It wasn't Maria, in St Louis... now, we had been adults, you see, and in the throes of passion. I met my son, who we'll just call Shai. He was very keen on being upset with me, despite me having never even known of his existence. As one of the things he did know about me was that I was a gangster, my prim grey coat and agreeable attitude didn't quit jive with his expectations. It was not difficult to sweet-talk him out of righteous fury, but curiosity got the best of him and he started to show an unacceptable level of interest in my life. As such, I arranged to make another meeting with him at a later date and promptly pretended that the event had never happened. And that will be that. He's thirty-three now, he doesn't need daddy around to care for him. All I'd end up doing is drag him into, well, this mess.
But, ahem, that's enough of my personal life. I've heard a rumor that the only compatriot of mine involved in the Greyskin incident who objected to me describing the story here has died rather messily - all of his teeth removed, I hear. Terrible, terrible. All but rumors for now, however, so please be patient while I receive confirmation.
Thursday 29 March 2012
Saturday 17 March 2012
The Face of a Generation
Some of us propose that the Father is a simulacrum, the face of the veil. I have heard evidence to support this theorem, although it is probably some sort of heresy to openly espouse it without the backing of a shift in the Timberwolves' line of thinking. I suppose I shall simply let those of you who visit my cozy corner of the internet decide for yourselves.
Lily's husband had been dead for five years. Lily's husband had been stalking her with intent to kill for five years. Obviously, something wasn't quite right here. For whatever inscrutable reason, the Father had singled out his prey, and one lonely night so deigned to pounce.
Lily was prepared, of course. She had survived for five years as a self-affirming widow due to preparation, instincts and uncanny aim. Not that it did her any good, as she had never been able to (as far as she could tell) actually land a solid blow upon the thing that wore her husband's signature greatcoat. Sometimes she shot, sometimes she stabbed, but the glassy eyes of the Father's mask betrayed no sign that metal had met flesh.
Over the years she had developed an uncanny ability to predict when her husband would come knocking, like an old woman feeling an oncoming storm in her bones. It should be needless to say that it's very, very difficult to take a god by surprise. We are quite sure that many parts of this story are embellished (I did, in fact, hear it directly from the horse's mouth) due to this fact. Lily's husband gently pushed open the locked door like (and I apologize for lapsing in my sophistication) it wasn't no thang, and was promptly reintroduced to his old umbrella. The Father shrugged off this unorthodox means of assault to find that Lily was gone, and he proceeded to search the rest of the house.
He entered Lily's husband's old room, coldly surveying it with a strange hint of recognition. Then he was shot in the back with a twelve-gauge shotgun.
The Father stood for a moment, still. A scream pierced the air, and Lily heard her husband's voice for the first time in five years - a scream of pain. Her vision blurred and bright white spots consumed the world as she saw the Father turn to face her. Its chest had shattered like glass, as if her husband's likeness were a shell around what she saw within his chest.
Simultaneously she saw her husband stumbling back, shouting in agony, his face freed from the gas mask as he bled and died on his old bed. But they didn't happen at once, and the two visions alternated and interwove and coexisted and Lily screamed because she couldn't make sense of it and her eyes kept being drawn to the hole in the Father's chest. But then the Father took all of the pain away, and pulled her into a tight embrace. The pain was gone and her body was on fire. Then the Father took off his mask, and she saw Him, and she saw Bliss.
This was approximately the point, we theorize, that Lily entered the Father's dominion. Neighbors called the police, and they found Lily not breathing and surrounded by blood. Forensics indicated that the blood was deeply stained into the bed and carpet, and had been there for at least five years. Fortunately, they were able to resuscitate Lily. She described to them a near-death experience, a feeling of absolute protection. This was only half of the truth, of course. Myself and my compatriots later extracted the rest, catching her before her inevitable suicide.
Lily's husband had been dead for five years. Lily's husband had been stalking her with intent to kill for five years. Obviously, something wasn't quite right here. For whatever inscrutable reason, the Father had singled out his prey, and one lonely night so deigned to pounce.
Lily was prepared, of course. She had survived for five years as a self-affirming widow due to preparation, instincts and uncanny aim. Not that it did her any good, as she had never been able to (as far as she could tell) actually land a solid blow upon the thing that wore her husband's signature greatcoat. Sometimes she shot, sometimes she stabbed, but the glassy eyes of the Father's mask betrayed no sign that metal had met flesh.
Over the years she had developed an uncanny ability to predict when her husband would come knocking, like an old woman feeling an oncoming storm in her bones. It should be needless to say that it's very, very difficult to take a god by surprise. We are quite sure that many parts of this story are embellished (I did, in fact, hear it directly from the horse's mouth) due to this fact. Lily's husband gently pushed open the locked door like (and I apologize for lapsing in my sophistication) it wasn't no thang, and was promptly reintroduced to his old umbrella. The Father shrugged off this unorthodox means of assault to find that Lily was gone, and he proceeded to search the rest of the house.
He entered Lily's husband's old room, coldly surveying it with a strange hint of recognition. Then he was shot in the back with a twelve-gauge shotgun.
