Dark Vision

Over the winter months I self-published a physical zine called Dark Vision. It contains the 4 pieces:


Nannette, Host Body Malfunction, Happy Place, and Children of Jubliex


You can scroll down or view December 2022 for the 4 pieces.


If you are visiting my blog from a QR code from Silver Mysteries of Night, you can find the 4 poems in the September section of 2022


I have also been writing a couple of articles for another local blog professionally which can be found at these links:

What is Art?  https://b-townblog.com/2022/11/15/introducing-new-column-art-corner-which-asks-what-is-art/

For Whom the Bell Tolls: https://b-townblog.com/2022/11/21/art-corner-for-whom-the-bell-tolls-at-vision-2022/

Happy Place

For many people there is a place of desire, a paradise to imagine. They dream of warm ocean waves and a beach with sand and drinks, perhaps a tropical landscape with beautiful people and no stress. Perhaps the happy place is a memory of youth, where life was glimmering with the joys of family and the ease of a different life.


For some their happy place is remembered when times are rough, when the turbulence of the world is rocking them around. This happy place can be anything from anywhere. It would be the peaks of mountains, overlooking a small world beneath. It could be a comfortable cottage with fresh bed sheets and a cup of hot chocolate. A happy place doesn’t need to be real, just a little place in your head, some tucked away memory where the world is warm and bright.


I have a happy place, but it isn’t anywhere, or anything.


My happy place is far away, like a cave leading deep underground. A place where the darkness has no hint of light, and the depths of the cave have not been explored. My happy place is out in space, behind the stars and under the Sun, a dark ocean without waves or tides.


My happy place has no one there, no people or cars, no buildings, or roads. There are no airplanes in the sky rolling their thunder over the horizon. There are no coffee shops or small conversations. There are no deadlines, no pressure for deliverables. While this place is similar to a peaceful beach or quiet mountain top retreat, there are no people in this happy place.


There is no one to notice any details in this darkness or distinguish the outline of a cave wall. There are no eyes to see any features or fingers to feel the environment. There are no ears to hear voices, or chimes of cell phones. There are no clothes or blankets, no warmth or chill, no skin to crawl, nor bones to break. There is simply a dark and far-away feeling.


There are no dreams to decay, there is no expectation to achieve, no pleasure to feel, it is joy in absence. There is no return to a memory which fades over the years, no place to yearn for at the equator. There are no hills to climb or locations to seek out. There is no imagination required. I can go to my happy place whenever I want, there is no cognitive key, no access required, no mental space to travel, I just leave.


Sometimes I go there before I go to sleep, to help let my brain cool down from the day. I turn off the circuits in my head and empty them into this dark place. I tell my thoughts and ideas to wait for me, and that I’ll be right back, I have this errand to run at this faraway place, deep underground, or perhaps behind the veil of night where a greater darkness awaits. I tell my thoughts and ideas they can go on without me, that I’ll catch up, that I’ll find some shortcut to the problem when I get back.


There always seems to be room to forget, room to escape, and the abundance of space forces me outwards, and I fall away.


I fall from the dark and the light. I fall from the sky and the city. I fall from my bones and my breath. I fall until everything is distant and tiny. When things cannot get any smaller, or perhaps when the happy place cannot get any larger; everything disappears. The world has no voice and no motion. The Earth has no spin and travels nowhere. The Moon becomes a small dot, then dissolves into the night. The stars grow dull and diminish until there is nothing left.


I don’t know how long I stay in my happy place, there are no clocks to remind me. There is no change on the spotless horizon. I stay there for a while until the urgency of life calls me back, through some alarm clock or dim desire. I come up from the dark ocean, from deep underneath.


I return to the pain of life and the dread of death. I return to the lash and the lacerate of my heartbeat. I become animated by the movement of my body and the rush of urgency. Instinct and thought fill my head and pour out of my mouth. I can tell I am back in the Land of the Living and continue about my business. I greet all the ideas I left and remember the things I have yet to do.


