Eyes in the Dark

Two eyes staring emberlike through the dark. Two eyes, staring hatred at my soul.

This was the awakened face of malice, the face of all dark dreams made manifest in the world - given power by whichever twisted mind forged this wretched plane of existence in the eons past when gods forged worlds from the very essence of their imaginations. All the dark emotions that people detest in themselves granted power; power to reduce the object of our emnity to ash, power to twist the land into a barren hellscape. The very air here had been changed into a black miasmic cloud that burned metal, clothes and exposed flesh with equal vigor.

Magic in this place fed off these things, encouraged them, shaped itself around them. And of all the hopeless, desolate worlds left as a relic to the whimsy of some long dead god, this was by far the most despairing. One more world and people simply waiting to die.

Two eyes staring spite into the world. I watch as my companion, my friend of many years, is blasted to ash which swirls about the cavern chamber by the torchlight - extinguishing it. The world hates me now, it takes joy in those two eyes and in bending itself to satisfying that which lurks behind them. And looking into those eyes, I know there is no such painless death of ash awaiting me. These eyes want me to suffer, they want to see it.

In such a world as this, life is brutal and short. The people here bathe in the power the land offers them and die on the twin edged sword of their own magic. Yet even in a place that rewarded the worst thoughts and feelings with fantastic power - this creature stood alone; the very embodiment of the spirit of the god forsaken world. Consequently the people here worshipped it as a god.

Consequently when they found I possessed magic beyond the taint of this place, they asked me to kill it. I'd been confident, and yet here I stood, all the years striding the worlds and stars counted for nothing in the face of such raw unbridled fury given form.

Two eyes staring in the dark. A low moan pierces the dark, rising steadily through a shriek and wail into a howling rage like thunder. The eyes grow brighter, and in the light of their gaze I can see the very cave being blasted away by the very sound. So much dust in the howling wind, carried off into the night, biting at my skin.

All my charms and wards are as nothing. Spells fail, I open my mouth and caustic dust pours in, choking and burning away all words. I choke on hubris, and a lifetime of wanderings pass before my eyes.

Two eyes in the dark, blazing like the infernal flames of hell itself. They rise into the air, growing larger, growing closer, growing fiercer. Everything around me is wind and dust in the firelight.

There are two eyes in the dark and I am alone in the world.

The end, I think, is very near.

July Quote

A haiku of mad science that made me laugh to no end:

My Moon-based Death Ray

Panics the people of Earth.

Mock my theories now!

--Andrew G. McCann

A diner by the mountain

The clock showed a quarter to two as Archie pulled a massive pan of roasting lamb out of the oven. The sky was lit with a thousand stars, the moon hidden behind the sleeping mountain. Lazily, the bright neon lights of his diner flickered on. His father long since passed on, his sisters and brothers have all moved far afield, Archie felt a pang of loneliness in his heart.

With the quiet smoothness that spoke of a ritual performed countless times, Archie began preparing for his guests. A massive wooden table slid out of a narrow closet in the wall, the legs held tightly to the bottom, easily unclasped and folded out. He remembered installing the system with his father when he was twelve, reducing the hour long struggle to get the table placed to mere minutes.

The table set, Archie surrounded it with seven chairs. Unlike the ancient oak, the chairs were new. Made of light steel and thickly cushioned. Archie still got nauseous thinking about how one of the ancient solid oak chairs was smashed to splinters during an argument. When the anger had subsided, all he had was a newer stool to offer to the now seatless guest. The next morning he received a letter requesting similar seating for the other six.

The seats set, Archie placed seven deep bowls and seven large plates. The plates were nothing more than smooth stone. The bowls were yellowed and crack. Archie suspected they were skulls, but tried not to dwell on whose. The bowls he filed with dark, rich mead. The plates he piled high with roast lamb and seasoned potatoes. The spices were running low. He didn’t know what to do when they ran out.

