Must drown it out. Listen for the patterns of history. It is a song with a frequent refrain. Not exactly the best of songs. Too chaotic for my taste. More to the point, it's orderly in all the wrong places. Predictable, yet somehow overwhelmingly chaotic. How can something be both orderly and chaotic simultaneously? Isn't that a contradiction? Shouldn't those two things cancel out?
The song keeps on playing in any event, and the tempo remains unchanged. I wish it would slow down. Give my time to breath. Give us all time to breath. I can barely understand the lyrics as it is. I don't think anyone can. None of us were given sheets with the lyrics on them. We have to interpret the lyrics the best we can. The problem is, we haven't been able to come to a universal consensus of what they are. Everyone keeps hearing different things, picking out different words. Many times, almost always in fact, there have been people who not only hear something completely different from everyone else, but insist that everyone else is stupid for not getting it. Where some hear "evil" others hear "justified."Where some hear "dictators" others hear "enlightened despot." Where some hear "oppression" others hear nothing at all. Most of us don't really think about it. They just tend to pick the side that feels right. Though I heavily disagree with that mentality, I can't really blame them. Trying to sort through all this CRAP is stressful as Hell. At least Hell is simple.
I wonder what the lyrics are. I get the sense that there are a lot of lyrics.
Of course, it's hard to hear them because everyone keeps talking, and perhaps we'd actually be able
to properly hear and understand the lyrics if everyone just SHUT THE FUCK UP!
I can't hear the song. There is too much noise. Please help. I don't want to be here. I wanna break.
August 24, 2019
August 23, 2019
Philosophical Ramblings
If
⨍ + Disproportionate Distribution = ∞
Then
∞ = 0
If everything is an illusion, then there is no distinction between illusion and reality.
They are one and the same. Clearly not though, as there is an obvious difference between what I’m
experiencing, and what that guy in the Sahara is hallucinating. If everything is illusionary, therefore,
there must be layers. What makes my experience any different than that poor sap in the desert? We
largely understand how our bodies work. Hallucinations are caused by a mind and/or body not
functioning correctly (heat and dehydration in the stated case). If this is the case, perhaps the
difference between reality and illusion is how well our senses work. I hear the transformer in the lead
extension next to my bed. Most people, I’ve been told, cannot. Does that make reality more real for me
in particular? Or does it perhaps make things less real? If most others can’t hear it, who’s to say it’s
really even there? And if there is no reality? If everything is an illusion? Then everything must be real.
That being the case, subjective observation is not the process of perceiving reality through biased filters,
but creating reality for ourselves.
You can tell you’re dreaming ‘cause you don’t experience as much, nor with the same intensity.
You know it’s not real.
If you’re hallucinating (or tripping balls) you’re experiencing more, and/or with
more intensity. Doesn’t that imply that hallucinations are even more real? Except no, it’s thought of in a
similar vein as dreams. What makes us so sure that we’re experiencing the correct reality?
We cannot be. I cannot be, at any rate. Am I experiencing too much, hallucinating? Or too little,
dreaming? Does the concept of a “correct” reality even make sense?
You know it’s not real.
If you’re hallucinating (or tripping balls) you’re experiencing more, and/or with
more intensity. Doesn’t that imply that hallucinations are even more real? Except no, it’s thought of in a
similar vein as dreams. What makes us so sure that we’re experiencing the correct reality?
We cannot be. I cannot be, at any rate. Am I experiencing too much, hallucinating? Or too little,
dreaming? Does the concept of a “correct” reality even make sense?
I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.
The Eye From Beyond the Void (Fiction {Cosmic Horror})
There came a knock on the door of one Elizabeth Mercury, shattering the silence that had
held dominion over the stygian blackness of the night but a moment before. Having been
suddenly awoken from her slumber, Elizabeth staggered over to the tall wooden door, her frame
thin, her eyes unfocused, and her hair - as black as the night surrounding her - utterly dishevelled.
Trying to at least pretend her mind was in proper working order, she shoved open the great door
that served as a barrier between her and the outside world, and regarded the man in front of her,
the source of the night’s unwanted interruption.
He looked just as dishevelled as she, though significantly more alert. He carried a purse,
the inside of which contained many letters, addressed to a variety of people. Not bothering to
hide her irritation, Elizabeth asked him what he was doing at such a late hour. Couldn’t he wait
until morning to deliver letters?
