abilities came from a patron, someone he called the Lady of Brambles; a creature of the deep roots of the world who had shown him how to absorb the spells of decomposing wizards. Xeno visited graveyards of famous wizards in search of arcane formulas trapped within their skulls. Xeno had spent most of his life under the roots of the great Hist tree causing his back to become crooked and twisted, adventuring caused him great exhaustion.

There was also Isadore, another wood elf, who was a druid of nature, she refused to enter towns or cities. Her awareness of weather, landscape, and the subtle wisdom of the landscape made travel easer. Isadore was loyal yet unpredictable, the like the turbulence of a storm her heart was fierce and unrelenting.

There were 2 others; Answald the sell sword, who had found himself betrayed by those who employed him. He found purpose, at least for the time being, to travel with the adventures. His sword arm and courage were welcome, and his past not questioned. Next was Zarex the Tiefling, a devil cursed creature with a penitence for priestly duties. Zarex suffered prejudice and persecution in the lands of men and elves but found tolerance and friendship with the party. His healing powers were unmatched, as was his ability to channel divine judgment.

Occasionally others joined them in their quest; a man-sized bird creature named Finder, with a habit of collecting shiny things, and Jokkal Grax a half-orc who played in a 3-piece punk band called Graxroots. He was hired in Daggertown after his band’s performance. Their sword arms helping when they could.

Daggertown was a respite from previous weeks of travel. Finder and Isadore would not travel into the town and set up camp in the high hills outside town to wait for their companions. The party needed to resupply before heading to an ancient ruin in the west called Khundrukar.  They had learned of an orc slaying blade perhaps buried in its dark depths, and the rumor matched the description of one of the ancient blades of legend. Surely such an artifact would help turn the tide of war.

On the 3^rd day of resupplying the party was ready to leave Daggertown, Of all the tales and stories of Daggertown, the comical favorite was of a single warrior defending a bridge armed with only a single knife against an entire horde of gnolls; fiendish dog-faced goblinoids who worshipped the demon Yeenoghu. 

Besides components for his arcane formulas, Tristan acquired a scroll form the 3^rd circle or magic, hoping to learn its arcane secrets through study. Answald polished his breastplate, Quinayl earned coin from his song and limericks. Zarex kept to himself, meditating in preparation for the upcoming descent into a dark ruin of orcish infestation.

Xeno however had a different kind of preparation. He found a great oak tree by the graveyard and put his ear to the dirt, whispering to the Lady of Brambles. He had a heavy weight which was not ease by rest, they had discovered a cult of Dagon in the waters of a seaside town and unearthed books of demonic knowledge. The books were at first rich in arcane understanding, filled with techniques of corruption, spiritual malignance, and great power. Xeno had used them, but the cost was starting to be too high; he did not want the books, but trusted them to no one, so he offered them to the soil; to the Lady of Brambles.

He whispered into the roots and soil of the large oak tree, and within moments the Lady’s whispers returned to him. She would impart different knowledge and draw the books down into the deep to be kept within her thorns, safe from evil eyes. In her response, knowledge poured into him, and spells of the second circle flowed into him. He was grateful to be rid of the eldritch influence, and his heart felt lighter.

Thus, the adventures set out to the ruin to the west in search of an orc-slaying blade in the darkness of a mountain ruin.

Exit Stage Left



Sometimes the only ones to see history repeating are the predators. Their longer life, their ability to hide in the tragedies of mankind, and of course; invisibility. The alligator women live for hundreds of years, or until they forget how old they are.



Eyebite had seen the past 3 plagues. They bloomed every 100 years or so, rising from the soil of neglect and blindness. Technology and society advanced without real stressors. Human consumption was small at first, but as cars and trucks, trains and planes descended from the factories, food was found everywhere, and society crawled into cracks and built up brittle peaks. Then the plague would come and knock down those peaks and wash out the cracks. It happened with such predictable frequency, Eyebite would hibernate for 20 years before the outbreak in preparation for the glut of opportunity.



2020 was no different in some ways, and very different in others. There were cameras now, and armies larger than any point in history. Factories, incinerators, shipping containers, instant communication, yet the rules of power remained the same. When control slipped, leaders tightened their grasp. There were no benevolent nations, no altruistic corporations, they would all fall into the laws of hunger, the same laws applied to Eyebite , and she didn’t need the thin skin of society to fulfill her appetite.



Wherever an outbreak happened the authorities strangled the media, limiting what they thought would result in disorder. They looked at their subjects like cattle, like insects ready to swarm. Yet for all the attempts, the crown of human authority would fail, not from lack of power, but from growing distrust. The Law of Eyes was clear: No one could see how bad the sickness would be, until everyone saw. This was the countdown, the unwinding spring; the time it took for everyone to see.



