Vacuum Coffin

For those who are visiting my blog: There is a side bar of links for self-published books for consideration which might not be viewable on certain mobile devices. Many of my posts on this blog are first drafts, raw and unedited or refined. If you enjoy the posts and the content, I encourage you to check out some of the collections with all the refinement and editing process. Also, I may delete stories and posts from time to time depending on the requirements of publishing.


I have also been writing articles for a local blog which broadcast to the local area. These articles are about experiences or concepts in the art world I am part of. Here is the Art Corner on the B-Town Blog

 You searched for art corner - The B-Town (Burien) Blog (b-townblog.com)


Also, I love email exchange, so please email me. I am happy to mail books directly to you with a signature, let me know at my email here: d20raymond@gmail.com 


So here are my links: 

Neon Rodeo

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08QBY9HT7

A collection created during COVID

Food for Thoth

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087FGB1PC

A collection of zines from 2019-2020 with a foreword by Amberraven

The Crystal Sun

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1695403401

A single-story novella about a far future crisis. 

Creature Comforts

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1098773055

My most popular seller, featuring an amazing collection of surreal sci-fi. 

Fluffy Stuffing v17

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1792694857

A coffee table companion for those cozy nights.

Back to the Beginning

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1728620813

A collection of flash fiction from my earlier years, contains 65 stories, which is more than any other collection.

Tombs and Towers

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1986845427

A slow boiled collection of stories from 2018

The Void is Bright

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1983693472

A high fantasy collection of gnomes and shadows. 

Vision Thing

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1720867429

A novella featuring a hunter who witnesses the firsthand transition between the bronze and iron age. 

Plutonium Television

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1979800324

My first published collection, with all the radioactive fireballs included.

Terrible Parables

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0974H8CYN?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

A collection of artwork and poetry of the natural world. 

Dreams of the Dragon

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09KNGG6LK?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

A deluxe hardback collection of artwork, poetry and stories. 

Cosmic Cuisine

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B86SKB4J?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

This is the main course of literary enjoyment. A premium selection of poetry, essay, and stories. 

I am currently working on something with will be released in parts/pieces, so stay tuned for more artwork and written work! 

Path of Petals

Besides my typical poetry, short stories and essays, I also write articles for art events and reviews. Here is a recent article on a most amazing day.


Here is the original link: Art Corner: Normandy Park’s Music in the Park 2023 Finalé had a 'Path of Petals' - The B-Town (Burien) Blog (b-townblog.com)


Many cities host a Music in the Park series; providing space for free concerts and theatre groups. Normandy Park is a small City between Burien and Des Moines, with space for music located in a place called Marvista Park. Here is an account from my experience of the final concert of the series, which I think is a particular noteworthy event.


On Sundays in July and August at 5:pm people come with foldout chairs and find a location in the shade provided by the trees and listen to different bands. There is a Gazebo where most musicians set up, dedicated to the late Art Commissioner Zen McManigal who started and supported the Music in the Park series for 20+ years.


Each one of the bands this season were fantastic, offering their variety and style to the lineup. However, this year Normandy Park did something different for the last show which was August 27th. This Finale was a concert, but with something extra, something more than a performance. This event was about participation, improvisation, and the artistic capacity we all share.


Thie Finale featured 2 bands and an art performance group called Botanical Alchemists. Rather than the usual 5:00pm start time, this event started 2 hours earlier at 3:00pm. They brought an abundance of flowers from flower shops, river rocks, and their colorful magic from Spokane.


You can also see more work by the Botanical Alchemists here on their Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/the.botanical.alchemists/


Rocks were laid out to form a heart with mountains, a river, and a Sun. I was a volunteer for the pre-set up, so I had the privilege of setting the stones for the foundation. Buckets of flowers were organized by color and style, and little containers were prepared for people to find their own materials. The first part of this unique art experience was to find a couple of sticks, feathers, rocks, or anything within Marvista Park. Then everyone would create and decorate their own little art piece, expressing shapes or designs they wanted. Then after the solo creation, we would all come together and place colors and pieces in the larger design.


The set up took a couple of hours, and at 3:00pm the Botanical Alchemists placed a path of petals in the park leading to a dedicated place by the community pea patch. Also, at 3:00PM the first musician was set up and ready to perform. Some of the designs created were lizards, mermaids, mountains made of bark, a chicken made of pinecones, and designs of carefully placed intentions. Then at 4:00pm, while Marina shared more of her music, the group design outlined in stones was placed, and petals filled shapes of the river, mountains, and sunbeams, forming a heart.


The artist was Marina Albero playing a hammered dulcimer with a guitar companion. Marina is self-taught on the hammered dulcimer, played the most exquisite set of improvised songs. Her style seemed to be heavily influenced by Spanish guitar and jazz. Typically, she plays piano, but today she provided a special treat. While children and families were improvising their art pieces with flowers, Marina’s music filled the air with an enchanting mood. Marina ended her set with a song containing the message “Music is Love”, which seemed to be the vibe of the hour.


You can visit the Normandy Park Art Commission Facebook page for more pictures of Marina’s performances and the creations of the participants of the event. https://www.facebook.com/NPArtsCommission/


Marina Albero’s Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marinalbero


At 4:30PM there was a break, and everyone toured the signed on the grass, shadowed by the trees. I walked around and took pictures, made a small piece of artwork myself. I used some painted rocks and flower petals to make a radial design. Besides Zen’s memorial at the park, there is also a memorial bench for pets who have crossed over the Rainbow bridge. Behind the bench there were cable wires with pet tags of furry friends.


The next musician prepared their set, and people took a refreshing moment to enjoy ice cream from Ice Cream Express, and free coffee and water provided by FONP (Friends of Normandy Park).



Then Eric Ode took the stage at 5:00pm. Eric is an author, poet, singer and song writer, and his songs included the participation of children in the audience. He sang about possums, sharks, and the daily routines of a rooster as children jumped, sang, and had a great time.


Eric Ode Website. https://www.ericode.com/about


One child who participated in the flower art and sang songs said “This is the best day ever!”

The Diary of a Demonologist

Here lies the dangerous confession of my journey into the inquiry of a demon. I am hesitant to put down my findings in text, for even their very distinction could prove to be an avenue for future corruption. First let me start at the beginning, which starts with an obsession of myth and legend.



When I was young, every story of ghouls and demons intrigued me. I soaked my mind in any book of fantasy, religion, myth, and especially gravitated towards vampires and monsters of fairytales. My interest continued into adulthood, and I then sought out the text and manuscripts of these tales. I visited libraries, temples, and pursued any shred of strange occurrences. I wanted to witness a truly supernatural event, some proof of their existence beyond the pages of myth. I stayed the night at haunted houses, attended religious rites, even visited the castles of Vlad the Impaler and the infamous Countess Bathory, who was rumored to bathe in the blood of virgins.



Why virgins? Why did creatures require virgins? Was it innocence, hoping to inflict an unforgettable trauma? Was it the purity of passing on genetics, a remnant of hereditary rulership? Or was blood something more, some source of life? Regardless, visiting these places showed me something more, something which has since afflicted me with doubtless terror.