Deep down in my bones I can still feel my happy place, distant and far away.

Children of Jubilex

There is a creature, deep in the Abyss, near the bottom of a dark and murky gutter. The cultists who follow this creature call the monstrance Jubilex, the lord of slimes, jellies, and oozes.


Unknown to most of the cultists, Jubilex is more than just a mountain of eyes and weeping mucus. Jubilex is a cruel shadow, made from the toxic waste of progress and technology. Every landfill, garbage bin and abandoned barrel of chemicals flows into the realm of Jubilex. Every year the creature grows larger, and occasionally spawns what might be considered an offspring.


These children take many shapes, and some take no shapes at all. Sometimes they are gelatinous cubes who hunt the caverns of subterranean worlds, feeling their way through the felspar passageways for organic material to digest. Even though they have no brain or nervous system, they exhibit a predatory intelligence capable of clever solutions. Older cubes will turn iridescent, shifting colors rapidly, and are able to communicate with jellyfish, octopi, and luminous squid.


There are also offspring who appear human. They have a large variety of features, and rarely keep the same face for long. They are indistinguishable from human beings unless cut. Rather than blood, a clear slime flows from their wounds. This slime will poison those who smell or touch the mucus.


Within recent history a lady named Gloria Ramirez stubbled into a hospital in a sublime confusion. She was dying from cervical cancer. However, the staff soon noticed a toxic presence when they took blood samples. They began to suffer from the lethal vapors of her body. Before she died, 23 people were hospitalized with respiratory conditions. This occurred on February 19, 1994.


Occasionally the children of Jubilex are born with spiteful intelligence, fully aware of their parentage. They are filled with vorpal malice, they will wear the shapes of demons, devils, or creatures covered in sores and wounds. They will cut themselves and weep upon the earth, scouring it with their putrid blood.

Some take the form of shadows, bleak and long with the despair of the future. They cast their spite over the pillars of society, pulling the walls of civilization down. They gnaw and eat at the foundations of existence, pulling the world back into darkness.


The variety of the children of Jubilex has never been completely categorized and there are many kinds of slime and shadow unseen by human eyes. However, those who tend and nurture the growth of these creatures are usually human; the cultists of Jubilex.


Jubilex’s human followers have found a way to sense the mind of the slime lord, and in their madness proclaimed the intentions of the great abysmal shadow. In the depths of dark dreams and hot nightmares, deep where the living can see the darkness beyond, the message can be clearly heard.


Jubilex strives for a single purpose; to undo creation, to unravel existence, to kill all things, without regrowth or rebirth. To Jubilex, the children, and the cultists, existence itself is a wound in the heart of silence. Even without a conscious mind, the slimes and oozes gather to crawl over the sky, dissolving the holy light, striving to eat the stars in a banquet of decay.


One of these great oozes is a siliceous ooze created 538 million years ago by the Radiolarians and Diatoms. The great siliceous ooze lives on the bottom of the ocean eating the remains of creatures who float down to the bottom, dissolving them. They are assisted by shrimp, crabs, worms, and other bottom feeders. The ooze looks up from the dark waters, knowing the light burns in the sky above.


Each year the children of Jubilex gather for a feast, bringing the remains of the most delicate meals to share with the demon lord. They offer the wings of angels, the feet of rabbits, the horns of unicorns, the feathers of falcons, the broken eyes of the hopeful, the stones of temples, the seeds of extinction, ashes of ruin, the tears of betrayal, the hidden graves of saints, rusted barrels of radioactive waste, anything fallen from the pillars of existence. Every failure is celebrated, every tragedy praised, every grief is thrown upon the table for consumption.


Jubilex eats them all, and the eyes upon its skin begin to weep.

