Tuesday, July 9, 2024

Royal Flush


In the kingdom of cards,

Where the land is flat and peaks are hidden from sight,

The Queen of Hearts is first to rule.



The Red Queen rules the heart,

Each kiss is her command,

She feeds the parasite and binds the slave,

She lashes the predator and the prey,

She grinds the cliffs to make the sea,

When she’s done shell bind us all together,

To die as one, both beast and feather.



Until such time when the grave commands,

The Red King is next to rule the land.

For hand in hand he builds,

Shelter and farm are his domain.

From his kindness a city is built,

We are drawn together in hunger and thirst.

All the creatures of the world will crawl behind his walls,

Every jungle breath and screaming voice,

Every claw and snarl will find their way into the Red King’s land.



Yet as we gather, there is rot without decay.

Every mutation, every abomination, every corruption without reply,

For inequality emerges as a crown,

Distant and blind, beyond the kiss of the Red Queen.



Now the tower falls, and darkness takes shape.

Betrayal and abuse; the tyranny of the light,

They all add up to deep shadows.

A dark sword is made, and the Black King is born.



For when violence rules and shadow thick,

The circle of life will curve to close,

Waves rise to wash away, carcasses of larger creatures.



The Red Queen stirs in her slumber as the world is bound by vengeance,

The sword must be used, and spite resolved,

Like the winds of an ancient storm.



Once awakened the Black King murders,

He slices and reaps and separates the kingdoms.

From his war and conquest, blood flows back into the soil.

The King cannot save himself, and he too is drawn under the Red Queen,

Entangled, consumed, buried under the bones of adversaries.



Yet another kingdom remains unexplored,

The 4th kingdom of the cards, a place darker still,

A place where the blood of fate rarely flows.

This is the Kingdom of the Black Queen.



She was a shadow before the stones of cities were built.

She crawled under the light of distant stars,

She ran from the blade and gun,

She buried herself with the seeds,

She carries the Curse of the Red Queen; All those bound together, die together.

She fled long ago, out through the corner of the world and into a greater darkness.

Tuesday, June 4, 2024

The Ninth Wave


We don’t know where the water came from, some say the ice caps melted. It doesn’t matter anymore how it happened or how I ended up in this place. The counting of the waves is all we do now on this dark horizon.



The first wave claimed the shores. It claimed the docks and ports, it crept up over a few months, and then on a high tide it surged. Regardless of where you lived the sky was black, it was a night the world witnessed together for the first time. This storm rolled in everywhere. This everywhere was all nations, all shorelines saw a gray cloud lit by some unknown light and thunderous murmur of a tall wave. It swept away all the waterfront property, all the cranes in all the ports. There was no salvage, no garbage floating like Fukushima had. The edges of the world were swallowed.



The second wave came a few years later, it claimed the cities. The fear of the rising water made people flee the major cities which for the most part bordered on water to begin with. This wave of fear disintegrated New York, Dubai, Shanghai, and Tokyo. The disorder of this mass migration heralded the coming wave like a slow-motion panic. Again, the shared night of gray clouds rolled in, a nervous display for fearful human beings. It swallowed the remaining towns and cities that lay unpopulated on the water’s edge. Very few died from the wave, and the water mark continued to rise.



The third wave claimed the forests. It turned the great ancient green into swamps. They rotted and slumped over in decay. The water continued to rise without a pause. The trees left no corpses, they left no sign, and even those that thrived on high enough land seemed to rot as though some underground connection linked their hearts all together, as though they were pulled down into the new ocean. The last gasp of the woods happened on a clear day, the gray clouds rolled in and the night came as expected. The wave towered above the bridges and the small hills. Those of us that survived started to build towers, we started to build shelters as high as we could live.



The fourth wave claimed the skies. Now the gray clouds were everywhere. It seemed to rain all the time. All the airplanes and satellites and stars were gone, nothing could fly in those churning clouds. The sun was a pale light desperately trying to break through. Night began to grow longer. When the fourth wave came, it came only months after the third wave, our structures survived but the panic returned. The wave washed very little away, but the curl of that monstrous force could be seen silhouetted against a gray cloud glowing with a soft light.