I found something, a signature in the bowels of both the castles of Vlad the Impaler and the Countess. Although separated by hundreds of years, the sigil was found at both places. The symbol was carved into the stone foundation, a Latin name, comprised of 2 words.



In both places the words Vex Obernoth were etched. The letters overlapped, becoming a single letter or symbol.



I looked for a reference anywhere in my books and resources. I found nothing in my own, but I did find a reference in the 1st edition of Dante’s Inferno. A demon who lived on the outskirts of the City of Dis, a location near the center of hell. This demon would usher the most vile and corrupted souls past the city gates and deeper into the infernal pit. I found the mention only once, but I had a trail to follow.



For years I searched, and a few crumbs led me to ancient rulers. I found the sigil of Vex Obernoth in the ruins of the library of Ashurbanipal. This tyrannical ruler was obsessed with collecting ancient texts in the hopes of finding immortality. I found the sigil in 2 of the great pyramids, thousands of years before Dante’s Inferno was written. The unnamed tombs had their names scratched off. From the hieroglyphs there was mention of eternal life, a contract with the demon Vex, a great serpent of the sky.



I took photos and rubbings of these findings; I collected as much as I could on my own. Then with access to the internet and its ghostly immortality, I found others had also done rubbings of artifacts. I found a rubbing of the Holy Grail, and on its side, I saw the distinct sigil of Vex. This is when is started to put the pieces together.



The common theme was immortality, and eternal life. With the Grail, the knights were successful and whatever terrors or justifications of their quest, was quietly omitted from the pages of history. Whereas with Ashurbanipal, Vlad, and the Countess, their crimes were all which remained of their immortality attempts. So, I surmised the demon would tempt rulers with eternal life and the price of some great evil or cost.



Then I investigated the biggest story of eternal life; Christianity. I was able to visit the Vatican in Rome and see some of the letters which were the foundation for the New Testament. I discovered of the 26 included letters, 13 were written by the Apostle Paul, and the book of Revelation was written by John. I found the sigil of Vex Obernoth on 3 of Paul’s letters, and 1 on manuscript of Revelations. Such a connection was unmistakable. I recorded my findings, but besides the sigils, I had no further details about Vex Obernoth.



Then as luck would have it, I was at a family gathering, and my sister suggested her piano might be haunted. I found the sigil of Vex hidden within and asked to borrow the piano. Later, when I played the piano, in the hopes some inspiration or knowledge would occur to me. A swirl of black miasma flowed from it, and a fiendish voice spoke from behind the cloud. I listened in paralyzed silence.



“I will give you eternal life mortal, in exchange for the blood of your family. Kill them and live until time itself disappears. What is my low price compared to an eternal reward?”



I awoke in a fever, without the memory of going to sleep. I can still feel the demon nearby, and when no one else is in my home, I can hear 2 notes played on the piano, a reminder of the infernal contract awaiting me. I won’t deny it’s temptation; to live to see the modern world play out, to see what happens in 500 years, or 1000. To see how history moves, naked without the blur of secondhand experience. I am not a killer, nor will I be the demon’s victim, but the illicit magic of such a wonderous thing consumes and enthralls me. I feel like I am a part of an ancient and endless legacy. I feel like Dante, visiting the locations of Hell, an awestruck tourist of corruption.



So here is my dilemma, do I take such knowledge to the grave, or to publish these findings? If I tell others, they might take up the demon on their transaction. They might invoke the sigil and through great evil acts justify the promise of eternal life. Yet even thinking these thoughts, my mind is drawn towards the age of my family, and how easy they might step into death as they enter old age. I feel like a worm, dangling on a hook for some great monstrance to consume.

Death Traps of Unusual Size

There are many things worse than death; slavery, anguish, grief, pain, all sorts of human conditions when in sufficient intensity, are better left for the grave. However, choice is slippery, and not always an easy to push red button. Anguish and grief for example, can build up, or crush slowly, hiding the button behind blurry tears and anxious nightmares.


As with any Death Trap, the trap is sprung at the last moment. A Death Trap could be a mine with terrible support beams, ready to fall and bury you in the dark. Or perhaps surrounded by flammable materials with no fire escape. Perhaps your work demands you risk your life to venture into the trap, and perhaps the thrill of exploring a cave beckons you into the cracks of adventure.


However, there is a single trap which has quite a strange shape. Resembling a gigantic rat trap; there is a piece of cheese at its center. This cheese can be opioids, money, control, or even simply the fulfillment of hunger. This cheese can take many other shapes, and vaguely resembles pleasure itself. There is a nearly universal draw towards the bait. This is because the smell of cheese is programmed into human beings in the form of instinct. The instinct is wholesome, its pleasure, it’s safety and security, its comfort, it’s all the happy chemicals in the brain which tell you everything is going to be ok. It’s a soothing cheese; bringing stillness to the crisis and emergency of life.


The cheese is constantly being prepared and packaged for consumption. There are new flavors invented every year in countless varieties and colors. There are fluffy green cheeses and cheap knock-off cheeses, fancy pants cheeses and cheeses made of lethal ammunition. There are cheeses made from oil, alcohol, hope, all sorts of mundane madness paraded around and consumed for whoever would try them.


Regardless of the cheese’s nebulas construction, the most important feature of any trap is the creature it seeks to contain. The human creature is not made of flesh and bone and does not share a single head. The blood of the human being is made of money; a super-conductive material used for commerce. Their heads are constantly sprouting from their body, like little flowers from the concrete garden of super-malls. Their mouths are even more numerous, consuming any cheese they can find. Occasionally they pause to recite a poem, story, or song, expressing the horror of some experience. Their hands and feet are blistered and burned from the great hunger of existence. Their back is bent and curved over the mountains of their waste, made of plastic towers, and radioactive pits seeping into their water sources. Their body survives on poison and pollution, like the necrotic breath of a sweet dream. The bones and skin of the human creature are a twitching pile of terror, full of fertile secrets, guilt, and cancerous self-reflection. This is why the cheese must be so glamourous and wholesome, to distract the creature, to relieve the human being from their misery and strife.


Getting human creatures to eat the cheese is relatively easy. They are constantly looking for a new cheese, a balm against the reality of their hunger and their position in the trash-filled universe. However, tolerance increases quickly so then a new cheese must be found.


Springing the trap is the hardest part. This is because the physical dimensions of the trap are difficult to see at first. The trap might cause genetic damage, like from lead poisoning or pollution, but as soon as the descent into extinction begins, the human creature wiggles out and seeks a new cheese. Drugs are great traps, but too obvious for every head of the human creature to fall into.


In the past the most potent trap to close the circle of life has been success. Nature spreads her arms and legs, elongating to form a net, seeking the sweetest variety of cheese, some exotic creature never before imagined. Once the chosen creature emerges, all other traps are sprung. For example, during the early Triassic period (about 200 million years ago) a small creature measuring 1 meter in length called the Lystrosaurus represented 95% of land vertebrates on Pangea. With their success and procreation, bacteria within their stomachs also grew. This bacterium emitted methane and was so abundant a global extinction occurred. Methane drove up the global temperature and 35% of all life on the planet died.


