An Ominous Sunset
((or, "Eventide") (Part one of II))
Chapter one
Eventide
"Fast falls the eventide-in the blood red twilight-the bleak night deepens, the demons creep closer-I go alone, no one to abide with me."
-last spoken words of Vargas the Seer
And so it was, this was the bleak weariness of the doomed man, bound for hopeless oblivion, in the underground continent called Amosodos-a landthat come out of shrunken seas that had bound a forgotten race, for nearly ten-thousand years; the pre Adamic Race, that rebellious race that lived before and for a moment of time, alongside, that is: side by side with Adam's Garden of Eden, so legend speculates, and in which it arises to this very day in select groups. And where time has little meaning, it is a land of nothingness, one of the 72-deaths, appointed to mankind, and the only one deemed for the sorcerer direct, where dishonor and abomination for him by the human race, is beyond understanding. Hence, this is the edge where the old man stood, and there after a short time, Amosodos appeared out of nowhere, and opened its crumbling gates for his departure, for eternal solitude, this was assigned him, this was the land of near total night, with only blood red twilights to entertain. A land of shadows and shapes, a land where just a few select went, a special group, the sorcerers, and necromancers. The most merciless and evil who practiced their art, which were incapable of not hurting mankind, obsessed, oppressed, with the art, addicted to its punishing whims. Vargas the Seer, devoted every God given minute to the practice of the art of magic, he had no peers, no equals. Here he could not hurt any human or earthly living thing-here he could use his art fully with no harness, his ebon wand could be used likened to loose cannons, here he would meet his equals, and those beings from before the advent of earthly time, the time.
These were not resurrected beings, nor quite demonic either, they had never died-death was not created until after the advent of Adam, and his expulsion from the Garden; nor were they ghosts, they were not of the same kind of soul of man; consequently, Vargas the Seer was assigned to a lawless land, a tomb in essence, a big tomb, that disappeared as mysteriously as it appeared, and there he stood on the edge of this platform, about to be pushed over onto this dark continent, with its ever swelling population. And then he used his magic wand...
Chapter two
Amosodos
As he took his first step onto the continent called Amosodos, his wand, turned into a snake that bit him, and he dropped it, then he looked at the pageant of faces, supposedly live captives like him, whom he had thought were dead emperors, and empresses, and war mongrels, and presidents and even holy men, did they survive their death to live among this immense judgment? The snake followed him like a pet dog.
The closer he got to these people, he could see their bodies looked more like plague-eaten corpses, evidently, their bodies dying, but they still had to live in them: their loose flesh, similar to rags piled one over the other, until another judgment of mankind came about; so he would soon discover. What little sun they had, it was pert near dead. Those who were fairest, were the newest, those most ravaged had lived here the longest, and perhaps overmuch necrophilia lust.
Chapter three
Vargas the Seer
By and large, it was a different kind of land; they all spoke one language, moved slow, ate and drank as in life, what they could find, even dirt, grass, and yes, insects and rats and all sorts of morbid looking creatures; it was that or starve to near death, endure the agonizing of hunger, but they could not die. They all looked water-drenched, sluggish, dreadfully so, from the rising and sinking of the continent, perhaps weekly. Everyone's brain was enthralled with the possessiveness of magic, but it did them little good. What was evident, after a few days for Vargas the Seer, was that: people wished for eternal sleep, another of the 72-deaths assigned to mankind, or for their passion and desire and delight to be taken from them, their addiction, only to find out, no matter where you go after death, you carry with you your old habits and character, your nature. The other longing was to return to the wakening world, the earth mother, the surface. But Earth could no longer take them-deal with them, they were too destructive; nor could the human race, or the beastly species on her surface. Consequently, there was no other place for them.
He noticed among the spectators the spirits of: Updike, Monson, Van Gogh, C. Sibyl, and J. Smith. C.A. Smith, H.P.L., E.A. Poe., S. King, and Mrs. Oakes Smith, and Odin (among the others):somehow they had a window into this world, but where were they?