Host Body Malfunction

Having a host body takes a little explanation when meeting new people. Sometimes I meet them, and the next day I look completely different, although it’s still me on the inside. I remember all the details, and my personality is intact, my mannerisms, even little pauses in my speech.



I can feel the host body underneath, they are stuck in a dream. They can feel hunger, fear, excitement, heat, cold, anything in the realm of reflexes. If the body is attracted to someone, I can feel the reaction. If the body is reminded of death, or feels threatened, I can feel it deep in my bones, underneath.



I am still in control of course. I can make decisions about everything, but the host body can’t be ignored. If they get too hungry, they become harder to suppress. They will lash out from underneath their nightmare, they will crave, desire, burn with urgency. This makes control more difficult.



Typically, I can keep the host body stable and satisfied. It slumbers sweetly, unaware of the choices I am making. The host body can’t see through my eyes, it can’t conceive the sounds I hear, or understand the words I say. I don’t usually have access it the host body’s memories. I could probably go digging around, but the terror of such an invasion is more trouble than its worth. I find the smoothest ride is a gentle diet of good food and plenty of sleep.



Sometimes the host body has a malfunction.



They can develop an illness, or a mortal disease. The body will begin to shut down, and pain grows like a swell of tears. Their mind begins to unravel, lashing out in confusion. This can cause many problems with maintaining control. Speech will be interrupted, and sleep will be increasingly difficult.



When a host body begins to malfunction, there are a few techniques which can help. The first is to simple snuff out the host body’s mind. This can be done by directly sharing thoughts with them. They will drown in a nightmare and never wake up. This means I must rely on direct observation of physical problems rather than listening to the under currents.



If the malfunction is temporary, it can be easier to indulge in hedonistic pleasure instead, making the decay process easier for the host. Take them on a long vacation to a warm place with lots of food and comfortable beds. After the malfunction is fixed, I return to my typical habits.



If the host body is beyond repair, then it's time to find a new host.

Finding a new body has its own set of issues. The biggest problem is finding a body without too many people nearby, not physical proximity, but emotional bonds. If they have too many people in their lives like partners, children, close friends, they can tell the difference right away. A child can sense the physical mannerisms easily and loved ones can tell when I’m faking my way through conversations.



An isolated person works best. They will have fewer people to notice. I try to keep an eye on 2-3 replacement host bodies. I’ll wait for a good time, like a traumatic event, or an expected change, like a divorce or car accident. People in their lives accept whatever changes they express as part of processing their experience. Meanwhile I begin to gather my resources again and continue my own interests.



I tell people I use host bodies, it's no secret. Most say they believe me, although people believe whatever those nearby believe. They believe in Santa Claus, God, Karma, Astrology, Justice, even the strength of family. So, I don’t take their belief seriously, they can’t help themselves.

Nannette

There was once a little girl named Nannette, born in a small rural town. Her parents had a large house converted from an old barn. The house was added to, augmented, and given many rooms. Her parents considered it a mansion. Nannette was born with a full head of thick black hair. Her parents never brushed her hair, which covered her face in a tangled mess.


Her parents neglected Nannette. Their tragic preoccupation with themselves meant Nannette was left to her own imagination. Neither of her parents checked under the bed for monsters, or in her closest. They put in a night light, but never said good night, they commanded her to go to her room and go to sleep.


They had more important things to do.


Nannette learned very early that she could get her parent’s attention by misbehaving. She would break a glass cup or a plate, and they would scold her and send her to her room. She would scratch the table, or knock a vase of flowers over, inciting the anger of her parents.


They called her a little monster, a bad girl. Predictably they sent her to her room and said she couldn’t come out until they called for her. Nannette knew they rarely checked her room, and would hide somewhere else in the house, often near the kitchen She would listen to their complaints and frustrations of her parents as they discussed adult things she didn’t understand.


Nannette was never called back downstairs; her parents were happy she was gone. They would leave food on the table, knowing she would eventually come out of her room. After all she was a bad girl and wouldn’t stay in her room.