The clock struck two and the doors opened without a sound. Seven large men entered, their faces black with ash and dressed in thick raw leathers. Some had great beards as thick as a hedge while others had not a hair on their heads, but all had sharp grey eyes and aged faces. Archie recognized all the men from the Sunday before, all but one.

Without a glance in Archie’s direction the seven sat themselves and began to eat. They ate more than any man should be capable, and while they ate they talked. As Archie moved to keep the plates and bowls full, he would listen. He’d listen as the men complained and gossiped about the fires of the mountain they tend. Of the arms and armour they forged. Of the gods and demons that requested their work. Of the woman that stole their heart.

For the full of the night the twelve men feasted and gossiped, until an hour before dawn. Slowly, the conversation ceased, until utter silence filled the diner. Then, the one Archie did not recognize stood. He raised his bowl and said something in a harsh language Archie didn’t understand, but knew by heart. Always when one was replaced, the new one would say the prayer, the words echoing in Archie down to his core.

Then, as the abruptly as they arrived, they would leave. As Archie held the door for the last man, he looked Archie in the eye. “You do your family proud Archie White, and we are grateful. May you find a woman to take your heart, as your ancestor took ours.”

The Planet Reapers

We are winning.

Why else would global warming be such a success? While there are those who would halt our progress, still we ride forth, on steeds of smog, scouring the countryside. We have killed forests by directing the acidic rain, poisoned countless animals, and even managed to poke holes in the hated solar shield; our allies from the sun have joined us, spreading disease and death in their wake.

And just when we thought that our victory was assured, little things started to happen, things that could potentially change the war's outcome. More people started trying to conserve energy, conserve trees. These things are not enough to halt our advance, but they have slowed us down, made us work harder. This matters not to us. The planet is still full of energy wasters, and so we are still winning. As long as things remain as they are, we will eventually triumph despite these petty annoyances. The Earth will burn beneath our combined onslaught, until nothing good and green will ever grow here again.

Next Quote

The Chemical Workers Song

And its go boys go
They'll time your every breath
And every day in this place your two days nearer death
But you go

Well a process man am I and I'm tellin' you no lie
I work and breathe among the fumes that tread across the sky
There's thunder all around me and there's poison in the air
There's a lousy smell that smacks of hell and dust all in me hair

-Great Big Sea

A Harvest Festival Story

"...And so the demon Mastema stood over the fallen hero whose lifeblood even then was spilling to the Earth."

"And then he died!" Pierre interrupted from the other side of the roaring fire - the other children present laughed.

Reaching across the fire with his gnarled old stick D'Ambigeois rapped the boy once smartly over the head. "Do not, young boy, presume to tell me the end of my own story!" Looking around at the faces cast in firelight. "I am not dead yet, so don't try writing me into my own grave before I'm ready!" He complained grumpily.

"So how did you beat Mastema then?" Pierre asked, and it seemed an earnest question.

"I didn't."

"Then what happened to the Tarnhelm? And what happened with Princess Genevieve and the mysterious knight?"

"Are you telling the story or am I?" D'Ambigeois asked, shaking his cane again warningly. Then dropping the stick he settled back down. "I suppose you are simply young and curious - but understand, the tale of the Tarnhelm is a tale of chivalry and honour! Not tragedy."

"Siegfried and Brunhilda both died." Pierre said. D'Ambigeois looked at the boy carefully - for an eight year old he had an uncanny knowledge of Norse mythology.

"Indeed they did - but I am not the Sigund of legend and Princess Genevieve is not Brynhild. But we digress dear boy, and I am sure the others would wish to hear the story properly."

"Where is Princess Genevieve now?" There was a brief pause.

"Why my boy, she is the Queen Mother!" D'Ambigeois replied with a laugh.

"Then what happened to the promise you made by the Lake of Crystal Waters?" There was an awkward silence. D'Ambigeois' eyes narrowed on the young Pierre - somehow he had the impression that this eight year old was of a mind to mock him.