Vargas took resentment for whomever allowed these spirits into his new realm, to observe him like a rat, he was demanding his rights, of all things. His so called irretrievable rights he left beyond. For, nonetheless, he still had his pride. And he started to create a revolt, a ghostly one if anything, and created resentment against the observers. It was something new for the horde of seers. Perhaps it was a way to avoid the pain of his new earth-shattering state of affairs, to bring about mockery of those who allowed the spectators into the hidden window.
Day by day he watched those shadows behind this large window that allowed the observer to see all corners of the continent, "It is crudity," proclaimed Vargas the Seer. He stood by the big window, and could hear them drinking, their drunkenness and gluttony, as he stumbled in his formidable spells that raised no more attention than a whisper among his comrades, or an eyebrow lift.
Then after his so called fit of protest and anger-and a month's time, he went unheard-forward, with no glaring eyes, or clotted blood, forward, not looking back, he turned about into a tranquil silence, with no further need of words to his doom-he knew it, he went wearily to see the blood red sunset, it was the only entertainment left in this night labyrinth continent, except for its untarnished rising and sinking.
No 704 (10-31-2010)
The Virulent Vault
((or, "Zeedmev of Venus") (Part II, to "An Ominous Sunset"))
Zeedmev of Venus, a great sorcerer who had been at Amosodos since the first Century A.D., who had claimed to have been abandoned on earth eons ago, had learned-remembered more like it, the foretold forbidden knowledge of the Old Ones, the angelic beings who were cast down from the clouds, in the time of Enoch, he learned of the 72-deaths, in particular, the 71st; he was now living in the seventy-second-Amosodos. The seventy-first, was that of eternal sleep. He had forgotten, but now remembered its formula, and that it had to be chanted during the orbital flight of Sedona, a comet-that circled two solar systems-while over Earth's surface, adjoining the spell; it passed every twenty-years.
"Do not despair Vargas the Seer," said Zeedmev, having seen him now for several months mopping about this hidden and ambiguous continent called Amosodos, "There is a way out for you." Vargas' eye-lids opened-up wide, stopped blinking, "With the aid of an old astrologer-friend of mine, Amanas of Glastonbury, I can estimate when the comet Sedona flight over the Earth and the Drake, where our submerged landmass resides, I will then promulgate my powers, to the 71st Death, with a spell so powerful, your body will release its soul, and it will go into eternal hibernation: an eternal sleep, it is called the Red Spell, although there is some ambiguities with my science, knowledge and spell enchantments that I may not be able to resolve, it is a chance for you, to have a new death-I prefer it here, but I know you don't. And for this reason I give you the chance of death, I will request of you something although."
"And what might that be?" asked Vargas.
"To be a devoted slave, servant to me, to use your magical art as I tell you to; in essence, I will be your ruler for twenty-years, when Sedona is upon us, I will release you and bestow my gift onto you."
The deal was made, in the dark-ash colored oblong, Virulent Vault where all the poisonous snakes gathered, and where those who had secrets to tell, met, a meeting place of sorts.
It was with a sad heart Vargas accepted, and was quickly branded with Zeedmev's initials on his forehead, to show one and all, he was purchased. And thus, he worked and waited anxiously those twenty-years: watching newly arriving seers and sorcerers making their homes into this realm-less, and sorrowful kingdom, of terrestrial lost souls. Too sorrowful for tears and constant mocking from the demonic beings, those idiotic wide nostril beasts from a time long lost to man's memory.
Now the comet had set over Amosodos, over its submersion grave, in the deepwater's of Antarctica- and as Zeedmev was midway into his chanting, and Vargas the Seer, was there spellbound awaiting his death to be, midway through the chanting, the essence, the soul of Zeedmev seeped slowly out of his fleshly frame, and what was left of his body, its corpse like body, had fallen like a rug on the ground, withered into a coil like form, and evaporated into nothingness. Who died? With mouth wide open Vargas was dumbfounded. Zeedmev had the last hurrah. And then slowly Vargas went on his way-knowing again, he was helpless.