“I’m afraid I can’t, Ma’am. Sorry ‘bout that,” he said, rummaging around in his purse and
extracting the correct letter, “but I was told it was of the utmost urgency.”
“Well...alright,” said Elizabeth, tiredly taking the one addressed to her.
The man smiled.
“Very good, Ma’am. I shall now ‘ave to take ma leave. ‘Got many more urgent letters to
deliver, and it is soon to rain.”
At that he departed, all the while leaving dear Elizabeth to ponder
over the contents of her letter. Her curiosity piqued, and with her ability to go back to sleep
having left with the man, she decided to sit on a couch in her living room. With tea beside her,
and the lamp next to her as her only source of light - save the occasional flashes of lightning
through the window from the thunderstorm outside - she picked up the yellow paper of the letter
and began to read its contents.
It was, of course, addressed to her, but she was surprised to find its sender was her
brother Thoth. She hadn’t seen him for nigh on five years - hadn’t had any contact with him at all
in fact - ever since he left for that one archaeological site he had refused to give her the name of.
He had said something about not wanting to be followed; evidently it worked, for no one had.
Given how much time had passed since anyone had last seen him, she had simply assumed him dead.
Now, more curious about the letter’s content than ever, she carefully peeled back the cover
from the surface to which it was glued, and with trembling fingers and a pounding heart, gingerly
unfolded the paper, and began to read:
Dearest Elizabeth,
I would first like to apologize for leaving so abruptly, and for not writing to you before this.
It has been a difficult time for me, and undoubtedly for you as well. So many years have passed.
You might’ve thought me dead before receiving this letter of mine. Rest assured, I yet live, but only
just. You see, dear sister, I did not send this letter in order to catch up, so much as warn you. I
must confess, I would not have written at all were it not for the urgency of the situation at
hand. Although I am not at liberty to disclose to you the location of which the following events took
place, I do have the privilege of disclosing the details of my experience.
The event in question occurred deep underground, in some ancient ruins. I was exploring a cave
system you see - though again I cannot say why - when I stumbled and fell down a hole. Though
it was quite the fall, I only got minor scratches, which was certainly lucky due to the sharp
stalagmites present mere inches away from me. Less so was the fact that I didn’t have my rope
with me, nor my radio. I was trapped down there. Now, common sense would dictate that I simply
wait there for the expedition team to come and find me, but two things prevented me from doing
this. For one, I was exploring a rather hidden spot that my team were unlikely to find. Exploring a
hidden spot that’s hard to find, while also forgetting my radio. Looking back, I’ve just now realized
how stupid I was being. What an amateurish blunder.
In any event, the second thing preventing me from staying still was my curiosity. The hole I
fell down led to a long cave, one with a crimson glow at the end of it; that alone might not have
been enough to persuade me to seek it out - it could easily have been magma after all - but I also
felt this irresistible pull, as if it there was some sort of presence drawing me toward it. Walking to
the end of the hall - for that is what the cave had transitioned into - I came upon a most
peculiar sight. In the cavern that was now open before me, I gawked up at two most queer looking
towers of obsidian, standing across from each other atop a set of charcoal coloured stairs; and
hovering between them was a great orb of crimson and fire, that can only truly be described as an
eye.
It was then that, to my horror, the eye focused on me, and as it stared into my
very soul, I found I could not move - such was the terrifying presence of that eldritch thing. Its mere
existence pulled everything toward it, so dense and hungry as to be a black hole. Reality itself seemed
to vibrate with uncertainty, as the fabric that held the universe together was being warped and
blurred, objects that should be separate blending into each other. All the while the eye simply
watched, its pupil darker than the deepest seas, darker than the vacuum of space, darker even than
the most twisted and disgusting things that have come out of the depths of the human mind.
There’s a saying, if you’d recall, that if you stare into the void, the void stares back. This
eye was so much greater than the void, its presence so much more overpowering. It was unnerving,
and yet I could not stop staring; there was nothing hidden from this eye; it saw all and it knew all.
I could see reality itself reflected in that eye, time unravelling and reassembling as if it was some
primordial plaything. I knew then that I was helpless - completely powerless. I felt sure I would die
on the spot.
