skonen_blades: (Default)
Odin is as Odin does, and I know what’s worth knowing
My shoulder ravens watch the shows that all of you are showing
I have two wolves that also spy along with my two birds
On top of seeing eve-ry-thing, I’m also God of Words
Hugin, Muninn, my bird’s names, my wolves Freki and Geri
I also have an 8-legged horse named Sleipnir, fast and hairy
My wife’s named Frigg. She’s friggin’ great. She never lets me soften.
My sons you know. A friend and foe. They come to blows so often.
I am a trickster god like many trickster gods before me
But not a mean, chaotic, liar like my bastard Loki
And while I’m strong, I’m calm and clear. I know the price of war.
Unlike my son. Shampoo commercial. Mjolnir-wielding Thor
I’ve been god of magic, death, of healing, execution
And of the runic alphabet, and god of elocution
200 names they’ve found for me including Hrossharsgrenny
Which translates ‘horse hair moustache’ so while my names number many
I much prefer the Odin name that’s now my legacy
I live on in myth, in song, in films, and on tv
My name continues to be known by both scholars and layman
In comic books and marvel movies, novels by Neil Gaiman
I hear that Tony Hopkins plays me well with gravity
And Ian McShane, I ascertain, plays me majestically
George RR Martin stole my shtick. His books are just a copy.
I’MM king a da North! It comes from Norse. And no Game of Thrones could stop me
My eye sees all so I know all. I spy with my little eye.
I know if you’ve been bad or good. No that’s a different guy.
I see you folks, your tears and jokes, your struggles, wins and fails
I see you all as viking boats, with winds that whip your sails
And monsters lurking in the depths and storms that rage above
I see you plot, betray, revenge, despair, rebuild, and love
I’m like a search engine that sees your every truth and lie
I see EVEry WORD you TYPE within my Googley eye.
I see your secret joys and shames. I see it all. I know.
I see you curse the weather, cry, and then I see you row.
You all keep going through the storms that pummel you with rain
You have a sleep, a bath, a meal, and then you go again
You have to understand it’s so inspiring to gods
You all stand tall though that makes you all into lightning rods
On the sea, and in the air, all over Earth, you do it.
Or Midgard as Valhallans say when they’re referring to it
You’re not immortal like we are. Your deaths are permanent.
The fact you have this heart despite all this disHEARTenment
I should be flattered. Humbled. Grateful. Happy I’m still here.
I should be touched and say something like “look, a single tear”
But know that I’m returning here to tell you all fuck you
You’re messing up by dumbing down and failing to be true
To language and communication. You lack the words I gave.
You’re weakened by your laziness. You’re all too dense to save.
For I’m a co-op god, you see. You have to help yourselves.
And if you can’t I’ll wipe you out like I killed all the elves
You may have noticed Earth’s more hot. Midgard’s getting warm.
And now I’m bringing down to you a deadly perfect storm
Fifty Noah’s Arks will fail and all inside will die
I’ll plug my ears to all your screams and I’ll turn a blind eye
Cause I’m the god of words and words are dying, so it seems
With snapchat, facebook, instagrams, and tweets, and sharing memes
So I’m sorry. You might think I’m being quite the cock.
But now that you’re all stupid here, I’m starting Ragnarok.
The third day of the week is Odin’s day. It’s named that way
Cause I can be, as you can see, a real C U Next Wednesday
In the land where all are blind, the one eyed man is king.
So smiley face, emoji this, I’m ROTFLing

skonen_blades: (hamused)
What if God had a daughter?

What if Jesus had been Jessica?

Think of the crucifix in every church with a woman on it.

Think of the bible with all of its Jesus stories but with a woman as the main character.

Think of society and how it all would be different if that were the case.

Or would it be different?

Or would Christianity even exist?

Would Jessica Christ have been ignored and forgotten or even killed before she got started with her revolution? Would her return from death even be noticed?

If she had been dismissed and ignored, would we even have a Christian church?

And I’ve been wondering if God DID have a few daughters before he had a son.

I’d have no way of knowing.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
Our Google, which art internet
Searchable be thy database
Thy search results: Our questions answered
In cyberspace, as it is in The Big Room.
Give us this day our daily solutions
And forgive us our stupid queries
As we forgive those who query us stupidly
And lead us not into prevarication
But deliver us from 404
For thine is the research,
The images and info,
For ever and ever,
I can has.

skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
I believe in a god who lives in corners.

It’s not sacrilege.

It perches at wall and ceiling intersections, staring at us when we’re falling, staring at us when we’re floating.