The fifth wave claimed the governments. More precisely it claimed the crown of human authority. The leaders were helpless, no solutions could be implemented fast enough. No ideas communicated quickly enough. I was lucky, I found the Red Tower. A tall five-story factory that was looted or emptied at some point. This place felt old and unused. The Red Tower welcomed all that found it, sheltered us from the increasingly frequent rains. It became a type of hidden ally, as though being near or inside it was enough to survive the rising tides. The wave came one full night after I found the Red Tower, I saw the outline of the wave on the horizon. Soon after more people showed up to the Red Tower with loss seen in their eyes.



The sixth wave was worse. It claimed a part of us, it claimed the hope that the waves would stop. As if the loss was a way of announcing the coming wave. When we saw the ship on the horizon, we knew it. There was a sinking feeling of the ocean telling us the waves would never stop.

The ship was just an outline, the tide hadn’t reached the red tower yet. Seeing the ship sail was something of a premonition, an imagination we had been running from. There would be no going back. The sixth wave took our hearts, it took a part of us that had been running to hills. On the night when the thunderous murmur came and the curl of the wave was seen from sitting on top of the red tower, the weeping few bled out their last tears.



The seventh wave claimed the last shreds of the old world. The color seemed to fade, the sun wasn’t seen anymore, and the sky was only illuminated by the unholy gray clouds. We fed ourselves on what seemed to be leftover canned foods that at some point were made in the red tower. The machinery and operations had been removed so long ago that decaying dust lines were a type of archeology of the world now deep beneath the waves.



The night when the seventh wave came was fireless, we had managed to burn our belongings for a few nights when retreating to this altar of brick five stories tall. It was the first time I couldn’t see the wave, I FELT it. I felt the rising water well up and take a little more, it took a few memories, and it took a few ideas. After the wave came and went, the water was seen at the base of the red tower.



The eighth wave didn’t take everything. It signaled the new world emerging from sunless sky. The black ship was seen again, its black mast like a banner telling us the wave was coming. Curiosity was all we had before the black wave, a few memories, and a few tattered pictures of loved ones or keepsakes to remind us who we were. When the eighth wave came, we forgot who we were, we were washed clean, and we FELT a deep bottomless ocean rising up to reclaim us with its black heart, all the little things that our lives had built.



The ninth wave claimed everything except the black ship and the roof of the red tower. We were there huddled on the roof when the ship docked. No one was on board, no one refused, no one cared. The black ship wasn’t anything and never went anywhere. That ship named Despair keeps us now. We walk to the edge and look over into the black ocean underneath. The gray clouds creeping overhead. We stare into the sea, and the sea gives us pieces of that world back, pieces of memories, broken hearts and swampy keepsakes. The tears fall from our hidden eyes and with a silent motion our sorrow is added to the greater blackness. These tears have fallen from our eyes in such a great volume, tears from our hearts. This great volume of sorrow has become the wave that claimed us. The Ninth wave claimed us, as though we had always belonged to it. Our sorrow is a song for the world that lay in black ruins beneath.
 

So I recount for an endless day, the nine great waves, and the great night which is only filled with that one deep sorrow that washes our hearts in endless tears.


Picture by Delia Wang:


Sunday, June 2, 2024

Blueberry Roads


We walked with heavy breath,

With the bubbling tone from our underground ballroom tour guides,

Way up in the mountains of Colorado,

Elk with thin bones, hung out in the parking lot.



Bowls of water next to plastic flowers,

Ghost stories on the menu everyone orders,

Haunted rivers full of snakes, if you know their shape,

You can see the gophers too.



So many homes on the cliffs, full of opulent views,

How vulnerable they are, to a little crime.

They are sent spinning, as they play musical chairs,

To a real estate melody.



We drove by an imported lake,

Where money gathers in pools called inheritance,

And everything shuts down by 9:00pm,

To be safe and asleep near artificial plants.



Yet down at the dawn, there are cats and ravens, and many ants,

Using the sidewalk to ventilate their young in the high desert.