Then she got old enough for school. She wasn’t very good at making friends or following rules. She broke the rules to get attention from the teacher. Her interactions with the other students were equally negative. She would bite them or steal their toys when they weren’t looking. Her favorite thing to do was break toys, which caused all sorts of crying.


This escalated over the years until she reached puberty and fights with kids got more serious. Her hair grew all over her body, covering her arms and legs. She even grew hair on her cheeks. Her teeth were crooked, and her spine bent. She was called a freak, a monster, even a demon. Then a bloody fight with a classmate got her expelled, and she was sent to another school.

Nannette by this point in her life was taller and stronger than anyone in her class. The new school was full of other children who were expelled. For the first time Nannette started to empathize with others, they too had issues, they held their heads down and walked the same way she did.


This new school opened Nannette’s mind. She started to learn about math and history, and most of all, books. She loved books, and reading books took her somewhere else. She could read them for hours after being sent to her room.


Books and reading provided an escape from the real world. She enjoyed books about werewolves the most, empathizing with the hairy creatures. She liked the fairytale called Rapunzel, where a princesses had hair so long, she could escape a tall tower. She also liked the mythical figure of a Medusa, whose hair was a nest of snakes, and whose gaze could turn people into stone.



Near the end of high school her parents died in a car accident. There was no funeral. Nannette was told the house was being sold and a social worker would be finding place for her to live. There was no family on record for her to go live with. Nannette didn’t want to leave her home, so she hid in her room, and stopped going to school. When the social worker came around, she didn’t answer the door. When a locksmith was called and the house searched, Nannette hit in her secret places inside the walls. She thought of herself as Medusa in her cave, or a werewolf being hunted. She fled to her tall tower and locked the doors.


There was a search in the neighborhood, there was a missing person’s report, and there was an apathetic investigation by police. They found nothing, and the house was sold by the bank. The sprawling rural mansion never got purchased by anyone. Over time urban legends sprung up about a werewolf living in the mansion and howling during a full moon.


Then one day a film crew came to the mansion with a psychic. They were investigating the haunted mansion, in pursuit of the rumors. They brought cameras and recording equipment. The psychic was brought to communicate with any angry ghosts who lived in the house. Nannette disliked the intruders and broke their equipment and left little notes to terrify the psychic. She left pieces of paper with the words like “demon”, “monster”, and “Nannette”.


Then one night, the psychic called out the name Nannette, calling her to come down from her room to talk to the camera. They wanted to know all about her. Nannette came down, dressed in clean clothes, and brushed hair. Since she was called by name, she was a good girl and talked with the film crew. She told them all about her school and her parents. She talked about being a werewolf and running through the fields at night under the full moon when people could see her. Nannette had never had so much positive attention. She decided to brush her hair every day thereafter. -The End

While You Looked Away

  

When the light shined at night,

The fire moon caught our eyes,

And skeletons danced around,

Fiery flame made of glitter,

Moon dancers bent their backs,

Swinging from the stars,

Leftover ice cream melted on the street.

 

In the path of light and laughter,

There was a pile of nachos,

Free, dismembered chips for anyone,

I wasn’t brave enough.

 

Cement sour cream,

Silver salsa painted on the walls,

Chalk revealed a 1-armed dragon,

We left our shapes behind,

Blurry after the rain.

 

When we crossed the road,

Someone was already there,

Sleeping on their bike,

Bent over, dim, barely there,

They didn’t respond, they didn’t drive,

The night had flowed into their head,

Deep oblivion from the bottle,

With a little appetizer.

  

The main course would be later,

When the midnight hour struck,

No more lights, or glowing oasis,

No free nachos,

No extra beds for restless dreamers,

There was only darkness,

The parking lot was filled with glow sticks,

Empty plastic lanterns,

Sleeping off the chemical reactions.