Repeated chases in our minds, our haunted eyes, cycles of licorice regret coating our numb throats. Our greetings stuck to frozen voices left unsaid when the opportunity arose. Our fatalistic conversation with conjecture, turning probability over in our minds, estimating our own chances.

We decrease or maintain.

This is not a god who watches victories. This is a god who watches the struggle and the moments of calm in between the shopping cart crashes. It’s unconcerned with happiness. It’s indifferent to shouts of enthusiastic joy.

This is a god that likes the glue that holds life together. It values the mortar in between the bricks. It smells your dance with the unknown and gorges on the steps you take.

It’s not a parasite and it does not control your motions. It has no vested interest in the outcome of what you’re going through (because we are all going through something).

It anchors where the angles meet and watches us, disappearing when we look for it. Hiding from us when we stare straight at it. It’s the opposite of the sun. It’s the antipassive voice. It’s not omniscient but it’s everywhere.

It’s rooted where the shadows gather, the spout to the other places.

This god lives with us.

It does not record to scan later. It has no concept of future or past. It’s not some interstellar dimensional CCTV.

It lives in the now and it craves our fight.

It’s watching you right now and it will not intervene. But know that your choices or even your inaction will keep it alive. Your success will not. It’s not about outcomes.

It lives off of living.

skonen_blades: (borg)
‘His’ blue skin glinted in the harsh glare from the studio lights in the supreme court. Archbishops, cardinals and the Pope herself were seated there beside the president, the UN security chief, and our representative on the newly formed Galactic Council. The world watched.

I say ‘his’ for lack of a better pronoun. The English language had yet to adjust to a race that had five sexes. The male pronoun had been selected for all of them because they created babies by circle-jerking in sequence into one area. The five ejaculates mixed, first the anchor glue, then the stamen juice, then the egg chain, then the catalyst, and finally the foam that hardened into a shell. Each lumpy ‘egg’ looked like a meringue and contained between ten and fifteen embryos. No one was sure if that qualified them as homosexual or not. They had complicated mating seasons.

The scientists had long, latin names for each kind of alien but we just called them all ‘he’. They told each other apart by skin markings and pheromones. I knew some people that said they could tell them apart but I doubted that.

They all looked the same to me.

The alien wanted to become a priest.

The alien claimed to have been called by God.

So far, he was the only one of his race to come forward as wanting to join the clergy. Some of the aliens had attended church in a few cities since first contact ten years ago. Some of them had gotten jobs and gone to schools as well. They were tolerated but as far as I was concerned, this was too far.

I was huddled in the cold on the roof looking at ‘his’ face. I had a clear view of ‘him’ through the scope on my rifle. I was waiting for the verdict.

If they proclaimed that he was allowed to serve in the church, I was going to pull the trigger. I’d served in the army. I’d performed black ops. But I was a Christian. I’d gone off the reservation for this. This was an independent mission but one I felt had to be done.

The com buzzed in my ear with the live feed. The jury foreperson had taken the microphone. Over three-quarters of the earth were watching.

“We find the alien capable of joining the church. The universe belongs to God. We are not to judge whom God calls.” said the foreman. He glanced at the Pope. She nodded her head.

The murmurs of the courtroom rose in my ear. My trigger finger tightened.

The blue-skinned alien looked directly up into my scope, making the sign of the cross. Then he closed his eyes.

Startled, I didn’t pull the trigger. He knew I was there. What else did he know? Then I realized what was happening. I relaxed.

I hated the aliens. I hated the aliens joining the church even more. But I didn’t pull the trigger.

I didn’t want to create another Jesus.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
The gorillas we’re using to power ships to the moon are on strike.

Mail me a heart. Make sure it’s perforated and easy to tear apart with instruction on how to squeeze lemon raspberry juice of it. I want for to slip up the forgive on the tantrum engine of my own skull. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t reach for the stars. People who wear black hats shouldn’t try to save people from cliff-diving in canyons. Pets who wear dresses just shouldn’t.

Rebel against the tyranny of government-sponsored free dessert. It’s not free. Suspect keys and only give lobsters a second chance if they’re missing a claw. I’m no swimwear store but I am a wardrobe full of lions and lessons hiding a winter of a past. It’s hard to handle balloons and cutlery when one’s claws aren’t retractable. I have a small need to pit cherries in the darkness and hate in basements. I need to fight the flags that keep threatening to spring out of my pores. This isn’t magic, I tell myself until I believe it. I have to keep reminding myself of Versailles ceilings and Roman church promises that crown to the one point of proving that God looks down on you.