I woke up hours later, or so I’m told, right outside the entrance of our camp. I have been
confined to my bed for weeks, due to both mental and physical trauma. I can no longer see, as
evidently the event burned out my eyes. I have been having my dear friend Charlie scribe for me. I do
not remember much of what happened that day, but fragments come to me in dreams and
nightmares, and my friends have been able to record things I say in my sleep.
This is all to say, dear sister, that I am coming home. I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly, and
I’m sorry that I have never sent anything before now, but please know that I love you. I will explain
everything to you when I get home, answer all your questions, I promise you.
There were tears splattered on the pages. Elizabeth wiped her eyes and stared at the letter.
Reaching for her untouched tea, she found it to be cold. Like the monster she was, she drank it
anyway. Continuing to stare in disbelief, she carefully tucked it back into its envelope, and
hugged it to her chest. As she processed the information presented to her, she began to accept it,
until finally she was settled. Her heart beat strongly as she breathed a sigh of relief. It only took
an encounter with an incomprehensibly powerful entity beyond the restraint of reality
to encourage him to return, but there it was.
Word Count: 1370
held dominion over the stygian blackness of the night but a moment before. Having been
suddenly awoken from her slumber, Elizabeth staggered over to the tall wooden door, her frame
thin, her eyes unfocused, and her hair - as black as the night surrounding her - utterly dishevelled.
Trying to at least pretend her mind was in proper working order, she shoved open the great door
that served as a barrier between her and the outside world, and regarded the man in front of her,
the source of the night’s unwanted interruption.
He looked just as dishevelled as she, though significantly more alert. He carried a purse,
the inside of which contained many letters, addressed to a variety of people. Not bothering to
hide her irritation, Elizabeth asked him what he was doing at such a late hour. Couldn’t he wait
until morning to deliver letters?
“I’m afraid I can’t, Ma’am. Sorry ‘bout that,” he said, rummaging around in his purse and
extracting the correct letter, “but I was told it was of the utmost urgency.”
“Well...alright,” said Elizabeth, tiredly taking the one addressed to her.
The man smiled.
“Very good, Ma’am. I shall now ‘ave to take ma leave. ‘Got many more urgent letters to
deliver, and it is soon to rain.”
At that he departed, all the while leaving dear Elizabeth to ponder
over the contents of her letter. Her curiosity piqued, and with her ability to go back to sleep
having left with the man, she decided to sit on a couch in her living room. With tea beside her,
and the lamp next to her as her only source of light - save the occasional flashes of lightning
through the window from the thunderstorm outside - she picked up the yellow paper of the letter
and began to read its contents.
It was, of course, addressed to her, but she was surprised to find its sender was her
brother Thoth. She hadn’t seen him for nigh on five years - hadn’t had any contact with him at all
in fact - ever since he left for that one archaeological site he had refused to give her the name of.
He had said something about not wanting to be followed; evidently it worked, for no one had.
Given how much time had passed since anyone had last seen him, she had simply assumed him dead.
Now, more curious about the letter’s content than ever, she carefully peeled back the cover
from the surface to which it was glued, and with trembling fingers and a pounding heart, gingerly
unfolded the paper, and began to read:
Dearest Elizabeth,
I would first like to apologize for leaving so abruptly, and for not writing to you before this.
It has been a difficult time for me, and undoubtedly for you as well. So many years have passed.
You might’ve thought me dead before receiving this letter of mine. Rest assured, I yet live, but only
just. You see, dear sister, I did not send this letter in order to catch up, so much as warn you. I
must confess, I would not have written at all were it not for the urgency of the situation at
hand. Although I am not at liberty to disclose to you the location of which the following events took
place, I do have the privilege of disclosing the details of my experience.
The event in question occurred deep underground, in some ancient ruins. I was exploring a cave
system you see - though again I cannot say why - when I stumbled and fell down a hole. Though
it was quite the fall, I only got minor scratches, which was certainly lucky due to the sharp
stalagmites present mere inches away from me. Less so was the fact that I didn’t have my rope
with me, nor my radio. I was trapped down there. Now, common sense would dictate that I simply
wait there for the expedition team to come and find me, but two things prevented me from doing
this. For one, I was exploring a rather hidden spot that my team were unlikely to find. Exploring a
hidden spot that’s hard to find, while also forgetting my radio. Looking back, I’ve just now realized
how stupid I was being. What an amateurish blunder.
