A Return and Recognition

Shuddering shaking and shivering in fear, the tapping, tapping that I hear so near.

The fear has returned, my bloodied muse at my back, her tortured hands upon my neck as her twisted  face a broken smile  of recognition.

Such a saddened thing at the return of my grim fate.

Lashed to the page, chained to the well, my pen drips the black ink, the color of my soul that I know so, so well.

My form ephemeral, my purpose not set, I am the writer, to my muse, a fond pet.

She neither cares for me, nor clothes me, or sees to my feed, for she devours not but fear and twisted dreams, and it seems, to me, expects myself to do the same.

My (In)Stability

Writing without wanting, writing without will, I turn out another piece of garbage, another piece for burning-I can’t rhyme, I can’t reason, I don’t know why. Why do I bother? Why even try?

I feel it shouting, screaming, taunting laughing “YOU CAN’T! YOU CAN’T!” as it shouts in glee and tries to hand another razor blade to me. “You’re worthless and weak and won’t amount to much, look how many you’ll help if only you put a little touch, a tiny bit of red across that pale wrist, they’ll hardly notice you’re gone, you’re really not one to miss.”

I hear it shouting and screaming and laughing at me, this doubt that I live with, every damning day, every day it screams and screams, waiting for me to see. Waiting for me to know as it does, my purpose is nothing, I’ll never amount to much, a little bit of red really should be the final touch. It’s not very poetic, it’s not my best work, but really my response is short and simple and something that works.

Fuck off.

Tales From Gera – Lore Building

The book before you is a fine thing, bound in supple black leather with a simple gold lettering on the front. The pages aren’t paper, but fine vellum, the ink faded and light but still clearly legible. The first page seems to be a forward of sort, having no name of the author but containing a simple message, scrawled in an imperfect script.

Perhaps I should call this the ramblings of an old man? Or maybe not, I’ve not written something I’ve assumed would be read you see. Most of what I write will never, should never, see the light of day.

But this will, for whatever reason. Perhaps, hopefully, in sharing this you’ll find some amusement, something to be distracting ye from yer troubles. Either way, I suppose it’s a fitting memoir, the stories of others from a man never known by the world, whose own story should never be told.

C.

There are several pages missing from the book, but a bit of the tome still remains, the fine pages preserved somehow from the ravages of time and civilization, the first story, a collection of events and personal knowledge, is simply titled “On the Matter of Slavers” and refers to a country that borders the kingdom of Gera, that kingdom of wild and unstable magic.

Really, when one thinks of slavers one inevitably thinks of the Pits, and who or what they are, but well, while the tools that feel they run things can be described I hesitate to say such a strong word as describe can be applied to that which they serve, and don’t seem to realize they serve at all. You see it started quite some time ago, when Arthur and Roland weren’t yet even born, that was, around, nearly six hundred years or so again from this day and age. Gera wasn’t yet truly unstable, there had been no need for a Sanctum yet and the country that would be known as The Slave Pits to all but those that live there hadn’t even been formed.

You see that area had always been a bit dark, a bit wrong, those wastes. Even the magic that caused Gera to bloom left that place untouched, barren and scarred. Suppose that shoulda been a sign, but nay, we didn’t take it. Those that were there, meself included, or a me I can barely recall, we were bandits, just rogues looking for a place the Guard couldn’t, wouldn’t get to us. The land was hard though, and the only way to get things to grow was with sweat and blood, and yet more blood.

The writing in the following bits grows a bit sloppy, as if written by a shaky hand, the diction of the words changes as well, more anger showing in the harsh lines of ink set down by the quill, the splatters of ink across the faded vellum. Its obvious that, whoever the author is, this part is close to home, and closer to the soul. Merely writing this bit was hard, thinking about it, remembering it, must have been a thousand times so.

Ye see, in Ulsir, the name the Slaver’s have for their own kingdom, the land isn’t fertile unless you feed it. That’s what we did then, all those years ago, we fed it, and then we were fed. We thought we’d find a new calling ye see, that perhaps with this we could be farmers, away from Gera and magic and just have a simpler life. Should have known it wouldn’t be that simple, it could never be that simple.

The brambles grew in a week, the forests coming in quicker. A haze, the blood mist, rolled in with it all and then, well, then the thoughts started. The idea of having others work it for us, having others do our toil.

Having more to feed that hungry land.

The writing, already scrunches together here, pulled tight on itself, as if the author was fighting against the next lines, forcing them to be small, to go unnoticed.

It gets in yer ‘ead ye see, draws ye in pulls on ye and ye hear it, hear it, and it echoes, and repeats nigh constant it is.

Blood for the land, souls for the dark.

Blood for the land, souls for the dark.

Blood for the land, souls for the dark.

The lines Blood for the land, souls for the dark continue for two pages after this, a large portion of pages have been torn from the binding before and after this bit before the next bit of legible writing can be found, continuing the story being told.