 

In the morning it was all swept up,

Real light shined on the crooked clock,

Straightening out the time,

Many hands pointing out the trash,

Placed in bags, packaged for the trip,

To a mountain of celebration,

Where rot rarely visits,

Adding up year after year,

Battery powered belligerence,

Avoiding the decay.

 

The bike is still there,

The rider is still looking for a meal,

Hungry for the breakdown.

 

See you next year for rehearsal,

When the blaze will come,

Plastic hearts will split,

They will bleed their neon unto the streets,

Where skeletons stand up and walk around,

Dancing with their feet,

Upon the dirty ground.

Glow In the Dark Skeletons

 

Memory lights us up from the inside,

Our bones remember a different time,

Poolside, in a sea of people,

Walking in a line.

 

When the fire moon comes out,

We grab our bones and plug them in,

Charge those moonlight batteries,

Time to walk around.

 

From the corner, from the wall,

There comes a different sound,

Skeletons dressed in sequins and sparkling pants,

Some have wings and wear faces,

Some are old from different places,

Some roll by in metal chairs,

Some have never seen,

Neon colored hair.

 

Our bones are dancing down the street,

Or was it in a forest?

The night was filled with laughing trees,

Wires on the roots, hoping no one sees.

Danse Macabre on the run,

Pleasant time for everyone.

 

 

Nostalgia is an evil thing,

Blunted with no eyes to see,

Memory shining from our hearts,

What will be, is all there is,

We each will play a part.

 

Next year will bring another night,

Full of fertile darkness,

Ready for new twilight,

Lacing up those electric boots.

 

Here is the stage of flowers,

Here is the mystery of the night,

Broken day, come what may,

Glowing neon sight,

Waving fingertips at the sky.

 

Only bones can hear the words,

No flesh to wear, no silent tears,

Only sockets where our eyes once were,

Empty of all our fears,

Ready to begin,

Brilliant bones, no time for skin,

For now we disappear,

Unearthed same time next year.

Neon Zebra Eyes

The word was taller than me,

Inspired, it said looking back with strange colors,

Made of light, and shining out,

In the middle, a letter stood,

A zebra with green glowing eyes,

Doing the best it could.

 

The wildfire moon was all around,

A portal to a living town,

Where the alleys danced in time,

Projected from a silver line,

Electric cables dressed to nines,

Overstimulated little minds.

 

Cameras were the many eyes,

Through captured sights and sounds did flow,

Black and white, and swirling shapes,

A spectacular surprise,

To seed the thoughts of those in sleep,

To offer night and dreaming deep,

Born to night and neon grow,

New memories to fill our eyes.

 

After walking through the sights,

I overlooked a hill,

Chapped lips and stinging eyes,

I saw a waterfall of light,

I would have had my fill, but water was not there,

A cascade of teal and blue, a mechanical disguise,

And silver falling hair.

 

Mirages were seen in every place,

From corner to the street,

Even passing cars, slowing down from haste,

A few were decorated between their lines,

For all those passing feet.

 

Besides the neon zebra from the wild,

I found a squid, and many smiles,

Dogs in harnesses of light,

They were quite polite,

For nature gave them all the colors,

Of varieties’ delight.

 

Of all the sights of glowing night,

There is one I’d like to share,

For when I left the disco ball,

Returning to my home,

My dear cat was waiting there,

With the brightest eyes of all.

Under the Moon

 On a hazy summer night, when the day was laid to rest,

A harvest moon rose in the sky,

The light was there, upon request,

To fill our night with splendor.

 

A crooked clock said to look both ways,

As people watched amazed.

Street side constellations,

Brilliant battery boons,

Rainbow wings, little candles,

Glittering glowstick sandals,

Under a fire moon.

 

Dread lock dog, lit up frog,

Look out for hanging flowers,

A centaur on the sidewalk,

Neon words spilled out in chalk,

To remind us of the power.