Small holes and silent feathers, in fear the weather could grow teeth at any moment.



I received my token, paid the price for the maze,

I stood by the bronze man, and closed my eyes on the way down.



Blueberry roads led up into the sky,

A path of crystals and glitter,

Don’t walk on the grass, restoration in progress.



We feasted by the river and woods, as a duck walked around the table.



For the evening, we rode a dark horse,

To a cemetery full of our wagon-wheeled ancestors.



The whole place was slated for destruction,

Then we ate hot dogs the day before.



Our alarm clocks weren’t working, and time flowed backwards,

Like doors swinging in opposite directions,

But there only 1 direction time can go, for even those who dodge decay, will rot and die another way.






Sunday, April 21, 2024

Riddle of the Sphinx

This is a selected chapter of a new book I'm writing. This is rough draft, without context. This chapter was written as a standalone. No artwork for this piece yet. 



Enjoy.....



Riddle of the Sphinx:


The vampire slept in their tomb, spiraling down the darkness until thoughts disappeared, hunger dissolved, and the blood hunger boiled overhead like the atmosphere of an alien world. 
A place where time and space are mere blocks set down by stranger creatures, and the world of light is built upon their shoulders.


The vampire became mist, became a nebula, and swirled within their coffin, full of stars and planets. Full of tears and failures. Full of a thousand years of heartache and grief. They unraveled their tears and flattened their thoughts. The wind of the abyss blew through the hole in their heart and cleaned them with darkness.


Years became hours, and distinction faded into a dream. Light was a distant memory, unnecessary and unbound to the roots of darkness. The urgency of life passed by the sleeping vampire. The brutish Roman emperors paved the way for the even more brutish Holy Roman Empire. Ruled by rage and violence, the first kings of the dark age were veterans of war, the crusades, the wars of territory, and the brutal arithmetic of controlling resources.



Treasure was more valuable than knowledge, and darkness washed the landscape.


Yet regardless of the sharp nature of society, some still sought knowledge, even if to find treasure. Such a seeker found their way to the feet of the Sphinx of Egypt. The sculpture was 22 meters high, depicting the body of a lion, the face of a woman, and the wings of a bird. What knowledge survived the transition to the new Holy Roman era was small, but enough to tempt the imaginations of treasure hunters.


Such a seeker had come to the Sphinx. After spending nearly a lifetime searching, they found a scroll describing an unmarked entrance to a deeper section beneath the Sphinx. So here they were, at the feet of the Sphinx, ready for her riddles and mysteries.


Just as the scroll indicated, the unseen entrance could be seen on the Equinox, by the light of a moon. The door was outlined in silver, and the sparkle of words could be seen above.


Above the entrance, read in hieroglyphs: “You will find no absolution here.” An ominous warning for the superstitious.


The digger scratched their head, pausing a moment before producing a book from a canvas knapsack. They turned to a familiar page and rechecked the translation. They also checked the word for treasure just in case they were similar enough. The warning made sense if treasure was here, but absolution? What ancient and unholy sin would compel someone to seek spiritual peace under the Sphinx? The warning made no sense in this regard, and the digger decided it was a lost dialect.

They pushed the stone door, and the opening moved easily, as if propped up, and disguised quickly. The stone crumbled and shifted, revealing a pregnant da
rkness beyond.


The strangeness filled the shadows with possibilities; a reflex of the abyss.


Within the warm light of the candle, the digger continued down the crude tunnel. They covered their mouth and nose with linen, which helped against the dust. The particles had not been disturbed since the Roman era. Nearly 400 years of isolation, and rumors of curses floated nearby the digger’s imagination.


Like a shadow, the curse followed the digger deeper into the tunnel. The method of construction was crude, inarticulate. As if a beast had clawed their way through, desperate to flee the sunlight. There were no hieroglyphs, no cartouches, nothing to indicate when the tunnel was made, or by whom.


Sweat mixed with ancient dust and labored breathing. Hours passed as they cleared away stones which had fallen in, the pathway revealed itself, leading to a solid iron door.