This is a single example of how the trap of success closes in around a creature.


Humans are likewise successful, and intelligent in their own way. They found ways to harness energy from petroleum and could increase their food production to match their population rate. This success was built on technology, logistics, and the virtue of efficiency, a virtue forever driving the progress of evolution.


This is how money became their blood, their hands became cars burning on the highways, and metal wings grew from their back in the shape of jet engines. Their eyes became cameras, their brains were augmented with libraries, computers, and machines of immense computational power. No longer limited by the crude biology of flesh and bone, they were free to populate their heads and bodies as much as the machines could progress. This journey of transformation is well documented as the industrial revolution. Humans grew in population from 0.6 billion in 1700 to 8 billion by 2023.


Success has built a gigantic trap all around the human creature, and there is no certainty the cheese will retain its sweet delight. Once the hunger for cheese stops, once the capitalistic death boner becomes flaccid, the trap will spring, and the teeth of success will pierce the bubble of glory. Perhaps the desire for cheese of any kind will become mundane, and courting extinction will be the only thrill, driven by the moral relief of suicide.

For now, the cheese continues to sparkle in wholesome glory, and the trap grows larger each day.       

Ear Worms

I woke up with half a conversation in my head. Who was I arguing with? The words fled with the light of day. I had a gig tonight, it was a 15-minute set, but it was still a gig. We were going to play at a skating rink. They set up an island on the floor for the amps and mics. We were 1 of 7 bands playing that night.

The morning was coffee, cold leftovers, and scrolling down longer than I wanted. I should have been practicing, but habits are hard to break. I started to get ready in the afternoon, then met the crew at my buddy’s house. We all crammed into the back of his van with our gear. The drive was a little nauseating in the back with no windows and a full load of chattering unsecured electronics.


We arrived 45 mins before our set, grabbed a beer and listened to a couple of other bands. When our time came, we set up quickly, played our 3 best songs. People skated around us, which was a little unnerving at first. There were maybe 30 people skating.



After the set, we got our pay, which was meager. We needed a hundred of these small gigs before we could consider quitting our day jobs. This small gig just made us all anxious and irritated. We promised to practice more, maybe come up with new material. Lots of promises! However, even a small gig is a gig and I had something to tell people when they asked me what I am up to.



Even a part time rock star has dreams.



Then I had a life changing dream. I fell asleep as I usually do; anxious about money, life, what to do with myself. Then the dream rolled in, like the clouds of a heavy rainstorm, full of a wet and smothering darkness. I dreamed of a red theatre, with curtains from ceiling to the floor. The red was almost neon, radiating with a squirming light. I saw an audience from the stage, faceless forms, chattering with electric voices. They were taking their seats and slowing growing quiet until there was silence.



I was alone there on the stage with my guitar. The instrument felt like a weapon. The strings felt vorpal and serrated. Silence grew and I felt the weight of the crowd’s anticipation. I felt the curtains wrap around me, squeezing me and my guitar. The guitar reacted belligerently, as if the silence insulted its existence. A chord played out, my fingers moved without memory or intention. The guitar was playing on its own.



A chord hung in the air; a deep drone, laying the landscape. I strummed the guitar slowly, building the shoreline out of sequence of riffs and notes. The audience remained silent, and the curtains twisted, almost animated by the distortion from my speaker. Then the progression hit, like a wave from an ancient ocean, tumbling from note to note.



I felt the sound waves wash over me, then they repeated. The progression felt like magic in my veins, electric adrenaline rising up in the theatre. The curtains glowed and the faceless people opened their eyes, which were sharp and focused. Then as I repeated the progression again, they grew mouths and murmured, softly at first, then opened wide. Then on the third repeat, their mouths howled and screamed, repeating the notes of the guitar. I screamed too, and mimicked the guitar, caught in its ocean of sound, bound by the progression. I played it over and over, like the rain of a violent storm, the place was drenched in the music, soaked with the magic of the sound.



I played for the howling crowd for what felt like hours until I felt exhausted in my dream and the cold light of consciousness peaked from under the curtain. I felt tattooed, burnt by the intensity of the progression. I was etched, and for the first time in my life I knew what awaited me.



When the band practiced next, I played the progression. I didn’t suffer any difficulty remembering. I summoned the storm and unleashed the chords. My band mates found space in the notes and added their own voice. We played for 4 hours without a break and knew what we would be playing at our next gig. The practice was effortless and exhausting.



Our next gig was at a bar which was converted into a music venue once a month. We were opening for a local band of moderate popularity, a typical bar band; familiar songs for half-drunk patrons. When I got on stage, I felt the same familiar weight from my dream and began in the same way. The guitar played me, starting off slow and steadily, then rising with intensity with each progression.



I could see the faceless people turn their heads, their eyes wide and their mouths slowly open. When after 20 mins their voices were howling in excitement. We were a hit, completely overshadowing the band we were opening for.



Fame flowed like a river. We found gigs easily, and people sought us out. We played the same song from my dream and each time the same reaction occurred. We played for many years and burned ourselves with success.



Now there are no more dreams, and the nightmare plays itself out. I have joined the audience of howling mouths; my face is added to theirs and the curtains cover any exits which might be hidden behind them. I am bound to the guitar until my fingers are turned to dust and my bones wash away.

Raspberries in Purgatory

Looking out over a seemingly endless horizon there appears to be a great garden. This garden is filled with vines and trees, buildings and planets, cosmic dust balls and spectral closets of phantasmal secrets. The garden is perhaps best described as a cluttered place where things grow and decay, like a rotten urban landscape, or a noisy and polluted festival of blind party goers.


For the purpose of describing a specific fruit or a single thing in this garden, I will use more organic and pleasant imagery. However, any such descriptions are terribly inadequate for the humming and pestilent growth we call existence.


So why is there existence, as opposed to non-existence?


Where did the garden come from? Why are there these trees and creatures crawling about the landscape? Where did the rocks and dirt and rain come from? There are many guesses about the garden’s existence, and why anything exists at all.


Some guess there has always been a garden, an eternal place where decay and growth blossom without end or beginning. Some guess there was a single beginning, like a great seed planted with exceptional characteristics making it beyond the bounds of logic or reason.


Regardless of its beginning or previous qualities, there seems to be nothing in the garden beyond change. Even the boundaries of this garden are growing, stretching out over great distances. Although not infinite, and perhaps not eternal, the vastness of the garden is a great terror to behold, full of distorted and monstrous variety.


We don’t know if existence is eternal, it could easily be a mortal thing, ready to fall back into the pristine silence from which it came, rolling back up the Mountain of Time to the precipice of beginnings. Regardless, there are great things born in the garden of existence. One such creature is a star. These creatures are nuclear dynamos, great turning balls of plasma. They are born in the gutters of gravity, formed by large amounts of dust.