 

Several unicorns walked the path,

Glass spirals, sparkling crafts,  

Cameras captured elusive fauns,

Roses, petals, glowing bright,

Plastic swords play and fight,

Wheelchair interviews moving on.

 

At the corner the moon dancers gathered

Where the ghosts are laid to rest,

Drive by beauty, we all meandered.

 

They cast their tinsel streamers,

The full moon wore glasses,

We watched like wide eyed dreamers,

Children could not interrupt; their cries were added to the masses.

 

Swirling laser theatre, projected on the walls,

From empty to the crescent, the moon was flowing down,

Laughing earing disco balls, bubbles on the ground,

Purple hats and silent spin, a vision to behold,

The dancers finished when the violins, did as they were told.

 

There was more beyond, and other sights,

A paper tiger crossed the street,

Perhaps it was a dragon.

Old friends embrace and smiles meet,

An illuminated wagon, full of memories and treats.

 

A mushroom bike shined through the night,

Making way for wizards,

Magic filled the air in friendly light,

Until we all had swooned,

Gracious for our passing time,

Under a harvest moon.

The Silver Mysteries of Night:

When the midnight hour rose into the sky,

Stars illuminated the restless eye,

We walked in the darkness of the streets,

Listening to the silence and the rhythm of our feet.

 

In the distance, across the galaxy of our town,

A lamp post turned to us, looking down,

A strange light with open arms,

The words were written in alarm,

Flowing from glittering pages,

The silver words of sages,

For a moment, our heart’s took flight,

Lost in mysteries of the night.

*************

If you found these words behind the glass, 

If you found these words, they will not last,

Throughout the Month of September,

New poetry will be posted to remember,

Arts A Glow and brilliant night,

Inspired by the sight,

Of mystery and magic,

And those words most tragic,

When dawn threatens to appear,

And fleeting darkness disappears. 

*************

Link for the Arts A glow Event: HOME | Arts-A-Glow (artsaglow.art)

Poetry throughout the month will be posted on this blog, inspired by the event. 

Visionary and instillation by: Amber Raven (@silver_amber_raven) • Instagram photos and videos 

Poet: @archmonoth • Instagram photos and videos (me)

Appetizers

With another upcoming self-publication, the last entries have been removed. They are being edited, reworked, altered and formatted for consumption. If you have enjoyed my writing, please explore the links on this blog and consider purchasing the refined versions of my poetry and short stories. 

The darkness flows in all directions, filling every corner,
Break and crack the pages, tears flow from the mourner,
Cry and wail, the skull is frail, 
Burning in the sky.

The new self-publication is called Cosmic Cuisine, A collection of poetry, short stories, and illustrations. Covering a range of topics and perspectives around space, changing times, and progress. There is an illustration accompanying each piece of poetry and short story. Whether you are retreating from the grim meat hooks of the wider world, or lost in the distant light of stars, this collection holds delectable meals for those who hunger for more than food.

There are stories about magical cloud castles, animals in the afterlife, aliens with unusual appetites, and their preferences of seasonings. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy this delicious collection of dreamtime deserts.

Link: Cosmic Cuisine: Street, Raymond: 9798841273189: Amazon.com: Books

The Golden Mirror

King Midas became a ruler by his own hand. He did not inherit his power through blood or family. He was not a conqueror or a warlord. He despised violence and bloodshed. He ruled with a magical ability in his touch.

 

There was much rumor and suspicion as to how King Midas acquired his power. Some thought he was a great sorcerer, practiced in arcane arts. Some suspected he made a bargain with a demon, through dark currents of necromancy. Some said he freed a genie, or a dragon and with his wish he made a clever request, granting him magical powers.

 

King Midas could turn anything he touched to gold. This only occurred when he wanted to, and sometimes at great expense of his physical energy. Little objects were easy to change into gold, and large solid objects could cause him to fall ill for days before recovering.