In any event, the second thing preventing me from staying still was my curiosity. The hole I
fell down led to a long cave, one with a crimson glow at the end of it; that alone might not have
been enough to persuade me to seek it out - it could easily have been magma after all - but I also
felt this irresistible pull, as if it there was some sort of presence drawing me toward it. Walking to
the end of the hall - for that is what the cave had transitioned into - I came upon a most
peculiar sight. In the cavern that was now open before me, I gawked up at two most queer looking
towers of obsidian, standing across from each other atop a set of charcoal coloured stairs; and
hovering between them was a great orb of crimson and fire, that can only truly be described as an
eye.
It was then that, to my horror, the eye focused on me, and as it stared into my
very soul, I found I could not move - such was the terrifying presence of that eldritch thing. Its mere
existence pulled everything toward it, so dense and hungry as to be a black hole. Reality itself seemed
to vibrate with uncertainty, as the fabric that held the universe together was being warped and
blurred, objects that should be separate blending into each other. All the while the eye simply
watched, its pupil darker than the deepest seas, darker than the vacuum of space, darker even than
the most twisted and disgusting things that have come out of the depths of the human mind.
There’s a saying, if you’d recall, that if you stare into the void, the void stares back. This
eye was so much greater than the void, its presence so much more overpowering. It was unnerving,
and yet I could not stop staring; there was nothing hidden from this eye; it saw all and it knew all.
I could see reality itself reflected in that eye, time unravelling and reassembling as if it was some
primordial plaything. I knew then that I was helpless - completely powerless. I felt sure I would die
on the spot.
I woke up hours later, or so I’m told, right outside the entrance of our camp. I have been
confined to my bed for weeks, due to both mental and physical trauma. I can no longer see, as
evidently the event burned out my eyes. I have been having my dear friend Charlie scribe for me. I do
not remember much of what happened that day, but fragments come to me in dreams and
nightmares, and my friends have been able to record things I say in my sleep.
This is all to say, dear sister, that I am coming home. I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly, and
I’m sorry that I have never sent anything before now, but please know that I love you. I will explain
everything to you when I get home, answer all your questions, I promise you.
I should be home in about two weeks. Take care.
With guilt and love,
Thoth.
There were tears splattered on the pages. Elizabeth wiped her eyes and stared at the letter.
Reaching for her untouched tea, she found it to be cold. Like the monster she was, she drank it
anyway. Continuing to stare in disbelief, she carefully tucked it back into its envelope, and
hugged it to her chest. As she processed the information presented to her, she began to accept it,
until finally she was settled. Her heart beat strongly as she breathed a sigh of relief. It only took
an encounter with an incomprehensibly powerful entity beyond the restraint of reality
to encourage him to return, but there it was.
Her brother was alive;
and he was coming home.
Word Count: 1370
The Spectre of Tasmania (Fiction)
Sentence 1: This boy’s power has potential, untapped by…
Sentence 2: The Spectre of Tasmania lives, the stories say, in the middle of the island, in a desolate
region surrounded by mountains.
region surrounded by mountains.
Sentence 3: So, that being said, we can therefore conclude that something belongs to someone if that
person holds it to be of high enough value.
person holds it to be of high enough value.
“I’m telling you, she’s real. She. Is. Real!” Slam. She hits the book she was holding rather hard on
the surface of my desk, Ghost stories of the Australian Outback. Hm. Perhaps she is serious; it’s not
every day that Hecate is willing to risk damaging one of her precious books, certainly not when she’s
trying to prove yet another conspiracy theory of her’s. Even still…
I sigh and look up at my colleague with weary eyes, eyes that I hope look the part.
How this woman somehow managed to become an actual, honest to God professor is beyond
me; and not just any type of professor, but a history professor? I just don’t get it.
She’s staring at me expectantly. Crap, I tuned out didn’t I?
I blink. “What was that again?” I ask. Hecate sighs, rubbing her eyes, I guess she’s tired too.
She looks up at me and calmly states what I’ve been trying not to think about,
“You can’t leave him locked away forever.”
“Who?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Your son, Prometheus. You can’t keep him away from everyone, it’s not good for him, it’s not
healthy.” Ah yes, this again. Doesn’t she realize that I have to do it? He’s too large a risk to the public.