This dust is gathered in stellar nurseries, grouped up into immense piles, until the weight of the dust pile heats up. The pressure from gravity pulls the dust closer and closer until even the atomic structures of the dust are smashed against each other.


Then comes birth. The birth is a cascade of pressure and heat, pulling all the dust into the heart of the star. Then comes ionization and the transformation into plasma. This substance is quite different than anything found on planets, comets, or asteroids. Plasma is magnetically organized matter, with very high temperatures, and behaves like a liquid in many ways. Plasma is also highly conductive. The clouds around the newly formed plasma balls are called Bok Nebulas, they are akin to flowers of a new fruit. They are cloaked in darkness, preventing any new starlight from exiting, or distant light from entering.


Soon the new star consumes the Bok Nebula around it and is thrown from the stellar nursery which birthed it. Some nurseries will throw out dozens of stars a year until the dust from the gutters are exhausted. This is much like a plant consuming the chemicals and nutrients of the soil it is planted in.


These new stars are then surrounded by echoes of the formation and turbulence, gathering planets nearby in stable gravitational distances. Then further out, they hold asteroids and comets in a structure called an Ort Cloud.


If the conditions are abundant the star will burn for billions of years. Our Sun will burn for another 5 billion years in such a way, until the chemicals within are exhausted and a new change occurs. The Sun will puff up like a balloon, stretching its boundary past many planets, engulfing them in a luminous fire. Our planet will be scoured, consumed, and its dust will be turned into plasma.


The heartbeat of the star will flutter for millions of years, diming and brightening, sparking, and gasping as it enters a new phase of its life. Near the end of this brightness, it will have a series of explosions as it sheds its massive body. The explosions will ionize and transform the inner solar system into something called a Planetary Nebula. This nebula is akin to a skeleton or fossil. If left undisturbed it will float around the stellar core like a cloud as well.


This is when the Sun is considered a White Dwarf. While larger stars might blow themselves apart in a super nova or collapse into a pit of darkness like a blackhole, becoming a White Dwarf is the start of yet another journey.


White Dwarfs can remain intact for trillions of years, longer than the current universe has existed. They continue and smolder even when other galaxies crash into each other, they will be scooped up by black holes and held together in strict gravitational order. They are like fruit on a vine, ripe and bound by the gravity which formed them.


Even in the Milky Way Galaxy there are these clusters called Globular Clusters, most notably is the Sagittarius system, rumored to contain the core of another cannibalized galaxy. This core was absorbed about 900 million years ago, and continues to this day, filled with White Dwarfs stripped of their Planetary Nebulas, and held together by a black hole.


However, depending on the exact nature of the cosmos, these white dwarfs will continue until they eventually cool and dim. Since carbon will be its eventual state, their cooling process could result in crystallization. These crystal stars will shed no light.


Then after another stretch of untold years, perhaps trillions of years later, there will be no new stars born, and even the last stars born will dim and cool, until there is only darkness. This is the suspected fate of the garden. This dark age is filled only with the shuffling of blind galaxies, misplacing the plants and trees, stumbling over the rocks, beyond the memory of light.


So, these crystal stars will float, fragile in the darkness, ripe to be shattered by the cold wind, or the burning light of new beginnings. Perhaps they will be harvested by a great creature to consume, a forbidden fruit in the sky, eaten by a strange and ancient mouth, undescribed by the feeble words of humans.


For now, the stars grow on the vine, and their fate remains a mystery, like raspberries in purgatory.

You can also listen to me reading this piece here: Stream episode Raspberries in Purgatory by Archmonoth podcast | Listen online for free on SoundCloud

Birds and the Bees

Sunday morning was idyllic. We slept until the Sun woke us up, no alarms, no deadlines. The main task of the day was harvesting 37 frames of honeycomb in the afternoon. I started my morning as I always do; feed Claudius the cat, prepare coffee and feed my 7 chickens. The chickens are named Victoria, Sunshine, Butterball, Mothra, Ziggy, Astrid, and Speckles. Recently Speckles and Astrid were adopted from our friends who were moving and needed a good home for them. All 7 are great egg layers and 4-6 eggs a day in summer is typical. We also adopted a new cat named Nero, who is a loner, but a sweetheart who sleeps under our bed at night. Our other cat Claudius was raised from a kitten, and he is an innocent little lover.


There were 3 eggs this morning, and friendly clucks and feathers greeted me. Their food is a mix of golden corn and crumbled grain. I left a few meal worms on the stone bench for the crows and a handful of nuts thrown into the yard for the squirrels. Then I returned inside and made some coffee.


We all sat and enjoyed our coffee in the living room, watching the beautiful day begin. We talked about what we needed for the honey harvest. Then after enjoying the view of our garden, Dennis began collecting the objects, and we had a little snack before starting. Nero and Claudius were snoozing, they were calm and purred contently as we headed downstairs to begin the honey harvest.


Upon coming downstairs, the smell of honey was rich and heavy. We process the honey inside since the smell would attract the bees and the process would become a nightmare. We have 4 hives, and only 3 were ready for harvest this season, but the 37 frames of honeycomb would produce about 90 pounds of honey.


We started by scratching one side of the honeycomb and placed them in pairs inside the centrifuge spinner. Each side took about 4-5 minutes, and after a few sides the centrifuge needed to be emptied from the valve near the bottom. We used a couple of filters and sieves to separate the flakes of comb and the honey.


The honey was a golden color, and the Sun shined through the downstairs window, giving it a jeweled depth. The warm day and the flow of sunshine made the process smooth. We each found our places in the process and soon the early afternoon was a heartbeat made of sweet elixir.


We took a break for some lunch, and I washed the sieves out of the finer particles. Amber is often more perceptive than I, and she noticed the tail of a cat going around the house. It wasn’t a black tail, it wasn’t Nero or Claudius, perhaps a neighborhood cat attracted to the small birds of the bush, or the rats who live under the chicken house.


I investigated, trying to see if I could befriend a new creature. However, it wasn’t a cat, but a young raccoon, a masked bandit who paused to turn around to look at me. I watched and followed them into the backyard. It has been 8 years since a racoon has come by, and last time, the racoon killed one of our chickens. I wanted to make sure the racoon did not linger or find comfort in our yard.


I followed them around the rotten trunk, and under the Tukwila bush. Then I lost sight of the racoon and stood still to listen for any movement. I heard a distant shuffle in the foliage, near the edge of our property. I moved quietly as not to give away my position. I then saw the racoon furious digging in the dirt, and then pull out a squeaking rat. The racoon bit the neck, and with a vicious rip, killed it. Then it scurried off into the bushes away from our property.


I was excited to see an ally in the culling of rats. Like the hawks and owls, I thanked them for their help, and then returned to the honey harvest. For killing rats, I don’t use poison or guns, but I use mechanical traps and if I’m lucky I can get one with a shovel, only if they are old and slow. Young rats are a blur, and fanatical pursuit results in my injury, not theirs.