 

King Midas ruled through money, he ruled through the threat of destabilizing nearby kingdoms. A flush of gold could cause hysteria, war, and unrest. He balanced his power carefully, keeping the scarcity of gold within his control.

 

This didn’t stop him from being surrounded by gold. He had gold robes, gold forks and knives, gold hats and shoes. He had a golden throne, a golden bed, even a golden table to impress guests. Gold was displayed and opulent in his palace. He often thought of making his entire palace into gold, but the risk of death or coma was too great.

 

People would come from the edges of the world to ask King Midas for his touch, to grant them riches in their times of need. They would beg for him to turn an object into gold so they could overcome their problems with currency. King Midas would grant those he deemed worthy with a single flower turned to gold.

 

King Midas tried to rule justly, giving golden flowers to those who wanted to help the poor and hungry.

 

He also had had a great hall for which he brought visitors, guests, and ambassadors. This hall was filled with a great golden mirror. The frame of this mirror was like a large mouth, and golden teeth surrounded the edge. The mirror was a foggy black glass twice the size of a person.

 

The monstrous mirror had a magic which only King Midas understood. Anyone who gazed into the mirror would see themselves, in some unknown place being attacked or tortured by demons. They would see themselves panicked, afraid and then the version of themselves in the mirror would run from the mirror and into the landscape beyond.

 

Sometimes the landscape was filled with smoke and ash, desolate and hot, and waves of scorching fire surrounded the scene. Then a horned creature would enter, chase the image of the watcher, and corner them, poking them with hot irons or grabbing them and throwing them inside a brass bull or iron pot.

 

Only the viewer could see the hellscape and hear their own cries.

 

There was an icy landscape, and a swampy marsh. There was an oubliette of smothering silence, there was an avalanche which would bury the image of the watcher. There were also scenes where perhaps a trusted friend would poison them or betray them with a dagger in the back.

 

The scene would end, and the cloudy glass would return to its dull reflective state, surrounded by the golden mouth. The watcher would be relieved that such an image wasn’t real.

 

No harm would come to the watcher, and some considered the experience prophetic. They would change their ways, abandoning the pursuit of power, or renounce some great crime which had burden them. The chance to gaze into the golden mirror was rare and the retelling of the experience would draw great crowds.

 

King Midas ruled many years trying to balance his golden touch with the needs of his people.

 

Then one day a visitor came from a distant land. They wore strange clothes made of silver threads, and long black gloves. They claimed to have a similar touch to King Midas and could turn anything to silver.

 

King Midas welcomed the visitor and asked for a display of their silver touch. The strange visitor said they would not until they could gaze upon the legendary golden mirror. The stories of the mirror reached to the most distant places of the world, and such a vision was prized more than any silver or gold.

 

The King obliged them and showed them to the great hall with the monstrous golden mirror.

The stranger gazed at the mirror, deep into the swirling clouds of dark glass. The image of the stranger appeared and soon they were surrounded by demons with iron hooks, ready to restrain them. As the demons approached and the scene began to unfold, the stranger removed their gloves and touched the golden mirror.

 

The golden mirror cracked with a white lightning bolt, and the image disappeared.

 

The gold frame turned to flesh and the mouth surrounding the mirror growled. The mirror became animated and pounced from its place on the wall. The mouth of the mirror demon fell on King Midas, consuming him, swallowing him in a single gulp. The stranger backed away slowly.

 

The mirror demon howled and clawed at its throat, as King Midas attempted to turn the creature back into a gold from within. The stranger then rushed to the demon, placing their hand on the creature, preventing them from turning back into gold. Within a moment the cries of demon were replaced with the purrs of a content creature, satisfied with their meal.

 

The stranger and the mirror demon walked from the palace, and everywhere the stranger touched they undid the gold that Midas made, returning the objects to their original construction. The throne returned to a rotted wood, the bed to a decaying pile, and the riches of Midas to a heap of trash.

 

The stranger in the silver robes and the mirror demon were not seen again.