I tell her as much.
“You’re wasting him away!” she says in apparent frustration, “that boy has potential, untapped by the
likes of you.” Her response, though predictable, still provokes anger in me.
“What the Hell do you mean ‘the likes of me?’ What, do you want him to go after your ‘Spectre of
Tasmania’ or something?” The look on her face answers my question: that’s a yes.
In all fairness, she honestly wouldn’t want to use my son for her own gain; this must be something
truly serious. I find myself concerned.
“Okay I’ll bite. Who is this ‘Spectre of Tasmania?’”
She gives a small smile, and turns to a page in her book
“she is is a very powerful ghost-like entity that lives in, well, Tasmania. The stories in this book say
that she lives in the middle of the island, in an extremely hot and desolate region surrounded by
mountains.”
“What makes you so certain that she’s real?” I ask. Hecate looks at me with an intensity in her eyes.
“Dreams,” she answers, “but not any normal dreams, I wouldn’t be freaking out so much over
that. No, I had visions, just like your son Prometheus.” She shifts uncomfortably.
“You know that we talk to each other every once in a while, right? We’ve exchanged phone
numbers and emails.”
“Of course,” I reply, “what of it?”
“Well, I had dreams about this Spectre of Tasmania, and I was thinking about emailing
Prometheus to tell him about it, but he called me before I had the chance. As it would turn out, he had
some surprisingly similar dreams, but his was more...deep,
more philosophical. I distinctly recall him talking about how people define value, saying how money is
an abstract representation of how much we value things, and that by putting a
price tag on something one says how much they value that thing; ‘ something belongs to
someone if that person holds it to be of high enough value,’ I remember him stating.”
“He got all that from a dream?” I interject.
“Apparently,” she shrugs. “I think what he was trying to put into words was how the Spectre
values her land dearly, and someone, or something, is intruding upon it.”
I nod. “Yup, sounds like Prometheus alright. Let’s go get him,” I say, putting on my jacket.
“Right,” says she, mirroring my movements. As we exit into the rainy winter day, I ponder what the
future could hold. Prometheus will know.
the surface of my desk, Ghost stories of the Australian Outback. Hm. Perhaps she is serious; it’s not
every day that Hecate is willing to risk damaging one of her precious books, certainly not when she’s
trying to prove yet another conspiracy theory of her’s. Even still…
I sigh and look up at my colleague with weary eyes, eyes that I hope look the part.
How this woman somehow managed to become an actual, honest to God professor is beyond
me; and not just any type of professor, but a history professor? I just don’t get it.
She’s staring at me expectantly. Crap, I tuned out didn’t I?
I blink. “What was that again?” I ask. Hecate sighs, rubbing her eyes, I guess she’s tired too.
She looks up at me and calmly states what I’ve been trying not to think about,
“You can’t leave him locked away forever.”
“Who?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Your son, Prometheus. You can’t keep him away from everyone, it’s not good for him, it’s not
healthy.” Ah yes, this again. Doesn’t she realize that I have to do it? He’s too large a risk to the public.
I tell her as much.
“You’re wasting him away!” she says in apparent frustration, “that boy has potential, untapped by the
likes of you.” Her response, though predictable, still provokes anger in me.
“What the Hell do you mean ‘the likes of me?’ What, do you want him to go after your ‘Spectre of
Tasmania’ or something?” The look on her face answers my question: that’s a yes.
In all fairness, she honestly wouldn’t want to use my son for her own gain; this must be something
truly serious. I find myself concerned.
“Okay I’ll bite. Who is this ‘Spectre of Tasmania?’”
She gives a small smile, and turns to a page in her book
“she is is a very powerful ghost-like entity that lives in, well, Tasmania. The stories in this book say
that she lives in the middle of the island, in an extremely hot and desolate region surrounded by
mountains.”
“What makes you so certain that she’s real?” I ask. Hecate looks at me with an intensity in her eyes.
“Dreams,” she answers, “but not any normal dreams, I wouldn’t be freaking out so much over
that. No, I had visions, just like your son Prometheus.” She shifts uncomfortably.
“You know that we talk to each other every once in a while, right? We’ve exchanged phone
numbers and emails.”
“Of course,” I reply, “what of it?”