The golden sunshine continued into the late afternoon, and the setting sun illuminated the fresh honey. The used combs were glistening, the smell filled the house. There was only a little mess this time, and the whole process felt effortless.


While Amber and Dennis bottled the honey, I cleaned the sieves and centrifuge. The wax requires a little work, but soon all the equipment was drying in the last warmth of the day. The last of the bottles were filled and the wax remains were collected into a pan. We found a place outside to leave the wax pieces, since the bees would scour them of any honey remains. In a day or 2 the cleaned wax flakes could be used to create a few candles. These sentimental candles would be given as gifts or lit when the moment needed invocation of the memory of the day.


After we were all cleaned and relaxed into the evening, when the last light of day was behind the shadows of trees and the darkness brought its own comfort, Amber noticed something else. She told me she heard some chicken noise, some urgent clucking. My mind went straight to the racoon from earlier in the day.

I ran outside in my pajamas, seeing a single chicken shadow clucking and running in the pen. I tried to see if there were any other forms, or perhaps one of the chickens was locked out of the chicken house and was trying to get in.


I couldn’t tell which chicken was in the pen, but when I went inside to inspect the scene, I noticed 2 shadowy forms on the ground and heard a high-pitched cluck. Then I saw the racoon scurry from the roof. I ran out of the pen and grabbed a metal rake. I chased the racoon, cursing him as he fled. I took a swing at the ground, nearly hitting him. Then he ducked under a bush, and I lost his trail. I circled, looking and listened in the dark, but I couldn’t see anything.


I returned to the scene after getting a flashlight.


The 2 forms on the ground were Sunshine and Ziggy. My heart sank at the sight of their corpses. Their feathers and feet twisted around, and I couldn’t see their faces. I opened the pen and took inventory of the remaining chickens. No one had any injuries, and there were no other raccoons in the house. Sometimes racoons come in pairs, or mother and young. My spite increased, and I could feel my teeth grinding in the darkness. Amber helped me fortify the house further. We found a space in the roof the young raccoon got through. She got the drill, wood and saw and started on the fortifications. I got the shovel and brought Ziggy and Sunshine to the backyard.


Down at the bottom of the hill there is a tree where all the creatures are buried. I dug a hole in the soft dirt at the base of the tree. I apologized to my dead friends for my failure to protect them, then I tucked them in under a dirt blanket. I spoke softly to them and wished them a final goodnight. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and my spite grew as death made itself sharply known.


I hissed at the rotten tree trunk nearby. I looked for the reflective eyes of the racoon, then returned to the chicken house. On my way back I heard a shuffle of leaves nearby and thought I saw the racoon tail again. I hissed at the darkness, slammed my shovel on the ground, dragged it over some rocks and ran towards the noise.


I found nothing, and then grew still and listened. I heard a creature moving slowly on the other side of a dense ivy patch. I waited and watched. I was as still as I could be, ready to hit the racoon if I saw his eyes. I have previously accepted the deaths of chickens at the hands of racoons, acknowledging they are just creatures. However, tonight I would have killed the racoon as viciously as he had twisted poor Sunshine and Ziggy. I would have returned murder for murder, since racoons do not kill chickens for food, but for sport.


After some time, I returned to the chicken house and Amber was nearly finished. I took another inventory of the house and the chickens. We finally returned to the comforts of our home with sadness for Ziggy and Sunshine.


While the day was sweet and heavy with mood, our evening brought murder and loss. This is the way of the birds and bees.

The Genie's Funeral

Long ago, before prisoners and nobility lived in separate places. Back when dungeons and jails haunted the lower reaches of castles. Prisoners were left to rot and decay while nobility danced and celebrated above. This was because castles were the most secure place to store prisoners and also keep noble bloodlines safe from spiteful arrows.



In a great castle, deep in the lower intestines of a cold stone foundation there was a prisoner. There were many prisoners in the darkness, but this prisoner was about to be placed in an even larger prison. The prisoners had a myth, a story, that anyone could walk out of prison, if only they could convince everyone they were royalty. The method for knowing if someone was royalty, was how they danced, and anyone could prove their claims of nobility by dancing for the guards.


So many prisoners would cry and wail for the guards, and attempt to show off their dancing moves.


However, this certain prisoner, who was named Juliet, was not a princess, she was not noble, and used the opportunity to try and escape while the prisoners danced. She tried to pick her lock, she tried to weaken the cage, and finally she tried digging. Stone walls are very hard to dig through. After many months of little progress she found something behind a stone block.



In the dark cell, In the cold night and damp stone, she found a small brass lamp in the dirt behind a block. This small lamp emanated a faint light, not from flame or fire, but from some source within. The radiance drew the attention of nearby prisoners in other cells. Whispers radiated in the darkness, and Juliet examined the lamp closely.


Within a few minutes a blue mist began to emerge, glittering in the faint light. A cloud of mist condensed, and formed a figure, a creature wearing a black turban and eyes which were the deep pits of the night sky. They spoke to Juliet in strange words, which only Juliet seemed to understand. The other prisoners watched in disbelief but remained silent as the magic unfolded before them.


The Genie told Juliet he was a creature of profound power and ability and could grant her heart’s deepest desire. She could have any 3 things she could describe, and because she summoned him, he could understand the intent and specific meaning of exactly what she said.


Juliet had been in this cold dark place for nearly a year, which makes everyone desperate and spiteful. Juliet was no exception. She thought for many hours about these wishes. Then she made her first wish. She wished no one else could make wishes except for her. She wished that her 2 remaining wishes were all the wishes which could ever be fulfilled by the Genie.


The Genie cried in horror, recoiling from the wish. The chain of magic which bound the Genie to his service was broken, the lamp cracked and dissolved in a glittering streak of purple and blue. The Genie remained, but his eyes appeared filled with a greater darkness than they once did.


Seeing the possibility that the Genie was telling the truth, and the last 2 remaining wishes were hers to make, she thought of the most spiteful wish she could express. Then after an hour, she wished all things eternal and immortal would no longer remain forever. She wished for the end of end of eternity. She described no specific end to existence, but rather all things would now face their end someday.


The Genie, who considered themselves among those eternal things, began to see his own end. Their eyes sunk further, and the darkness poured out and diminished their radiant form.


Juliet decided not to use her last wish for the moment. She instead kept the Genie nearby, ready to grant her remaining wish. By now the prisoners were in an uproar over the displays of magic and the strange creature with the black turban. The guards came in and saw the creature. They saw Juliet and her spiteful eyes, and the darkness from the eyes of the Genie. They released her, not wanting to be in the path of the genie or Juliet.


Those nearby also seemed to understand a great potential was floating around her. There was a tension of cosmic forces flowing around Juliet, and there was no question she could have anything she wanted at any moment. Authority radiated from her like the soft light of the Genie.


She did not use her wish. She instead carried her wish with her, as a threat, as a promise, as a potential lightning bolt wielded in her hand. The Genie remained by her side, his dark eyes reminding anyone nearby of the forces at her command.