Every day that repeats, and every day we listened, and things just…got bad and even here, talking as I am, ye can feel the pull of that can’t ye? The corruption of it all. It turned a bunch of bad men worse, and they’re all still there. All of us that’d gone and been making that place into a power, we’re all still around ye know. Sem of us, well, some of us learned, some of us went to feed the land, unable to take the voice of it all. Idiots don’t realize we can’t stay dead, we don’t go that privilege. As long as that land is fed, we’ll be here, it’s gift to us for waking it.

Let that be a lesson to ye, ye find something left alone by near everything else? Leave it the hell alone. Else ye might just find out why it’s left alone…and that reason?

That reason might just be hell. Still don’t be knowing what be claiming me, don’t be knowing what caused the change, or near anything else, but that’s one thing I learned fer sure. Ye find something like that, something wrong, something, a bit off? Ye can be sure there is a thrice be damned reason for it. I can put a name to it, tell ye what it is, but describe? Give a reason to it? Ye might as well ask why we exist at all to ask such a question.

What is it? That’s simple, it’s Evil, what else could it be? Don’t be going thinking we were misguided men mind you, weren’t no good then, ain’t no good now. If there is one thing a bad man can be claiming well..

I know Evil when I see it, and that? That’s about as evil as it gets. If you value yer sanity, and yer morals, I’d say leave well enough alone and let em sort themselves out. I’m sure they’ll be dead or monsters, jes give it a few more centuries.

While there are yet many more pages that aren’t torn the writings on later pages seems to move and change, blurring or simply forming the lines Blood for the land, souls for the dark, visible on each page before you blink and the writing clears for a time. Whatever it was the author talked on, one notices it once they read of it, once they view it clearly. The issue stands however that when one does notice something so vile, so foul as the corruption of that place…it notices you in turn.

Odd (No real name for this, its kinda dark tho)

Detached and deranged and oh so strange they did so think they were not real.

So climbing a tower they thought to peel they did a dance and thought to glance upon the high noon moon and fall upon the sun.

However,  all they did was fall upon the asphalt.

With a splatter, with a splash, to quick they proved a lack of thought,

But an overindulgence of courage and some real guts.

Chorus

I often reiterate my rending in rants, reading the reiteration in a chorus of crazed chants. Crazed and insane I begin my descent into truly the deranged maligning my own mind with millions of multitudes of reiterated regrets, the reiteration being read in this chorus of crazed chants, the chanting continues and I fall forever forward faster and faster freely flowing towards forgetting the ranting reiteration of the millions of multitudes of unforgotten regrets the rant receding back into the reiterated chorus of a thousand crazed chants. The chanting continues crashing into a crushing crescendo of a multitude of minds that hide meandering miserably inside my own mind with rending wretched remorse that returns me to the rant that awful reiteration of my own wretched nature that leads me back to reading the reiteration of my own rending in rants that simply returns to that chorus of crazed chants that marks the beginning of the cycle going from crazed to deranged the circular psychosis perfected in permanence, the rending repeating with each reiteration as the chorus of crazed chants continues to carry on, the crushing crescendo flowing forth faster and faster as I fall forever. I often reiterate my rending in rants, reading the reiteration in a chorus of crazed chants.

Two Muses

I have muses, two, one is kind and bright but weary of life. The other is not born of me, not inside my mind, but within my soul, it is the drag of life, the scars that don’t show. The pain that burns, that sears my mind and poisons me so, it builds and builds until the dams must burst and wounds re-open unless I purge and let it go, fearful of not indulging that poison muse for fear of making the pain worse. A cruel task master, the whip wielded by life, it cracks and sears upon my soul and upon my mind until I take up the pen, the ink my own life blood and jot my pain, my agony upon paper with words and deed, letting the poison out, sewing the seeping wound once more with words for all to see.

I’m Sorry I Sorrow So

Tired of sorrow so I’m sorry I sorrow so, I never meant to worry you, climbing so high I never thought to fall at all.

I’m tired of sorrow so I’ll say one last time I’m sorry I worried you so and now its morning and your mourning for a friend that climbed too high and never thought to think of that fall at all.

Someone who needed to be above the clouds just to feel safe to breath, the press of bodies the swell of souls was to much to bare, to know.

So I climbed higher still and never thought to fall never thought to slip or tumble, or worry towards that at all.

So I’m tired of sorrow, I’m tired of mourning but I’m sorry I brought you to it. The last apology, the sorrow of a sorrowful poet, my tears have dried and my years have gone, and gone without any kind of love or hope, just mourning every morning, and sorrows every night, I couldn’t rest I couldn’t stop so I reached and reached towards those glorious heights but I never meant for you to hurt for my hurt, my inability to stand the press of people and the swell of souls, and that dreadful wound that was the only emotion I was ever to know.