"Stories don't all end in happily ever after, but they don't always end in tragedy either." There was no need to strain in order to percieve the regret in his voice. The fire crackled noisily as burning embers rose like fireflies into the night air. Sieur D'Ambigeois took a moment to recompose himself and resume the story - only to be interrupted by the young Pierre again.

"Sounds like tragedy to me." Pierre said. There was something about the boy's voice that set D'Ambigeois off. He regarded the young Pierre carefully, looking for some resemblance and finding nothing he looked at some of the adults around the firelight and drifting in and out of the firelight among the other festivities.

Nothing; no old enemies, old friends...still this child was toying with him. "Well like I said, maybe things didn't turn out happily ever after," D'Ambigeois forced his most charming smile. "But you haven't hear the rest of the story yet."

This time it was boy smiled as everyone else looked on, by this point they were both the center of attention. "That's because the story is not yet ended..." Only this time the boy's voice had changed to something different. Something inhuman; accompanied by inhuman laughter.

"MASTEMA!" The old knight lept to his feet, his walking stick - the only thing within reach even resembling a weapon - instantly in his hand.

Mastema cast off his boyish guise and assumed his true form, seeming to rise out of the flames which flared wildly into the night sky. In his true form he stood nearly twelve feet and there was no mistaking him for a creature born of the tortures of hell. "It has been a long time old friend."

People were running in all directions now; screams pierced the night air. Meanwhile the demon with his terrible blazing sword and the aging Sieur D'Ambigeois with his gnarled walking stick lept at one another through the flames.

Waiting for Death

The old man sat in the old, worn rocking chair. His weathered hands gripped the faded picture. A single tear slid down his cheek as he gazed at the smiling faces of his wife and sons. It often surprised him that he still had tears to spill for them, after all this time.

"I will find you . . ."

The words whispered in the darkness to him, a promise that he had longed to believe in. Although he could feel the hope fluttering within him whenever he heard the words, after all this time, he knew better. Not even Death could free him from his prison.

He felt the tears beginning to fall, and quickly moved the photograph. He had no idea what he would do once the photo was gone, damaged beyond repair by time and tears. It was his last link to his life; the last link to the outside world. By all rights he should have been dead, a rotted skeleton by his measure, the bones picked clean. But nothing could reach him here. He was truly alone.

He could still remember clearly the day that everything changed. The day that his life was literally ripped from him. There was a storm. There had been a car accident. And then the stranger. He was the first one on the scene. And he looked hungry. There was a lot of blood. He'd never forget the never-ending stream. Like a river.

He screamed while it was happening, pleading with it to stop, to take him instead. But the stranger just laughed. And when the man was the only one left alive, the stranger spoke.

"Although I hunger still, I will leave you here," he said, drifting closer. "But you cannot have this."

And the stranger ripped his heart out of his chest.

The pain eventually subsided enough for the man to get away from the wrecked vehicles. Luckily, he and his family had been heading home from their camp, which was only a few miles up the road. He managed to stumble his way back to camp where he passed out.

When he finally woke, after at least a few days of being asleep, he was surprised to find a shadow standing over him.

"I know you are here," the shadow said. "Though it is faint, I can feel your pulse. I will find you, and take you home."

"Wha . . . ?" the man asked, stumbling backwards out of the bed, away from the shadow as it reached a bleach white, bony hand towards him. "What are you? Are you Death?"

He never did find out exactly what the shadow was, for at that moment it looked up, then disappeared. It came back often, always whispering that it would find him, but it never did.
Between its visits, the man fell into despair. For although he did not eat, he was no longer hungry, and although he no longer drank, he did not thirst. His body continued living, no matter how he neglected it. And no matter how often the shadow came for him, it never managed
to find him. And so he sits, in the crumbling ruins of what was once his camp. Waiting for a Death that eludes him still.