Juliet carried this potential throughout her life. She had a single daughter, and when Juliet died of old age, her daughter inherited the last wish, and the Genie followed her instead. Since Juliet’s daughter was still part of her in essence, the wish was inherited.


Juliet’s daughter continued the tradition of carrying the wish, the threat, and the cosmic forces. They ruled with the authority of potential. Some people pleaded to have her mother’s previous wishes undone, to have magical wishes and immortality exist once again.


The daughter also had a daughter, and the bloodline continued into the modern day, each carrying the wish and the name of Juliet. When technology advanced enough, Juliet was cloned, and each clone was placed upon a throne. Corporations and nations pleaded to have their wish heard. They wished for endless resources, they wished for endless life, and they wished for power for themselves.


Then after Juliet-17, Juliet wanted to be free of her cloning prison. The memories from the previous clones haunted her. She decided to use the last wish. She wished herself removed from existence, she wished every spec, every atom, every shred of DNA to be destroyed with the wish. She wished for the memory of all her ancestors evaporated from the minds of others. She wished to be forgotten and utterly destroyed from existence. To be free from the prison of potential.


After the words were muttered, and the culmination of 17 generations of memory, the Genie fulfilled the last wish. With a wave of his hand, Juliet was erased.


Then the fall began.


The Genie was mortal and could no longer grant wishes, nor could any of the Juliet’s wishes be undone. The world continued and the Land of the Living rolled down the mountain of time. The stars continued their march of creation for billions of years. Then after uncounted years, the stars stopped being born. Then another untold stretch of time before the last star was extinguished.


The Genie watched helplessly against the darkness. His eyes growing over the horizon, seeing the stretches of space in a single glance. Only the turbulence of great monstrous hungers growled in the darkness, looking for any remnants of light to consume.


Then after another unmeasured stretch of time, the great mouths also died, and soon only the Genie and the darkness remained. There was no one to make a wish, no wishes to be made, and nothing left except a single small step into non-existence.


The Genie was still bound by the wishes, so he stepped into the greater darkness as the last distinction of existence vanished.

Radiant Glimpse

I came from a cold dark place. Not the dark place where there is silence and peace, but a place filled with snarling anxieties. There are unseen creatures lurking, waiting for the cries of anguish to reveal their prey. This place is cold, and there is no rest, except from the exhaustion due to panic. Crisis and emergency can be felt, but nothing can be seen. Sometimes I think I am crawling, sometimes I am falling, and always there is the feeling I am near some great mouth ready to close around me.


There was one time, long ago, where I found a way out of the cold dark place and had a radiant glimpse of another world. There was a tunnel I found myself in, with the haze of light near the end and the soft chatter of people. There was a turnstile, which acted like a gate, preventing anyone from leaving the cold dark place.


There was no line for those leaving, but there was a creature entering the cold dark place, and their paperwork was being checked and stamped. There was a faded warning sign with the words “do not jump, you will be tazed.” The creature entering was being carried in a wheelbarrow, pushed along by a security officer with their face covered by a gas mask and helmet.


The creature looked like a giant clam, and their body was separated in the middle. They were asked to open their mouth for inspection. Inside was a collection of young, tiny versions of the clam creature squirming around in the folds of pale flesh. The gatekeeper commented on how cute they looked and wished them luck. The reaction of the gatekeeper seemed sarcastic, and their expression exaggerated.


A security officer continued to push the wheelbarrow into the darkness, and the gatekeeper motioned me to the counter. I thought for a moment about the clam creature, and how other snarling monsters in the dark might appear in the light. I thought how the grotesque and hungry don’t need to be seen and need eyes even less.


When I reached the counter I noticed the long blue fingernails, and the black eye lashes of the gate keeper. The eyelashes were very long, and covered most of their eyes, perhaps a defensive mechanism I thought.


I told them I was looking for a place to go, outside of the cold dark place.


They said I couldn’t pass unless I had a task to do, or paperwork to get processed. I told them I had neither, nor did I want to get tased. I asked if perhaps they had a task they needed done, I could take care of whatever it might be.


The gatekeeper thought for a second and told me a couple of large garbage bags full of paperwork from other processed creatures needed to be delivered to a document center. The bags were heavy, and the walk was long and arduous. They accentuated the term “arduous” and delighted on telling me how heavy and difficult the task would be.


I thought for a moment about a long burden journey or a quick taser experience. I said I would gladly take the heavy bags. I exaggerated how heavy the bags were, and my straining seemed to delight the gatekeeper.


I was able to leave the gate and continue my journey. The light was soft, and the streets were warm. Even without shelter the outside world and concrete landscape was pleasant compared to the cold dark place. I dropped the bags near some other garbage bags soon after getting out of sight of the gatekeeper.


I had no intention of carrying bags of paperwork around. However, the experience had me realize the rules of this new world. The gatekeeper valued my suffering, and absurd adherence to the rules. There was an element of sadism, of control which needed to be performed before they would let me pass. I anticipated more of this kind of absurdity.


The only place I could gain access to was the document center.


This building appeared to be a renovated sports stadium, a towering ruin of commerce. There was a line to get in, and while others were shivering in the street. I remained warm and found the world of light a pleasant break from the constant emergency of the cold dark place.


After a few hours, I was allowed inside. I was given a few forms to fill out, and a number. I was told my number would be called soon. The attendant smiled, as if the lie of “soon” was a private joke.


I took a seat and watched the clockwork chaos around me.


There were people, human beings, with vaguely expressive faces of many kinds. Some were agitated, some were exhausted and defeated. Some were anxious and their eyes darted around in anticipation of their number being called. There was a line of people getting their photo taken, and after their photo was taken were given more forms to fill out. They looked stunned, confused, and uncertain where they were.


There were creatures there too, like the clam monster. There were hairy beasts, and horned demons. There was an angel, but their white robe was streaked in blood. There was a large person in a wheelchair, their legs were rotten and red, from some necrotic condition. There was also a nurse and doctor occasionally questioning people who were sitting down. They seemed ambivalent and distant, and their help seemed to be a small container of pills and a small paper cup of water. Everyone who drank from the paper cup seemed to scavenge every drop, holding it above their mouth for a moment.


There were lines everywhere. There were lines for a bathroom, which grew longer after a bathroom was closed for maintenance. There was a line for initial forms, new forms, final forms, a change in forms, lost forms, and extra forms. I stayed seated and watched, I didn’t see any reason to be in any lines. There were lines to exit, lines for the upper floors of the document center, and lines for complaints.


I decided I was just going to watch and walk, and left my forms at my seat, but I carried my metal clipboard, which was given for us to fill out forms on. Everyone had a clipboard, and it felt strange not to have a prop when walking around. Whenever a security officer looked at me, I looked down at my clipboard in a confused manner, and this seemed to satisfy their interest and their eyes moved from me.