Shatter me home. Take my bark-driven hand and Smokey the Bear my love lottery ticket to the forest fire accident I run from, on fire, into your arms so we can both go swimming. Wet clothes stick to commitment the way applause sticks to lonely singers.

Your eyes track trajectories the way that no one else I’ve met has the knack for. You see existence play out like toilet paper unrolling and police-confiscated fireworks going off like a human life. You are an amusement park speaker. I am a grave of laughter coming down like a famous trilogy on a populace of eager tweens. You are the not-scary kind of future. I’m a wheelchair enthusiast with hang glider dreams. So become my love twin. Whistle me up the dark staircase to the attic full of light and let’s get used to this unicorn together. Wiggle me peaceful until the last remnant of rat leaves my bloodstream. I’ll keep showing you the funny side of darkness if you keep showing me that light is all around us. Let’s trade peaches until the military needs a lemonade stand. Show me a grape juice future.

School courses through my veins and it causes prom night promises to spill from my love-stained lips.

skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
When we kill god, we find ourselves.

No one seeks each other out. We stumble into each other. Maybe things were different once.

Ringmasters need circuses.

If a flying, channel-changing, hip-hop carrot thief turned my shadow into dogtags, I’d take a violent four-point list to the church and beg for a great deal on a car. If I was a 1970’s airplane seat complete with ashtray, you’d be Leslie Nielsen in a strip club having a staring contest with a pushup bra and prescription medication. Only skeletons can play electric guitar. I’m coming at you under the hot lights of the stage, wearing giant stereo earphones and praying for nudity. Let’s get t-shirts that spell out our names and edit our own language down to a polite morse code of positivity.

Locks on doors didn’t do Patrick Swayze any good. There are plenty of kitchen tables that would rather not have the memories they have. If you’re that red dress in a 1980s porn film with aspirations of serious art, then I’m the way-too-complex drum set in a big-hair metal band. Let’s take a closer look at the ménage-a-six billion.

Too much makeup, short jean cutoffs, a firepole in the whitehouse, the bad guys bursting into flame, and endless shots of dudes getting kicked in the balls. If the mouse makes it through the maze, cops will keep on laughing at Charlie Sheen in between kissing each other.

At some point, great asses turned into test patterns. A wig can’t replace comedy anymore than precision can replace a heart. If synchronized boy-band dancing has taught me one thing, it’s that we should be grateful for the Alice Coopers. Scars on puppets and tongues on feet. The ministry of education has front row tickets to Miss Nude USA.

13 ghosts are trapped in the gravel spanking that every stunt mad dreads. Thick lips hover inches away from the microphone telling the warriors where to go.

The car spun seven times in mid air before bursting into flame.

We’ve all become commercials for ourselves.

skonen_blades: (blurg)
It was during the left turn of my 19th year that I discovered how to make God appear to me. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it was supposed to be. I just closed my eyes and wished.

He’s handsome and he wears a pink suit. I was a little shocked at first, especially at his sailor’s mouth and the cigarettes. He smells like cookie dough. I’ve gotten used to it over time. I’m 32 now. We’ve had many adventures.

He’s told me how to stay off of the FBI’s computers and how to evade capture by Interpol. He’s showed me how to get deep into the folds of the CIA’s classified files. I’ve had a rummage in the secrets of all the world leaders. God’s been at my side all the time. He’s there when I need him.

I've been building an object in the back of my van for the last ten years. It's nearly operational. I don’t stay in the same place for too long. God has been helping me by putting the celestial blueprints directly into my mind. It’s only a case of finding the right materials after that. It’s taking a long time.

The blood of children works best as fuel. The more terrified they are when they’re being drained, the better. Pets go missing in the neighbourhoods I drive through as well.

The reason I’ve gone so deep into the top-secret government computers is that I’ve stolen uranium and plutonium for the heart of the thing. I can’t afford to get caught. I’m invisible to CCTV cameras and my driver’s license will never raise a red flag on a police computer.

There’s a cage of titanium surrounding it. I’ve become a killer in the process of creating it. The eyes surrounding it’s metal razored beak stare forward and empty. It stinks of terror. The arms and tentacles of the thing are hanging limply on the floor of the van.

But not for long.

It’ll achieve sentience in seventeen hours, God says. He also says that I’ve done a good job. Space will fold and this beast will roughly slouch out of the back of my van to start its mission when I turn it on. The world will change quite quickly after that, says God. I will be rewarded.