“Well, I had dreams about this Spectre of Tasmania, and I was thinking about emailing
Prometheus to tell him about it, but he called me before I had the chance. As it would turn out, he had
some surprisingly similar dreams, but his was more...deep,
more philosophical. I distinctly recall him talking about how people define value, saying how money is
an abstract representation of how much we value things, and that by putting a
price tag on something one says how much they value that thing; ‘ something belongs to
someone if that person holds it to be of high enough value,’ I remember him stating.”
“He got all that from a dream?” I interject.
“Apparently,” she shrugs. “I think what he was trying to put into words was how the Spectre
values her land dearly, and someone, or something, is intruding upon it.”
I nod. “Yup, sounds like Prometheus alright. Let’s go get him,” I say, putting on my jacket.
“Right,” says she, mirroring my movements. As we exit into the rainy winter day, I ponder what the
future could hold. Prometheus will know.
He always knows.
Word Count: 634
The Fortune Teller (Fiction)
Alex Smith was on their way home from school when they got a little sidetracked.
They were taking a shortcut through Chinatown and curiosity seemed to get the better of them.
They didn’t normally pass by Oak St., dead-end alleyway that it was, but there was some
construction work being done on the route they would normally take. To avoid this, they took a
different route.
They were taking a shortcut through Chinatown and curiosity seemed to get the better of them.
They didn’t normally pass by Oak St., dead-end alleyway that it was, but there was some
construction work being done on the route they would normally take. To avoid this, they took a
different route.
So it was, on that Friday evening, they passed by that fateful alleyway. They would have passed
right by, if not for the small crowd of homeless people gathered by the entrance. Listening in,
Alex could hear them speaking in reverence about a figure they called “The Fortune Teller.”
They decided to ask one of them about this “Fortune Teller,” and so tapped the shoulder of a
woman next to them.
“Excuse me,” they asked, “who is this ‘Fortune Teller’ I keep hearing about?”
right by, if not for the small crowd of homeless people gathered by the entrance. Listening in,
Alex could hear them speaking in reverence about a figure they called “The Fortune Teller.”
They decided to ask one of them about this “Fortune Teller,” and so tapped the shoulder of a
woman next to them.
“Excuse me,” they asked, “who is this ‘Fortune Teller’ I keep hearing about?”
The woman gasped, clasping her hands together.
“Oh the Fortune Teller is a divine prophet of Siming,” she said in a raspy voice, “and he will
tell you what your destiny holds - so long as you have an offering.”
Though unnerved, Alex thanked her. Now, you’d think this would cause Alex to continue on
their merry way.
“Oh the Fortune Teller is a divine prophet of Siming,” she said in a raspy voice, “and he will
tell you what your destiny holds - so long as you have an offering.”
Though unnerved, Alex thanked her. Now, you’d think this would cause Alex to continue on
their merry way.
You’d be wrong.
Alex felt weirdly drawn to whoever was at the end of the alleyway, so they decided to push
through the crowd to meet the Fortune Teller. When they arrived, they were met with an
interesting sight: a pavilion made out of garbage bags and clotheslines. For what it was, it
honestly looked pretty grand, and surprisingly fancy. Two men were guarding the entrance, and
at first they barred Alex’s path. It was at that exact moment that Alex met this fabled
Fortune Teller.
through the crowd to meet the Fortune Teller. When they arrived, they were met with an
interesting sight: a pavilion made out of garbage bags and clotheslines. For what it was, it
honestly looked pretty grand, and surprisingly fancy. Two men were guarding the entrance, and
at first they barred Alex’s path. It was at that exact moment that Alex met this fabled
Fortune Teller.
Alex was not surprised by the sight before them per say, but they were still hoping for
something more impressive. The Fortune Teller was not an impressive sight. Though he smiled
wide, what was left of his teeth were worn and yellow and cracked; though his arms were wide
and welcoming, his skin was old and wrinkly; though he stood proud, he did not stand tall,
hunched over as he was; and though he was dressed - albeit in rags - one could see his bones
jutting out against his skin. Even still, he vibrated with an nervous energy, and in an excited
voice insisted to the guards that they let Alex in.
something more impressive. The Fortune Teller was not an impressive sight. Though he smiled
wide, what was left of his teeth were worn and yellow and cracked; though his arms were wide
and welcoming, his skin was old and wrinkly; though he stood proud, he did not stand tall,
hunched over as he was; and though he was dressed - albeit in rags - one could see his bones
jutting out against his skin. Even still, he vibrated with an nervous energy, and in an excited
voice insisted to the guards that they let Alex in.