I noticed I was being watched by someone else too, a lady in a long yellow raincoat. The yellow was dull and dirty and was covering layers of coats and sweaters. They approached me and asked to see my clipboard. She said, “You board is to clean, if they see your lack of papers, they will beat you for destruction of official documents.” She then explained she had been here a long time and been to every floor of the document center. “Every floor is the same, and the forms take longer to fill out the higher you go, although the lines are shorter. Also, if you want water, you must act sick enough for the doctor to see you. There is no food, but there is a form to fill out for emergency nutrients.” She laughed and giggled at the idea of filling out more forms.


I left the raincoat lady and returned to my seat to gather my forms, to prevent being beaten by the security officers.


I sat and watched a while longer until I got thirsty. Then, as dehydration set in, I felt the warmth of the place fade. The cold returned, and the emergency of water was sharp. A nearby human being was nodding off to sleep, and they appeared to be relatively healthy. Their head was slumped, so their neck was exposed, and the throb of their artery was visible.


I drew near, and wrapped my arms around them, whispering the speech of the cold dark place until they were deep in the shadow. Then I drank from their neck, and the warm blood of life filled my stomach and throat. Thirst fled, and clarity returned. However, a security officer noticed this and was approaching me.


They produced a silver club and raised their massive arm to hit me.


They swung down and missed me as I stumbled over chairs. Then I could see more security officers approaching and knew I could not evade them all.


My time in the light was ending. I raised my arms and spun around, falling back into the cold dark place. I leapt from the light and into the dark with a single step. There was no line, no form, no process, no time, or distance. I just fell back into the cold, evading the violence and turbulence of the security officers.


I fell back, flipping over and over, then landed with a hard stop, a heavy thud upon the dusty gravel of the Abyss. The familiar cold dark place surrounded me. I could hear the snarls and screams of emergency. The clarity of such sounds invigorated me. The world made sense again; there was danger and escape, crisis and importance. The senselessness of the world of light was now gone.


Perhaps one day I will return to need for order, to the lines and process, to the authority and structure. For now, urgency and fear remain its own reward.

Send in the Clones

In the atomic year 8900.33 biological technology is highly detailed. People can have clones made of themselves. These clones have the exact personality, memories, and attributes of the person. They are fabricated in large wombs, and great effort is made to include every imperfection, every aspect.


Birth is easy, and clones are born with the knowledge they chose to be cloned. This existence is with explicit consent. No clone can be created against the will of the person, since they have all the memories, any deception is apparent.


I had 10 clones made recently. I had so much to do, so many tasks. I was overwhelmed. There were unfinished projects, new projects, and little chores I needed done, I simply didn’t have the time. I went to the clone facility and paid my credits. I was scanned, sampled, and given all the information on how to deal with my clones.


The facility was a semi-religious place called the Church of Loa. They were famous for creating heroes from myth and legend and acting out social change with these characters. The stories became society’s way of dealing with the chaos of our world and the immense complexity of life today.


Regardless, the Church of Loa was the place you needed to go to get clones made. I was willing, so my clones would be willing. I was eager so my clones would be eager.


They were made in 3 days, and I was present at their birth. I welcomed them to existence, which was rather disorienting at first. We all said the same thing at the same time, in the same way. The echo lasted a few hours before we were able to find a silence and method to speak in turn.


We all knew what the tasks were and how to do them. We now needed a method of determining which one of us would be doing which task. We decided to use dice. We rolled for each task and agreed to begin work at once. I rolled the dice too, and even though I was the original, we didn’t think of myself as any different, we were 11 people with the same mind.


Small differences occurred over the next few days. However, the clones and I all looked the same and sounded the same, so empathy was easy. I didn’t have any self-loathing; however, I did have some self-apathy, which made the process a little easier. I didn’t care about being original or unique.


Soon the tasks started to be completed and those who finished began helping the others. Each day we came together and retold our adventures and trials. We shared how we felt, and deepest emotions. We used these small differences to separate ourselves from the whole.


After 2 weeks, most of the tasks were done and our previous harmony was beginning to degrade.


We decide on mortal combat to determine who would live. All 11 of us would fight to the death, and the single remaining victor would survive. Agreeing to this was easy, I had thought of this as a resolution before being cloned, so they all were familiar with the idea.


There was 1 clone who didn’t want to fight, we killed them first. Then broke off into pairs. Some used weapons, some used physical combat. I used a large pipe, and my clone used a shovel. We struggled and swung wildly. I stunned them and ended the combat quickly. Others dragged their fights out longer. Then after resting we paired up again.


The 2 pairs fought ruthlessly, and I sat and watched, I was the odd clone out. Everyone was evenly matched, and luck decided the result, much in the same way as the dice roll. Sometimes we attacked at the same time in the same way.


Then the 3 remaining bodies fought, and the original died from combat wounds. The remaining victor was responsible for the burial and disposal of the bodies. My bodies were put into a hyperbolic chamber and atomized. I returned the remains to the Church of Loa and was given a certificate of originality.


Now I don’t have as much to do, and my burdens are lessened. However, I feel restless and think that if I had 10 more clones again, we could really change the world. We could invent sorts of global solutions and immense plans. I have written down many of these ideas, and when I’m ready, I’ll get cloned again.


I know there are risks to cloning, since every replication can cause copy errors, leading to cancer. I know I’m a clone. I have seen my weak spots, I have heard my own voice through the violence, and seen myself die.

 

Next time, I think I would prefer a different kind of suicide.

Gargantuan Graves

 

2-tone microphones with no middle ground,

Dangerous drought in thirsty old towns,

Heartbeat and headaches running from sounds,

Sunburned freeways going both ways,

4 golden eggs and butterfly fly rust,

Held together by screws, covered in dust.

 

Sunlight soaks up the water in time,

Nighttime is covered in poisonous lime,

3 dozen diamonds dipped in the slime,

Divided by oceans, rented by kings,

Drinking down days, whatever it brings,

Cucumber sandwich, shuffling witch,

Hexed in high heels, left in a ditch.

 

Down with the dirt, emptied by worms,

Down the to the river where salty waves churn,

They’ll eat all the plastic and poisonous fumes,

Until all of the diamonds, and all of the kings,

Have nothing to drink, and nothing to sing,

Peace is a grave with nothing to save,

No sound and no head, to think of the waves.

 

When the stage is all clear, and there is nothing to fear,

The mechanical bugs, and chemical thugs,

The wood is all eaten, and the microphone dead,

The eggs will start hatching,

In silence, instead.

The billionaire buffet is thrown from a cliff,

The table is messy, there is blood on the knives,

Their money won’t save them from losing their lives.

 

Leatherbound dragons stretched over the sky,

Eyes filled with stars, waiting to cry,

Little blind moths will drown in the rain,

They’ll talk to the dead in thunderous pain.

 

 

Holographic Entrails

Welcome to another episode of ITR: Intergalactic Telepathic Radio, broadcasting over local systems and beyond! I’m your host today Venflax7 as we enjoy the variety the galaxy has to offer!


First, we will be listening in on a new star being born, their first words and the sparkles given off into the night sky. They are a G-type star with a nice companion planet to keep their barycenter just a little wobbly, enough for a few billion solar cycles. Will biological life evolve in the outer edges? Perhaps the terrestrial ring?