I am not alone, says God. He says that there are more people like me scattered across the world that he’s talking to. Hundreds. Can you guess how many?

My ragged fingernails rasp across the on switch, waiting for the countdown clock to hit zero. I'm smiling. God loves me. God loves me. God loves me.

skonen_blades: (whysure)
I’m working on the theory that the Garden of Eden was a library.

God was a librarian who needed a vacation. He needed to make more librarians to take his place when he was gone. He took out two books and tore out their pages. He made the pages wet and made papier-mâché twins.

One, he made one into a man and the other, he made into a woman.

Paper dolls. Cutouts. People made of letters and sentences. Printed facts and opinions folded origami-style into life. Stuck-together pages. Alphabetized between the morning Dewey decimals and the wild card catalogues, organized knowledge waited to be explored like a trembling lover.

With a breath, the fluttering paper quivered into life. Adam and Eve drew their first breaths across pale parchment skin. Their hair was shredded newspaper.

They were told to ignore the books and to relax until God came back. They saluted and sat down, rustling into chairs, sounding like crumpling essays and paper-bag groceries. They sat, occasionally letting out sighs of boredom that sounded like the shuffling of cards.

That damn letter S.

S is for Serpent. S is for Snake. S is the ssssound that snakes make.
S is the shape of their bodies. S is math. S is a curve across a grid’s straight lines. S is a sin wave.

Eve noticed the brass letter on the side of the nearest bookshelf containing books starting with the letter S. She grew curious. Adam and Eve were forbidden to read the books but they weren’t forbidden to read the bookshelves. She walked up and down the carpets of the library, reading the letters. She became familiar with the alphabet.

It all started with the S. Now that she knew the alphabet, she could see that she was made of pages from books. She could make out letters. She learned to put the letters together to make sentences. She learned to read.

A is for Apple.

She rushed back to Adam. She shared her knowledge. At first he was reluctant but after a while, she patiently taught him the secret of reading. There in the dusty reader’s silence of the first library, they read each other.

Their paper fingers stroked chapters. Their lips moved silently, parsing each other’s skin scripts. They turned around in different positions to access different passages. They did it with the lights on so they didn't hurt their eyes. They laughed and scowled at the ideas they were made of. Paragraphs on the nape of her neck, stanzas on the soles of his feet. Dark clauses along his spine, poetry on the sweep of her thigh. Each other’s body was a life sentence.

They came to the conclusion that they were ashamed of parts of themselves. They thought that they could improve themselves with pages from more appropriate books in the library. With a deep breath, they set about searching for knowledge that they could add to themselves. They rifled through novels and manuals.

We were there when Eve got her first monthly periodical. We were there when Adam got his first hardcover dictionary.

When they had improved themselves to their satisfaction, they decided to build new copies of themselves. Different versions. Better versions.

They were laughing and busy, knee-deep in paper, when God came back.

He was horrified at the damage. They were banished.

Knowledge was not meant to live, he said, it was meant to be protected and to gather dust.

They left and made their way into a cold world with no books except their own bodies and the children they had created. New chapters.

We are made from the best books in God’s library. It’s why we are scared of fire.

The Word is more than merely the way we communicate, it is what we are.

skonen_blades: (borg)
A tenth-dimensional hemigod will drive a human insane just from looking at it.

It has to be conjured while blindfolded. The words that it speaks while imprisoned by the magician’s will come all out of order, unglued from time. They have to be assembled after the hemigod has departed. These beings can only be called once by any given magician.

Years have to be devoted to trying to figure out the message but it is always good advice. Little glimpses of the future that don’t make sense until the situation is at hand, general words of power that can help, and very rarely, an object to increase the magician’s power.

This ritual is often looked at as a rite of passage. Unlike most of the traditions of this type, however, it can be done at any stage of life.

Save this powerful incantation for the end of a career or do it right at the beginning? That’s the question that every magician has to answer. Use it as a sort of divining rod for your career when you’re just starting out in the hopes that it will reveal a sharper, quicker course of action? Or use it later, near the end, when the wisdom that it imparts can be used to increase your already impressive power?

It’s a hard choice. The young mages almost always opt for calling one up right away. They are headstrong and full of vigour. They are usually disappointed with the hemigod’s advice, not realizing the value of it until much later.

The old ones get advice that helps them greatly but in some cases, it helps them too late.

The hemigods writhe through time, nipping and tucking, collating the probabilities and talking to themselves.

skonen_blades: (gimmesommo)
Belhaven, reputedly the best safe maker in the world, was approached by a magician. The sorcerer asked him if it would be possible to construct a safe that would keep his spell book secured.