The first thing Alex noticed when taking in their surroundings, was the large pile of fortune
cookies stacked against the wall. Presumably, that’s where the Fortune Teller got his name. The
second thing was the pile of discarded needles. These must be the offerings the woman from
earlier was talking about.
cookies stacked against the wall. Presumably, that’s where the Fortune Teller got his name. The
second thing was the pile of discarded needles. These must be the offerings the woman from
earlier was talking about.
“I was expecting you,” said the Fortune Teller, snapping Alex’s attention back to him, “it was
foretold that you’d come here. I was told by Siming, blessed be the lord of Fate, that you would
be arriving to start your journey.” As he talked, his hands twitched rapidly, and his eyes stared
earnestly at Alex. Alex couldn’t help but notice that his pupils were unnervingly wide, but
didn’t have time to dwell on it before he scurried over to the cookie pile and began searching.
foretold that you’d come here. I was told by Siming, blessed be the lord of Fate, that you would
be arriving to start your journey.” As he talked, his hands twitched rapidly, and his eyes stared
earnestly at Alex. Alex couldn’t help but notice that his pupils were unnervingly wide, but
didn’t have time to dwell on it before he scurried over to the cookie pile and began searching.
Finally, he chose one and presented it to Alex. Alex cracked it.
“Well?” said the Fortune Teller expectantly. “Read it.” So, with a great deal of apprehension,
Alex read their fortune aloud:
Alex read their fortune aloud:
“‘Your shoes will make you happy today.’” They stared quizzically at the old man.
“No, no, no, that’s not right, that’s not right at all,” the old man said. He went back to the pile
and dug around some more. After a minute, he found another one, and presented it to Alex.
Alex cracked it, and once again read aloud:
“‘A very attractive person has a message for you.’” By this point, Alex was getting impatient.
“Look,” they said, “I’m running late, and I really need to get home, so if I could justー”
and dug around some more. After a minute, he found another one, and presented it to Alex.
Alex cracked it, and once again read aloud:
“‘A very attractive person has a message for you.’” By this point, Alex was getting impatient.
“Look,” they said, “I’m running late, and I really need to get home, so if I could justー”
“No! Please!” said the old man, grasping at their shirt. “Allow me just one more chance.”
Alex sighed and rolled their eyes. “Fine,” they said, “but only one.” So the old man searched
one last time, and gave them one last cookie. Taking it, Alex cracked this one. “It’s blank,” they
said. At this, the Fortune Teller smiled.
Alex sighed and rolled their eyes. “Fine,” they said, “but only one.” So the old man searched
one last time, and gave them one last cookie. Taking it, Alex cracked this one. “It’s blank,” they
said. At this, the Fortune Teller smiled.
“All will be revealed with time. Now go, and do not lose your fortune.” At that, Alex left the
pavilion, arriving back home that evening.
pavilion, arriving back home that evening.
The old man, meanwhile, was hooked on narcotics. Not the prophet he thought he was, his
followers kept the drugs flowing, perpetuating his addiction. Fortunately, his daughter finally
managed to get him the help he needed, taking care of him, and making sure rehabilitation
would restore him to his former self.
followers kept the drugs flowing, perpetuating his addiction. Fortunately, his daughter finally
managed to get him the help he needed, taking care of him, and making sure rehabilitation
would restore him to his former self.
Word Count:
800
Temple of the Gods
A mighty bolt of lightning strikes on the horizon, thrown from the heavens to pierce the sea,
briefly lighting up the darkness cast by the clouds, revealing power and splendour not found
nor created by mortal Man, but merely witnessed in awe. The wind howls as the waves crash
into each other, the water whipped up into a fearsome maelstrom, deafening to the ears.
Braving this awesome storm, a trireme lurches forward with sails raised and eagle figurehead
proudly displayed. Triremes are not built to withstand weather of this sort, and this trireme
struggles to stay afloat; the fact that it hasn’t yet sunk is a miracle all on its own.
briefly lighting up the darkness cast by the clouds, revealing power and splendour not found
nor created by mortal Man, but merely witnessed in awe. The wind howls as the waves crash
into each other, the water whipped up into a fearsome maelstrom, deafening to the ears.