We go to our correspondents in the Palace of Gemstone located in the Tarantula Nebula with a segment called “Shower Thoughts with Shower Thots”


The broadcast image changes into curvy, green-skinned figures washing their phalanges and extremities. They are in the middle of discussing the Fermi paradox.


“Well perhaps the reason we haven’t found life is because we are the first life forms to make it out this far. Our mutations and societal collapses are the foundation for more life, and the net hasn’t been cast out that far yet? “


A figure sprays their soapy thighs down and the curve of their legs draws the camera down. Then another voice replies.


“Well, if life is caused by seeds of other life, then alien and native are a fuzzy distinction at best. This only pushes the problem back into the opaque history of the galaxy, rather than illuminating it!”


The broadcast then transmits the new idea, and the figures begin discussing the new topic as they wash their hair with iridescent bubbles.


“Well a barycenter is vital for new stars, but those elements are needed, so even if it dies quickly, perhaps the nearby Glorts will scavenge the system, and leave their DNA behind?”


The slow and sensual hair washing is done with green hands, each with 9 fingers, crowned in purple nails. There is a pause, and the other figure responds.


“If life feeds on life, and the decay and destruction process is required, then perhaps the definitions of life are too strict to be able to see it elsewhere? How much variety from a single source is required before we can claim the universe is full of life?”


The Shower Thots continue their washing for a few moments then the image returns to the host Venflax7.

“Next up we have a couple of real movers and shakers in a Wolf-Rayet system buried in the Cygnus sector. They have some hot new ideas from their home world. They will be sharing their vision of an invention not yet copyrighted. “


The camera transitions to a couple of plasmoids, made of oranges and purple haze talking through a magneto voice oscillator.


“Creatures of sub-plasma orientation, we come to offer you the latest in bio-plasma conversion. Want to travel at light speed? Well, our invention converts bio-material and complex viscous membranes into plasma patterns. We ionize you, copy you, and put your pattern in a magnetic containment chamber for organization. We promise this isn’t another disintegration box! “


The broadcast is cut short and returns to the host Venflax7.


“We apologize for the last broadcast, as we try and limit advertisements to the upper band wavelength. Those clever plasmoids always trying to convert us into their energy forms. Before this episode is over, we would like to show a live feed of 2 neutron stars about to collide and create more gold than the vaults of those ancient Doosadarians.”


The image shows 2 brilliant stars of white and blue drawing closer to each other. The light fills the screen and the edges of gravity begin to compress the 2 shapes until they finally snap. A ring of yellow and green radiate out and a dazzling array of prismatic flares, bolts, and waves, unraveling until finally leaving a dull nebula.

After a moment of silence, the host returns…



“See you next time folks as we investigate blackholes and their tax returns.”

 

My Favorite Axe

I have an axe which I keep in a corner. Its next to the door of my basement. My axe is sharpened every week. I grind it down until the edge is bright and gleaming. The door in my basement leads outside. The world beyond is green and wet.


This new axe has a plastic handle. My previous axe handle broke since it was made of wood. The handle flew off and almost hit me when I was chopping wood. I don’t do use my axe to chop wood anymore. This new axe is light and fast. I swing it upwards and downwards. I keep it out of the rain so it won’t rust, next to the door of my basement.


My axe is very large, its bigger than a blade and handle. I only have a piece of whole. The blade can cut in any direction when it’s all put together. My axe is beyond my body and my hands. I hold my axe with my mind. I can see without eyes, when my axe lands, I know it will hurt.


My axe isn’t my own. I found it in a book, on a page, deep inside a dream. I dragged my axe up from the ocean. I washed the blade in tears. It can never be clean, no matter how much I try. When I take my axe out, I burry it in the dirt, I swing it through the sky, and it falls on the necks of greed and injustice.


My axe can shatter bones and teeth, no matter how small. My axe and split the hairs of fantasy, it can slice the arguments of kings to pieces. My axe can cut the faces of statues, bound by stone. My axe cleaves the treads of tanks and the arms of dictators. My axe has heat seeking software, hardwired to destroy.


My axe is cold, cruel, and brings out the worst in me.


When I swing my axe I don’t have a heart. I forget I’m a human being. I forget about living and dying. I forget about everything except the neck I’m about to cut. The neck is made of buildings and warehouses. The neck is made of a thousand faces, a hundred kings, each wearing a crown.


I look outside my basement door. I look up at the night sky. I look at all the constellations I helped cut down. I hold my axe and join the choir of stars. I swing my axe with everyone else. I cut down heaven with every spiteful breath.


My axe is made for me. The handle is just the right size. The grip is sculpted for my fingers. It weighs less than a feather. When I swing it, I am given wings, from left to right, the pendulum falls. There is no direction forbidden to me.


You can borrow my axe if you want. I can show you how to cut and hack. I can show you how to roll your eyes back and howl. I can show you how to see the sky through relentless tears. I can show you cold sorrow. I can show you the long teeth of endless hunger.


For now, I’ll keep my axe in the basement next to the door. I’ll watch the night crawl by. I’ll dream of swinging my axe, and perhaps I’ll see you there, in those desperate hours. I’ll see you when everyone has an axe to grind. Ill join you when your axe is sharp and swift. I’ll join you when your claws can pull down the Sun. We can hunt together.


You can be my favorite axe, and I can be yours. We will turn and spin, until there is no longer light, and the dawn is hacked to pieces. Then we can bury the blade and the handle. Then we can pour our bones into satisfied silence, next to the basement door.

 

Morbid Prophecy

I know how I’ll die, buried in a nightmare,

My heart will burst from mundane terror,

Probably a roller coaster ride,

Or creatures crawling in my kitchen,

Nothing bizarre or obscene.

 

The flavor isn’t important,

Life geysers, fly wheels, gyroscopes, all dream dynamos,

47 angels arguing about nuclear drama,

Stone faced men with fevers unable to crack,

The 1-eyed dog with an empty stomach filled with blueberry bugs!

Insects with the heads of birds wanting to be my friends,

Periodic growth, bursting from leather cocoons.

 

The texture is like ice,

Cold and far away, the kind you find in heartbreak,

Grief under the waves, down in the ocean,

I’m worried my ears will hurt,

I’ll lock the weights on my boots,

It’s a slow fall into the dark,

Not like the tops of smooth metal buildings,

Or coarse heavy rope.

 

There will be no sounds,

No screams in my sleep,

My mouth doesn’t work,

When its full of water.

I’ll make a different kind of noise,

Nervous sugar reflexes,

Exchanging flesh for flesh,

With little hungry crabs.

 

How I get there is the mystery,

To that point in time,

When warmth has fled my heart,

But I can see the place,

When I fall asleep.

 

Perhaps it won’t be cold or calm,

Perhaps my spite will shred my veins,

And fall out of my head. 

An angry shadow made of fire,

Dread will push me under,

Wishing for the fall.

 

I won’t know the shape,

But when it comes, I won’t pretend,

I’ll be curled up in a ball.