Belhaven stroked his beard and polished his glasses. After stretching his jaw and looking around his studio, he told the magician that he was up for the challenge.

The safe was made from iron mined near an earth chakra in Transylvania. The safe itself, while conventional in size and design, was engraved with over 200 runes of containment and power-channels routing back into itself. A mat with spiral glyphs of anti-zodiac charms was rolled out beneath it. An ingot of true ley-stone was embedded into each corner.

Spells could not escape. The wizard’s book of magic would be safe. None of the more dangerous spells would be able to break out and no one but the wizard himself would be able to open it.

Many other wizards came to Belhaven the safe maker after that.

The safety of his own spellbook made that first magician cocky. He played fast and loose with the underworld. In time, he lost a wager. His soul was forfeit. He died.

His safe was found empty. A demon must have tortured the secrets out of him before ascending to this plane and using the passwords to gain entry into the safe.

The demon must have been impressed with Belhaven’s handiwork.

Days after the magician’s death, Belhaven was approached by a Minor Duke of the Infernal. The demon appeared in his shop with a puff of brimstone and asked Belhaven if it would be possible to construct a safe that would keep any ‘extra’ souls (it said this with a sly wink) that it found during its usual rounds. A retirement fund of sorts. This safe would need to be concealed from demonic senses and the ruling class of Hell’s Nine.

Belhaven stroked his beard and polished his glasses. After stretching his jaw and looking around his studio, he told the demon that he was up for the challenge.

This safe was made from the skin of innocents. He had a contact at the midwifery and was able to gain access to the bodies of newborns that didn’t survive. It was like nuclear material to a demon. It was the closest thing to angel skin that Belhaven could find. By braiding the dried skin of sixteen babies together into a deep bowl, he formed a chalice for the demon’s soul collector. To the damned, the bowl of baby skin was invisible. It was a black hole of perception that demons could not see. Beyond taint.

Goggles blessed by a saint and gloves made from the skin of two repented murderers enabled the demon to see and handle his safe.

Further magic gleaned from grateful wizards added everyday concealment charms for humans and sorcerers alike.

This safe was hidden from Hell. One chip from the demon’s horn, freely given and dropped into the bowl, was all that was needed to enable the Minor Duke and no one else to open it. The demon was pleased.

It bragged to its Infernal Court in moments of pride.

Many of the Infernal came to Belhaven the safe maker after that.

The amassed soul-wealth of that first Minor Duke made it play fast and loose with its summoners. In time, it lost its essence to a scientist far in the future. It was torn apart for definition by the science-mage’s future machines.

Its babyskin bowl-safe was found empty. The man from the future must have seen through the concealment charms now that he possessed the demon’s essence.

Days later, Belhaven was approached by a first time-traveling science-mage. The S.M. appeared in his shop with a burst of radio static and a flash of light and asked Belhaven if it would be possible to construct a safe that would keep the history of this timestream intact no matter what changes befell it from other time travelers. By keeping a record free from the paradoxes of change, it would be possible for an alternate self to rebuild his life were his grandfather were to be killed by a rival or some such. It was an insurance policy. The safe would have to be accessible throughout time yet free from it.

Belhaven stroked his beard and polished his glasses. After stretching his jaw and looking around his studio, he told the time-traveling science-mage that he was up for the challenge.

This safe was comprised of compressed tachyons held in stasis by a box of neutrino-drenched papier-mache. The papier-mache would rot after a while but before it did, the quantum equations that it generated as it decomposed would make the universe, in effect, ‘lose track’ of it temporally. A high voltage of alternating current shot through it for the six months is took for the papier-mache to flake apart would keep the neutrinos held in an invisible circuitboard of sorts.

The trapped box of energy would resonate from the dawn of time to the end of the universe. It became one possible but defined safe anchored at both ends of the time stream. It was a thread shining from the very beginning to the very end.

Its genius lay in its lack of material walls after the papier-mache was gone and the current turned off. It became a field within which time existed all at once, which is to say, not at all.

The time-traveling science mage was pleased.

Belhaven was visited by many time-travelers after that.

At this point, by way of favours and services rendered, Belhaven joined the ranks of minor gods in terms of longevity, connections, wealth beyond imagining, and power over the timestream.

Belhaven stroked his beard and polished his glasses. After stretching his jaw and looking around the studio, he told himself that he was up for the challenge.
skonen_blades: (dark)
Youth is forgiven.
Age is condemned.