Braving this awesome storm, a trireme lurches forward with sails raised and eagle figurehead
proudly displayed. Triremes are not built to withstand weather of this sort, and this trireme
struggles to stay afloat; the fact that it hasn’t yet sunk is a miracle all on its own.
In the distance, tall mountain peaks stand in defiance of the storm, their peaks piercing the
heavens as that first bolt pierced the sea. Earth meets air, surrounded by water, tempered by the
lightning’s fire. Truly, this storm encapsulates all of creation; truly, this is a place of divine
inspiration; truly, this is a spectacle to behold.
heavens as that first bolt pierced the sea. Earth meets air, surrounded by water, tempered by the
lightning’s fire. Truly, this storm encapsulates all of creation; truly, this is a place of divine
inspiration; truly, this is a spectacle to behold.
To the average person this would seem chaotic, a demonstration of the unpredictability of the
universe. In actuality, this storm is in perfect harmony, a demonstration of the ultimately
orderly nature of the universe. Just as the planets orbit the sun, so to does the wind and the rain
orbit the point of lowest pressure, and just as the stars brighten the night sky, so to does the
lightning brighten the clouds.
universe. In actuality, this storm is in perfect harmony, a demonstration of the ultimately
orderly nature of the universe. Just as the planets orbit the sun, so to does the wind and the rain
orbit the point of lowest pressure, and just as the stars brighten the night sky, so to does the
lightning brighten the clouds.
This storm is a temple to nature, a temple to the gods; let none desecrate it, for to do so would
be to commit blasphemy of the highest degree.
be to commit blasphemy of the highest degree.
The types of Books I like
Prompt: Reverence for Books and Reading
Ever since I was a wee little lad, I have had a high degree of fondness for books. This was
exacerbated by the fact that I actually did not, in fact, get a phone until I was around 13 or 14; so
naturally, instead of being addicted to my phone, I was addicted to my books.
I was interested in a lot of books, but myths and legends had always held a special place in my mind,
and they still do. It shouldn’t surprise anyone, therefore, that my interest in reading actual novels
arrived when I read my first Percy Jackson book. I remember the moment: I was in Grade Five I
believe, and it was reading time; having just finished the novel that I was reading at the time, I went to
the front of the classroom to return it to the bin and take another. Lo and behold, for the book I picked
up to read was one that I had never heard of before:
Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Titan’s Curse. It was great, and it introduced me to a world of
fiction that I continue to cherish to this day. These days, I enjoy Sci-Fi and Fantasy. Honestly though, I
enjoy reading anything that feels like it has a universe inside; if it feels like there is more to the story
than the plot; if said setting feels old, like it has a history of its own.
I also enjoy a fair share of non-fiction as well, in addition to the novels that I find oh so delightful. This
is a pretty recent thing for me, and it is mainly driven by my new found love of philosophy.
To conclude, my idea of the perfect story is one involving gods and a heaping helping of philosophy.
exacerbated by the fact that I actually did not, in fact, get a phone until I was around 13 or 14; so
naturally, instead of being addicted to my phone, I was addicted to my books.
I was interested in a lot of books, but myths and legends had always held a special place in my mind,
and they still do. It shouldn’t surprise anyone, therefore, that my interest in reading actual novels
arrived when I read my first Percy Jackson book. I remember the moment: I was in Grade Five I
believe, and it was reading time; having just finished the novel that I was reading at the time, I went to
the front of the classroom to return it to the bin and take another. Lo and behold, for the book I picked
up to read was one that I had never heard of before:
Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Titan’s Curse. It was great, and it introduced me to a world of
fiction that I continue to cherish to this day. These days, I enjoy Sci-Fi and Fantasy. Honestly though, I
enjoy reading anything that feels like it has a universe inside; if it feels like there is more to the story
than the plot; if said setting feels old, like it has a history of its own.
I also enjoy a fair share of non-fiction as well, in addition to the novels that I find oh so delightful. This
is a pretty recent thing for me, and it is mainly driven by my new found love of philosophy.
To conclude, my idea of the perfect story is one involving gods and a heaping helping of philosophy.
Word Count: 301
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