Note: 10-31-2010 (No: 705)
Across the Street
(The Jacket and the Battleaxe, 1960)
When I leaned against the old space heater, at Roger's house, his father, of German stock, with that old Germanic accent, I saw Lindsey, she was humming one of the popular tunes of the day, a song called "I'm Just a Lonely Boy" (by Paul Anka),Roger was wearing an old WWII jacket that had that imprinted on the back of it. She was swinging her wide brimmed hips; her face was flushed likened to her rosy cheeks, the color of newly blossomed red roses, with dark-near black hair. I lived across the street, in my grandpa's house with my brother Mike and mother, and we had moved in, perhaps 30-months earlier, it was the fall of 1960, and it was a chilly and wet fall at that. Lindsey's hair fell in waves, over her shoulders. She could have been a farmer's daughter-she seemed coy like one might be, she like me, but I was kind of just getting into the dating scene, and was more on the black leather jacket, and hood side of life than the farmer side. I liked Roger's jacket too, Roger was kind of the cool guy in the neighborhood, Larry the tough guy, Doug the brute, and me, the poet, guitar player, and-oh well, I really didn't know who I was yet.
The moment I first saw Lindsey, she and I took a liking for one another, I was kind of afraid of her, and of my fly away feelings, and I kind of turned away from her playing the hard guy. Roger was walking back and forth with that jacket on in this four-plex house, of which his father rented out one apartments; Ronnie, his younger brother, my age was there, and his little sister, along with a few of the boys, and Roger's father of course all talking and just hanging out.
I was walking slowly, looking at the fire in the space heater, Roger's father had a can on it, and it was to keep the house from becoming too dry-he said.
Lindsey kept looking back at me, every few minutes, and every few steps she made, I was standing close to the fire. The air was thick, it had been raining, the fall change over into winter, it was early afternoon, not much color to the sky, more drab gray than anything.
"I'll trade this jacket for that battle axe you got, you've been wanting it for a while, right?" said Roger to me, and I nodded my head 'Yes!" affirmed.
"What in tar-nation do you with a battle ax for?" asked his father. Roger giggled, "Well, Chick, do you want to trade or not?" I had bought of all things, a year prior this battle axe, at a hockshop, I was going to buy a trumpet, and the battleaxe got to me; I remember the proprietor saying after he wrapped it up in several newspapers, "Don't tell anyone you bought it here," I was just thirteen years old in October, I think this was November.
I had saved up $22-dollars, and I bought the battleaxe, and my mother said nearly exactly what Roger's father said, "What the heck you goin' to do now, with that thing, whatever it is!" And I repeated "Battleaxe, it's a battleaxe, ma."
I didn't know what Lindsey was going to do, I didn't care for her to take off I wasn't giving her much attention though, but I had to make this deal with Roger, so I avoided talking with her, actually I guess I pushed her away, unknowing and unthinking at the time I did it, I had wished I didn't but I guess I did. She didn't hate me for it, but no matter what, thereafter, she wasn't happy.
Just as Roger reached the corner of the road on Cayuga Street, I reached for his arm, "Okay," I said, "I'll trade, let me wear it, and I'll go get the battleaxe!"
I looked at Lindsey across the street, she was on her way walking home-up Cayuga Street, westbound, and she was still frightened to speak to me-so she looked, kind of tightly holding her purse in her hands, nearly trembling. I could see her breath; she looked like a newly hurt rabbit.
"Well, get going Chick if you want to keep that jacket, get my battleaxe," said Roger.
She continued to walk away, looking back only once, I tried to think of something to tell her, but I wanted that jacket so bad.
No: 699 (10-29-2010)
The Late Spring
(1985)
He lay on a rug, under his car, it was wit from a long winter, and late spring, ice was still on parts of the ground, and a chill in the air, the car was in the driveway, and alongside of the house, a bit hard to see under the car, but you could see his large arms and the side of his body's frame, his legs somewhat, and the back ends of his shoes-the soles, if you were standing back by the car's bumper-that is; he had some tools on his lap, and the car was being held by two jacks, one on the bumper in back of the car, the other under the axle, and he had two bricks under the front of the tires, so the car would not shift forward.