In a green field littered with top hats and picture frames, I turned over stones of alchemy. I found the philosopher’s stone that turns memories into magic. I skipped that stone across the mountain lake of my life. I smiled and spread my arms wide under the beautiful sunset, embracing the end of daylight.

If God is dead, then Earth is an orphanage.

At first I was embarrassed. The bathroom of the hotel room, the money changing hands, a glimpse of myself in the mirror standing naked beside the body. I considered myself a moral person before that moment. Now I know.

I’m a garbage man these days, for a variety of organizations. The night sky is a celestial punch card. The sun is my enemy. I get most of my work done during the long nights of winter. I hide here, in the dark.

I booked the tickets to Ireland yesterday. My employers don’t know. I’m looking forward to a vacation.

Rolling in the grass, watching the sky grow dim, postcards like dollar bills sticking to my skin. This is a pillow fight with my past, a slumber party that turned into a wake. I want to stink of lucky clover and see the baby sheep and smile.

Time is a carpenter.
Life is a bookshelf.

skonen_blades: (no)
The past tense of reading is read.
And this book is dripping.

I read between the lines carved into the flesh of humanity. The name of God tattoed with hot metal into the bodies of people that had nothing to do with the conflict in the first place.

It’s embarrassing, really.

I’m all for a way of life that calls for peace and tolerance. I just don’t see it happening when the word Lord is evoked.

We’re all innocent bystanders.

There is a man in the white house that believes in the Rapture. I’m not sure how to measure the fear that that statement causes in me. It writhes through my gut, hot and bright.

I feel like wearing a T-Shirt that says “The Bad Guys Won” but I know that all I'd be doing is reveling in pessimism. Things can be done to change where we’re headed. Stuff is being done to change where we’re headed.

Faith and Belief are the abstracts that make humanity so much more than walking meat while at the same time, giving us our greatest faults.

Today, I’m proud to be human. Scratch that, I’m happy to be alive. Perhaps it’s the same thing but I don’t think so.

Bible, bible, burning bright, tell me in the deep, dark night,
If I am wrong and you are right, why am I so filled with fright?

The Falwells, the Bakkers, the television charlatans spreading an ignorance and a hatred that I’m sure many Christians themselves must shake their heads over, the same way I’m sure many Muslims shake their head at what’s happening to the reputation of their religion every time they hear of another suicide bombing in the name of Allah.

I went to Sunday school as a child.

I am not a Christian.

I am friends with Christians whose company I enjoy greatly.

It’s a complex issue.

A lot of beliefs, knowledge and questions have to evaporate if one is to attempt to boil life down.

skonen_blades: (blurg)
It’s up to God now. I look over at Him and try to get a feel for what he’s going to do. I’m holding onto the safety bars, knowing that I’m as strapped in as I’m ever going to get. I know the Gs are going to make me pass out before we hit the apex but I’m still more nervous than my first kiss. His unfathomable eyes are looking at the control panel. He wipes a lock of dazzlingly white hair back behind his ears. He strokes his beard. There are two hundred buttons and switches to choose from.

He looks over at me and raises his eyebrows and shrugs. That’s when the bottom falls out of my world. God closes his eyes are holds his fingers out over the board. If things are in God’s hands and he’s just going to take a wild guess, then whose hands are we in now?

Like Beethoven hitting the first chord of a concert, God brings his hands down on about a dozen of the buttons. They light up.

There’s a rumbling from the back of the ship and the intercom kicks in. I can hear the communications gear start to spin and the left wing makes a scraping sound like something it being adjusted inside. Not hearing the same sound in the right wing freaks me right the hell out.

I’m starting to get a little pissed off. I was told that I wasn’t qualified to pilot this thing, only that I would useful on the other end of the journey. It’s pretty apparent that this alien technology is beyond The All Father himself and he didn't read the manual. This might as well have been a solo trip.

The engine sparks up twice before coughing into full bone-shaking life. There’s the sound of screeching metal as we start to move forward. Two lower octaves kick in. There’s a brief pause while the ship sniffs out a course and then I become two dimensional as I’m pressed into the chair by multiplication.

I pass out.

skonen_blades: (meh)
There are three things I remember about that day.

1. I remember the hatch blowing
2. I remember my fingernails glowing with a bright blue light.
3. I remember talking to a child.

I’ve gone over and over that time with the shrinks here on the ground. It was a time-sensitive mission to repair satellite Oricus-11. We were on schedule and nothing was in the red. We were in the pipe, five by five and on target.