The Father stood for a moment, still. A scream pierced the air, and Lily heard her husband's voice for the first time in five years - a scream of pain. Her vision blurred and bright white spots consumed the world as she saw the Father turn to face her. Its chest had shattered like glass, as if her husband's likeness were a shell around what she saw within his chest.
Simultaneously she saw her husband stumbling back, shouting in agony, his face freed from the gas mask as he bled and died on his old bed. But they didn't happen at once, and the two visions alternated and interwove and coexisted and Lily screamed because she couldn't make sense of it and her eyes kept being drawn to the hole in the Father's chest. But then the Father took all of the pain away, and pulled her into a tight embrace. The pain was gone and her body was on fire. Then the Father took off his mask, and she saw Him, and she saw Bliss.
This was approximately the point, we theorize, that Lily entered the Father's dominion. Neighbors called the police, and they found Lily not breathing and surrounded by blood. Forensics indicated that the blood was deeply stained into the bed and carpet, and had been there for at least five years. Fortunately, they were able to resuscitate Lily. She described to them a near-death experience, a feeling of absolute protection. This was only half of the truth, of course. Myself and my compatriots later extracted the rest, catching her before her inevitable suicide.
Monday 12 March 2012
I Can Still See
It appears that, once again, I have a computer in my possession. Times are tight, after all, and after the third time my laptop took a bullet for me I decided that, perhaps, continuing to purchase computers was not a worthwhile investment. Recently I have moved into an apartment and, as such, it seemed appropriate to acquire a desktop and return to this blog. While I attempt to articulate the resolution to the cliffhanger I appear to have left you with, here's yet another yarn.
Not long ago, a man began to forget. Nothing material, at first, he simply forgot his dreams. Although not odd for many people, this man had enjoyed being able to recall most, if not all of his dreams. He mourned the loss of his nightly jaunts, sure, but he paid it little mind. It was when his roommate reported to him that he had been screaming in his sleep and wandering about the apartment that he began to wonder if there was something else going on.
The roommate could never exactly recall how he discovered these screaming episodes, only vaguely recalling waking up and encountering the man sleepwalking. When pressed for details, he could never supply them. Even when he consciously decided to keep an eye out, he could never remember the specifics. Not even when he stayed awake and waited and even tried to blog, he could only recall vague sentiments. At his wit's end, the roommate set up a video feed one night. The next morning, he watched it.
The tape ran for a while, until the familiar screaming started. The roommate's eyes were glued to the screen as he saw the culprits. Ivory white things appeared in the footage, like spiders made of bone and bleached muscle. To say they appeared is misleading. They appeared retroactively - when they suddenly blipped into existence in the footage, crawling all over the man and buzzing, they had been there all along.
The spiders cluttered close, probosces emerging from what appeared to be their heads as they all swarmed about the man's heads. Wet slurping sounds dominated the audio for several minutes, accompanied by the man's muffled screaming. Then it was over, the spiders gone, for they had never been. The man rose from his bed, blood running from his face and panic in his eyes.
"Peter! Peter!" He shouted, banging at the door of his room. The door creaked open, revealing the roommate with tired eyes and blood running down his face.
"Go back to bed. I swear, I'll never get any sleep with your racket."
The door closed, and the tape ended. The roommate Peter stared blankly at the screen, suddenly aware of the several holes bored into his skull. Then, just as suddenly, he wasn't.
"Anything on the tape, Peter?" The man asked.
"Nah. I think you're just crazy or something."
Not long ago, a man began to forget. Nothing material, at first, he simply forgot his dreams. Although not odd for many people, this man had enjoyed being able to recall most, if not all of his dreams. He mourned the loss of his nightly jaunts, sure, but he paid it little mind. It was when his roommate reported to him that he had been screaming in his sleep and wandering about the apartment that he began to wonder if there was something else going on.
The roommate could never exactly recall how he discovered these screaming episodes, only vaguely recalling waking up and encountering the man sleepwalking. When pressed for details, he could never supply them. Even when he consciously decided to keep an eye out, he could never remember the specifics. Not even when he stayed awake and waited and even tried to blog, he could only recall vague sentiments. At his wit's end, the roommate set up a video feed one night. The next morning, he watched it.
The tape ran for a while, until the familiar screaming started. The roommate's eyes were glued to the screen as he saw the culprits. Ivory white things appeared in the footage, like spiders made of bone and bleached muscle. To say they appeared is misleading. They appeared retroactively - when they suddenly blipped into existence in the footage, crawling all over the man and buzzing, they had been there all along.
The spiders cluttered close, probosces emerging from what appeared to be their heads as they all swarmed about the man's heads. Wet slurping sounds dominated the audio for several minutes, accompanied by the man's muffled screaming. Then it was over, the spiders gone, for they had never been. The man rose from his bed, blood running from his face and panic in his eyes.
"Peter! Peter!" He shouted, banging at the door of his room. The door creaked open, revealing the roommate with tired eyes and blood running down his face.
"Go back to bed. I swear, I'll never get any sleep with your racket."
The door closed, and the tape ended. The roommate Peter stared blankly at the screen, suddenly aware of the several holes bored into his skull. Then, just as suddenly, he wasn't.
"Anything on the tape, Peter?" The man asked.
"Nah. I think you're just crazy or something."
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