The iron door had no markings, but above the opening another vague warning was seen. ” Let me sleep, nothing glitters here except the bones of the rotten Pheonix.”


The digger paused a moment, and again searched their notes and books for references. The Pheonix was the bird of Osiris. The bird was a pet, an allegory for the world of empires. The frequency of the resurrection was once every 500 years, as the prophecy was written by the blind oracle of Nix. The notes written in the margins described the first appearance of the fiery bird.



The Pheonix struggles to be born,

Upon their wings are lies,

Heralding a future which will never be,

Their eyes cannot see,

What rots without decay,

Will be born blind and mad,

With nothing to say.



A broken sunshine bird,

A glittering mirage,

Will become an egg,

To die again.



The digger ran their hand through their graying hair. Now desperate for a pattern or a direction, they sought a deeper meaning in the prophecy. The word “Glitter” stood out, and as the doubt surrounded them, clarity pierced through, and the world treasure echoed in their mind yet again.


So, after a short respite in the dark, the digger continued. They thought of treasure, turquoise artifacts, or objects made of solid gold! The iron door was not locked, and when the stones of causal collapse were cleared, the open door offered empty darkness.


The digger brought the candle into the low room. The rough ceilings forced a stoop of the back, and a hunch of the spine. They saw the unmarked coffin in the center of the room. No treasure, no symbols indicating who and when. There was no depiction of the journey to the afterlife, no cosmic judgment, no heaven, or ornately painted history. This room was a void.


The hunger for information, context, or anything compelled the digger to attempt to open the coffin. They needed to know. All this digging, all the travel and research, must contain something valuable buried in the sands of history. If not material, the world would give them fame!


The coffin was made of heavy lead, and no lock was seen. The digger produced a crowbar and tried to pry the coffin open. After 30 minutes of attempts the lid would not move. The digger beat the coffin with their crowbar in frustration. They would have to get a crew, and pay them, which turned the digger’s stomach. They didn’t want to share.


The digger took another break, unable to open the coffin. Exhaustion took them for a moment, and they fell into a suffocating sleep.


A moment was enough. The locks within the coffin were undone, the click went unheard by the sleeping digger. The lid was silently lifted up, and placed nearby. Then, like thick unfiltered oil, the shadow crawled across the room. There were no thoughts, no sound, only a dark hunger moving closer to the sleeping digger.


The shadow poured itself into figure, and the human turned to dust within moments. Their skin shrank from their bones, the eyes sank into a deeper darkness, and the crispy limbs curled into the brittle legs of a dead insect.



Then a wind emitted from the shadow; a voice unspoken for 400 years.


The vampire took the knapsack, the books and tools, and put on the clothes of the digger. The Sun greeted the shadow for the first time since the blood of pharaohs flowed from the pyramids.

Wednesday, March 6, 2024

Do Not Duplicate




What do you do with a key,

Which opens no door,

No window or hatch,

For no building now stands,

Where the doorway once was.



No parking lot or painted lines,

No fines for the tickets,

No moving violations to unlock.

The key sits by the fan,

Waiting for hands,

To warm up the brass,

A useless contraband,

A token of access,

Now left to dispose.




The other side reads,

Do not duplicate,

Now destined for trash,

For keys with no locks,

Who can not pretend,

Their purpose is ended,

Their notches undone,

Long after the tumblers were fixed,

And the screws swollen shut,

The place with no name, and no way to remember,

What those keys once unlocked.





Wednesday, November 29, 2023

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
A collection created during COVID


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


The Crystal Sun
A single-story novella about a far future crisis. 


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


Fluffy Stuffing v17
A coffee table companion for those cozy nights.


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


Tombs and Towers
A slow boiled collection of stories from 2018


The Void is Bright
A high fantasy collection of gnomes and shadows. 


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


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


Terrible Parables
A collection of artwork and poetry of the natural world. 


Dreams of the Dragon
A deluxe hardback collection of artwork, poetry and stories. 


Cosmic Cuisine
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! 


Friday, September 1, 2023

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 FinalĂ© 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!”