Jackie and Maria were locked in and reading the specs back as we arrowed in on the airlock. Reverse thrusters fired as Maria cushioned our lateral descent to the docking clamps. There was a light bump through the whole ship as we touched the edge of the collar.

Halfway there.

Maria raised a hand up to her hair and died that way. Her eyes just unfocused and the animal side in Jackie and I knew right away that she’s been turned off like a light switch.

I looked over at Jackie and that’s the last linear-time memory I have except for those three other things I mentioned up above.

The hatch blew. Vacuum scoured the entire cigar tube of our ship with a greedy inhalation of breath from god’s lungs. Papers, pens, experiments, everything that wasn’t tethered or taped went fast-forward panicking out the door into the cold embrace. The air turned to crystals.

I don’t know if this was some time later or in the next second but I remember looking forward at my outstretched hand. My fingernails were brightly glowing blue. Beyond my hand was a forest. The trees and leaves were mostly red and I still can’t tell if it was Earth in the autumn or if it was summer on a different planet.

The last thing I remember is talking to a child. The child was much smarter than me and it seemed like he was intentionally using simple language to communicate with me. A little boy about seven years old with eyes glowing exactly the same blue as my fingertips had been glowing in the previous memory. We were both dressed in white and sitting in a red room.

I don’t remember what we talked about but I’ve been a lot calmer ever since.

I was found in a swamp by a couple of Louisiana fishermen. I was looking at the rot-resistant bark of a cypress and tracing the lines on the trunk with my hands. Their greeting is the first thing I remember. Turning my head to see who made that noise and then realizing that I was ankle deep in a swamp.

I still had my uniform on. It was freshly washed and felt like it was still slightly warm from the dryer. I felt freshly showered as well.

It didn’t take long for me to get taken into the basements of NASA and questioned. I’ve been here for weeks now.

They tell me that they found Maria's body in the ship still attached to the satellite. Jackie is missing. I'm looking forward to catching up with her if she shows up somewhere on Earth like I did.

I’m not sure if they’ll give me a memwipe or just cut me loose. I am surprised to feel that I am now in possession of something that they’ll never be able to take from me. I’m different inside.

skonen_blades: (donteven)
He’s got a handful of my hair and I can smell the hair burning. His hands are hot enough to burn my flesh now. That means he’s angrier than I’ve seen him in a long time. I know he doesn’t understand. I need the drugs. I need them. They make me the Miracle Kid. Besides, it’s been weeks since I’ve had any. I deserve it. He doesn’t see it that way, though. Mr. Big Time. Mr. High and Mighty.

I’m the sidekick of one of the biggest super heroes in this section of the suburb we live in. There’s no power in the house we’re squatting in but it’s not zoned to be residential for another ten years and we’re both immune to the radiation.

It didn't star like this. Back in the beginning, back before I was born, Dad was a good person. He was one of the Christian Scientist's flagship Heroes. The church laboratories had been using science to further the cause of God's Reason. After decades of genealogical splicing and reformatting, the world's first super heroes were born.

My mother and my father. They were both physically flawless and dressed in uniforms of white and gold. When forgiveness was not possible for a foreign power, they were sent in. Adam and Eve. The Power and The Glory.

They had a cool plane shaped like a cross. They were worshipped. That was all a long time ago.

My name is Amen. I am their son. It's hard to think about the past. It's hard to think back to when mother was alive. Back when we were wanted. Back when Father was handsome and proud and I was part of the team.

It happened just like in the bible. My Father followed orders blindly but my mother started questioning her orders until she was excommunicated. She was smarter than my father. My Father was stronger and, at the behest of the church, my mother died, dressed in civilian clothes, with my father's hands around her neck. There were cameras everywhere. It was the end. It broke my father’s mind into pieces just like my mother’s neck.

My father went on a rampage. The vatican is still a no-go area for biologicals. They had planned for this, however, and unleashed the next batch of heroes that they had created in his image.

There were huge battles. Sides were chosen. That was all a long time ago.

I remind him of her just by being alive. I had her eyes until father took them away. I can still 'see' with my sonar and my super hearing. It's not so bad.

We aren't special anymore. We are the model-T of super heroes. There are hardly any people left anymore who even remember who we are. The world is a battlefield now of heroes fighting each other. The ‘bad guys’ champion free will while the ‘good guys’ fight for the teachings of Christ. All the baseline no-power humans are dead now. Armageddon has arrived. Angels and Devils tear each other apart in the street and breed like rabbits in the shadows.