Eyebite was not human, she was an alligator woman. For those who could see her, perhaps through a distant window or from a passing car, her body resembled a scaly hag, sometimes laced in skin from molting. Her face filled with teeth creased in a smile. She ate sparingly and lived on the edges of humanity, careful to avoid cameras, or perceptive humans. If too many deaths surfaced, there would be dogs, thermal scans, and investigations she couldn’t risk being part of.



Nation after nation printed money to stop the economic hemorrhage, they propped up their markets, urging people not to panic, to stay in denial. They lied and lied and lied. The virus did not discriminate, and many world leaders fell to the plague, yet their subordinates hid the fact. They would walk upon the world stage and repeat the same lies, smudge the same facts, and twist the same words. Since denial is the first mental short circuit, many remained willing to believe all the way to the end.



Eyebite knew different, she knew the peaks were already knocked off, and the avalanche was already falling, and the rumble of volcanoes, locusts and melting glaciers would herald more waves, famine, and disorder regardless of the lies erupting from the mouths of world leaders. You cannot hide the tide, nor eat the words of optimism. It didn’t matter to Eyebite, she had a world tour planned.

First, she went to Iran, their culture prevented the burning of bodies. There would be midnight gravesites, shell games of body bags, and plenty of chances for deaths to go unnoticed. She lived in hospitals for a few weeks, preying on the sick and dying, those who would be drowning from fluid in their lungs for weeks. Eyebite wasn’t interested in mercy, it’s just that people accepted death from those about to die. When hospitals started to burn, Eyebite left for Pakistan.



Pakistan and Kashmir had another kind of plague, locusts. Billions of locusts were scouring the region of all organic matter, all plants and crops. Starvation made easy meals, people fought less, and it was not unusual for towns to be abandoned when the swarm moved through. Kashmir was already under an iron boot of the Hindu-nationalists and communications were removed from the previous year. The cloak of darkness gave Eyebite plenty of cover for her growing feast. Soon the area was empty and Eyebite moved on.



Syria was too dangerous, but Italy was ripe. Eyebite haunted the Vatican for a while, and a missing bishop here and there did not raise any alarms. Denial was easy for the Church, they had mastered it over the centuries, and coverups of corruption, abuse of power, and violations were old hats for them. She considered the Pope, but such a visible person was too risky, too many cameras on him to get close, and her invisibility had limits.



Eyebite continued her tour of feasting and the lights of the world stage flickered.



She knew the next stage would be growing unrest, growing distrust. Human beings don’t like to be lied to, and when the glamour of denial faded, they would be hungry for the blood of those responsible. The world leaders would throw them a lamb, some single leader or group of people for them to chew on. It wouldn’t last, the bloodthirst would only grow and grow.



Soon they would try and find the world leaders and bring them to justice, since justice must be made before the new order is built, Eyebite knew this and she knew where to be.



The leaders would be nowhere to be found, prime ministers, dictators, presidents, premiers, kings, queens, chiefs, and overlords. They would leave their subordinates to repeat the lies while they exited the world stage. Eyebite knew the places desperate men hid, places they thought no one would find them while the stage was soaked in blood.



Then the lights came on, and intermission was announced. The blood was wiped off, and new actors dressed in new clothes. Society shuffled back into the auditorium and waited for the next play to unfold.

Ode to Night, inspired by The Art of Poetry by Horace and the Mad Poet Alhazred:



When the Sun sets across the horizon,

When the moon growls at the scatter of constellations

When the darkness wears a heavy cloak,

Upon the shoulders of grief and shrug with indifference.

When these eyes look to the jeweled reaches of distant shores,

And touch each point with venom,

I am ready to see.



Show me the fire so I may burn,

Show me mountains so I might become an avalanche

Show me empty skies so I may stretch my wings,

Show me waters of greater darkness,

To wash away these bones,

To distant shores of abysmal dreams,

To dim Carcosa and the fever dreams for which I will never wake.



Show me thorns so I may bleed,

Show me stones to line my grave,

Show me oceans to drown the world,

Show me tears to summon storms,

And rend the Sun from its throne,

And cast its crown into the depths.

As one shadow unto another,

I pour myself into the night.



Let me return to silence,

Let me return to ash,

Let me flow back to the sea,

Let me fall as I have always fallen,

Down into the dark,

Down into the earth,

Cold beyond the touch of dawn.

Let the light diminish,

Let the blindness end,

Let me see into the eyes of night.



Toothless maw,

Eyeless face,

Swirling black,

Growing without shape,

Falling without destination,

Orbit! Orbit! See the Leviathan!

Become 1000 pieces,

Become 1000 stars,

Become 1000 candles burning half as long,

For night contains all within,

With 3000 fingers,

Stretching out its hands to me,

Until we become a fist.

Let me see,

Let me see,

Burn me!