"Betty," he yelled, and she came out of the house, "hand me the wrench, the one on the side of the toolbox," he asked.
"The biggest one Jerry?" she questioned.
"It's the only one there," he told her, she had been drinking a bit, and he had now stopped for two years of his drinking, now near fifty-years old, thus, she perhaps was not seeing clear-he pondered, or she simply wanted to be sure.
A week ago all the trees had started to form a little green on them. The streets slush had turned into water, and was appearing to drain downward, perhaps all the way to the Mississippi, a few miles west of their home. In a short while, the full blossom of spring would branch out, the winter breezes were pert near nil. There was even a few flowers that started to sprout, from over across the street in Oakland Cemetery.
"The sky looks like it might rain this afternoon," she told Jerry, perhaps thinking he should quite for the day, he had been working on replacing that transmission all morning long, it was close to noon.
"Were is dad?" asked Cindy, the oldest daughter, now seventeen, in the house, had just come back from the library, didn't even notice her father was under the car, it was the weekend.
"He's working on the car again dear, putting that damn transmission in alone, I told him to wait for his brother, Jim, but you know how he is, now or never."
The front door was opened. Cindy dropped her library books, and raced out to say good morning to her father, yet it was close to noon. When she got to him, she could hear him clamber a bit with the transmission, trying to push it in place.
"Now what!" Jerry said, unknowing his daughter was by the car.
"You talking to me dad?" she asked.
"No, of course not, I can't even see you," he then tried to look out and up, as she smiled looking down at him, "It's just this damn transmission, can't keep it in place to do anything with it, and the car shakes every time I try to push it upward."
"Are you going to have lunch, mom made a stew, it's just about ready?"
"Not until I get the end of this transmission placed in right." Jerry said.
"I just thought I come and let you know."
"Oh, I'll be out in a little while dear, go ahead and eat without me."
"All right, then," said Cindy and she went to have lunch with her mother.
"Aha...!" Jerry sighed with heat and effort, pushing this and that in place, as the car shifting and started rocking and Jerry getting more frustrated.
"Damn you, I'm missing my lunch," he said as if he was talking to the car, or the transmission-directly, personifying it as if it was a human, then there was a growling sound, a deep growling sound, and Cindy heard it, and came out thinking her father was angry; Betty behind her.
"Shhh!" Betty said to Cindy as they snuck up to the car, putting her hand into her daughter's hand, "Don't make a sound we'll see how he's doing first before we pester him to come and have lunch, you know how he can get."
"The foods going to get cold, we should just tell him to come, and work on the car when Jim gets home," said Cindy, seemingly wanting to spend a few minutes with her father.
Betty stood next to the car, saw Jerry's hand laying to the side, "What's the matter mom," said Cindy, not hearing any sound.
"I think you dad's sleeping," she replied, knowing it wouldn't be the first time he fell to sleep under a car.
"Boo!" said Cindy, as if to wake her father up, but there was no sound.
"Boo!!" Betty said, even louder.
They both squatted down, to knee level to look under the car, waiting for him to wake up, say something, then they noticed the car was a half foot lower, and the transmission had fallen out of place and onto his chest, ants were crawling on his face near his mouth, and he wasn't moving-or breathing, his face was pale to white, and then almost simultaneously, they both started to scream, clutching one another, and out of the house, one of their other fourteen children came running, "What's the matter?" she asked.
Betty picked herself up, "Go into the house, your father had an accident, go and sit down in the house, I'll be there in a while," she told her this without looking back at the car, she told Cindy "Go in the house and wait with her," holding her hands to her breast, "stay indoors, until I came in to talk to you all," trying to get her composure.
"Is he really dead, mom?" Cindy cried.
"Yes," said her mother, "I'll be in there in a minute, a long minute."
No: 698/10-28-2010
12
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