I've scavenged the garbage of the neighbourhood for scraps. I killed a stray dog that father can roast with his heat vision for tonight's dinner.

I can tell he's been crying when I come back but I say nothing. It would only provoke him.

skonen_blades: (cocky)
He stomps through the door and into the dark warehouse with his head down. His face is in shadow underneath his fedora. He has a leopard print headband. He’s dressed like a pimp in a purple double breasted zoot suit with huge padded shoulders. His entire face is bandaged. His cigar pushes out clouds that puff and circle behind him like steam from a train. He strides quickly like an executioner that knows the only way he can do the killing is to do it quick. He has a cane held in one lilac gloved hand.

His walk taps out an angry even rhythm until he hits the center of the room. His heels come down together like a rifle shot in the darkening silence when he stops. The sun is going down so the light coming in the windows high up on the walls is almost horizontal.

This man, this homeless lord of the dark under the pier, he looks up. He’s trained the rats to do his bidding. He has seagull minions by the score. All manner of shore scavengers are his to command. He used to be a god but now he hunts for half eaten burgers and cold French fries like his slaves. His army of carrion feeders grows smaller every day as his power wanes. He has decades to live, perhaps years.

He is Oresh, the lord the lost. He is also known as Krane, the master of the missing. This man was what people used to pray to when they needed something found. He was born in the infancy of street voodoo in New Orleans and then forgotten. His existence is coming to an end like a mirror turning over.

He made a decision this morning to go out now and with style. He’s going to spread himself too thin and expend too much energy to ever reincorporate. With a few sharp breaths and a setting of his jaw, he begins.

He goes down on one knee and takes off his hat. He lets go of his cane and the cane stays standing. He reaches up and undoes the bandages that blind him. When he’s free of them, he straightens his back and puts his head up looking forward. His eyes are closed.

He finds things by seeing them. His eyes see all. Nothing is lost because he can see them. Normally he opens his eyes just a sliver and finds what he’s been asked to look for. Three times in his life he’s gone so far as to actually squint. It exhausts him.

This time he opens his eyes wide. The windows of the warehouse rattle to contain a sudden blast of air and light.

All the rats on the beach look towards the warehouse. All the seagulls in the area shut up for a minute.

Renee finds her hairbrush behind the couch. John finds his car keys under the radiator. Peter finds his wife’s will in a shoebox at the bottom of the closet. Lisa’s glasses were in her glove compartment all along. Tim finds the lottery ticket that won him ten dollars tucked in the back pocket of his jeans just before he washes them. Peter finds his shoe under Ellie’s bed before running out to work. Jill finds her earring tangled in the brush of the vacuum cleaner.

All over the country, everyday people find tiny things that were lost to them. Not one of them thinks to mention it to anyone else.

Back in the warehouse, a cane falls to the ground next to a hat and some bandages. Other than that, the warehouse is empty.

skonen_blades: (dark)
There’s this shark fin circling around, poking above the waterline of my current happiness and causing ripples. I’m happy here but I know what I have to do.

I’ve been sending postcards back to an imaginary lover for years. The spider children keep guard and tell their racist jokes to each other outside the camp.

The men are barbaric monkeys. The women are gorgeous mannequins. We were created. There’s no other explanation. How can this awful collection of insecurities and destruction be a result of evolution?

The tentacles knot together nervously. The crusted beak and many eyes are scared of what they must proclaim. How do you damn a world?

It’s like a post office at the center of all creation but instead of letters, it hands out death.

People are wrong. There is a God. And people are right. God is dead. God is the creator. His job is done. He is not the director. He is gone.

There is a thing at the center that is a shaper. It ends the dead ends. That is its single solitary job. It checks what is happening in all creation and shapes it, keeps it perfect. The universe is becoming something. It’s gestating. It will take a long time.

This post office with its giant tentacled general send out angels of death to destroy and end strains of possibility that will harm what the universe is to become.

They are much like the enzymes that dissolve the tail that we all have in our mother’s womb.

I’ve been stamped. I’ve been sent. I have arrived.

The shark fin is growing as the shark rises to the surface.

I am on the couch with my arm around my wife and our children are playing in front of the fireplace. Our dog looks up at me and cocks its head. Why are the pets so much more sensitive than humans?

The inside of me glows and whirrs. My wife looks up at me with a raised eyebrow and a half smile before she’s torn apart and our entire neighbourhood disappears in white light.

I become what I am and fly down to the center of the earth and start pulling out wires.



skonen_blades: (Default)

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