The Royal Son

Well, I had this idea of a New World, in which there are seven/nine deities which are very real. Each deity has its own House (except for the last two, who have a united House). That’ll do, for now.

I wrote this today.

~

The Royal Son

The Council of Existence was gathered. At its head sat the temporary Lord, brother to the late Lord – who died of a terrible disease which, at his last few years, made him appear so ridiculous everyone was now avoiding mentioning him or his illness, fearing to burst into a long suppressed laughter – and uncle to the current rightful Lord, who was, as the servants began to call it, ‘youthfully absent’, roaming the lands which were his birthright and those beyond them.
As much as he enjoyed undermining his nephew’s titles, at the times in which Richard needed to replace him at these Godsdamn councils he couldn’t help but feel for him. He’d gladly sleep through them, but he was afraid it would ruin the air of authority he was building should his ill-timer nephew return.
As the Council’s administrative assistant began collecting papers, Richard realised this was finally over. As if to contradict said realisation, the assistant said, ‘One more thing, my Lord.’ Richard’s dissatisfaction quickly evaporated, though, as he smiled at the thought they were already calling him Lord. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘The heir to the throne is betrothed,’ the assistant said, looking a bit worried. Richard could hardly tell why; it was due to happen eventually, and if it did not it would hardly matter to them. The commoners loved to hear about this sort of crap, of course, but Richard had his own royal family to worry about.
‘Wonderful,’ he said dully. ‘Be sure to send my congratulations.’
‘Certainly, my Lord, it’s just that…’ He kept looking worried. Richard began to be irritated; he wanted to get this over with.
‘What is it, Bernard?’ he asked with mild annoyance.
‘The wife… She’s of the House of Meaning.’
Richard looked dumbstruck. ‘Oh,’ he said eventually. It was not unknown for the royal families to meddle with the Crown’s family, in order to get close to the throne – Hell, his own family was most notorious for doing so – and it wasn’t even rare of a sotherless heir to wed outside his own royal family – but not to this one. The Royal Family of Meaning was a known rival of his own, dating back to each of their respective tutelaries, who were said to be formers lovers, parents of the first man and woman. Of course, the House of Meaning barely had anything to do with their tutelary; unlike the rest of the New Gods, the Ghost never bothered blessing the family of which he was supposed to be a patron.
After a few seconds of bewilderment, he came to his senses. One thing had to be asked; ‘How the fuck did that happen?’ Richard looked incredulously at his administrative assistant. ‘How could you not inform me this was about to happen?’
Bernard pulled his collar uncomfortably. Notorious rivals they might have been, but the Houses of Meaning and Existence had quite a few things in common, such as inclination to curse more often than most royal families, which often had their servants at unease. ‘No one knew, my Lord…’
‘Someone must have known!’
‘They met a week ago.’
Richard looked disbelievingly around him, as if to check that the world around him was still the same, and not made of chocolate. ‘What do you mean, they met a week ago? Someone arranged that, surely?’
Bernard shook his head.
‘I see, they met – just like that – did they? What, were they whoring at the same place?’ He laughed, satisfied with his joke, but after Bernard did not reply for a few seconds he suddenly said: ‘I’m not right, am I, Bernard? Tell me I’m not right.’
‘No, you’re not. My Lord. They met at an inn.’
‘An inn? They met at an inn?’
‘The Royal Son set out to meet Her Sweetness in hope to discuss the whether, and his men stopped in an inn on the way. She happened to be there.’
Richard was speechless for a moment, looking for something to get angry at. ‘Why was I not informed that the heir to the throne set out to meet Her?’
‘You were, my Lord.’
Richard looked as if he wanted to break Bernard’s nose. ‘We cannot let this happen,’ he finally said. ‘We shan’t be ruled by a damn nihilist. The Gods know what will happen if we do.’

 

Peter K.

Peter K. (2012).doc

2012, December 21

Peter K. hid between the trees in a dark corner. Well, it wasn’t dark per se, but there was something dark about its being.
His classmates – a bunch of average, boring second graders – have probably crushed his teacher’s attempts to convince them the world was not about to end, if any bothered existing in the first place. He couldn’t think of any reason for them to do so, but then again he couldn’t think of any for himself either.
He’d have gone home, but home wasn’t much better as of late. It’d been quite unwelcoming ever since his mother was gone. He wasn’t sure where she went, but it sounded like a better place. Family members of his had gone to better places before. Sometimes he got the impression they were all in the same place.
Although, usually, when it happened, all his family got together, sang together, and talked about how he or she were probably in that better place. This time, they came separately, some of them saying how sorry they were and most of them claiming that some other woman would replace her eventually, using these words or others. They didn’t sing together and didn’t say she was in a better place. This time, it was his father who gave him the impression that her location was better. Firstly, their own location quite sucked ever since she was gone; and secondly, he always mumbled things about her laughing at him with some other guy and his friends. Peter wasn’t sure what was so funny, but it certainly sounded more fun than dealing with his father.
When his father didn’t curse his mother and complain about all the fun she was apparently having with that guy and his friends, he cursed himself and said he was rightly served. He’d go on and on about how he ‘…should never have left her.’ At first Peter did not understand how his father could see himself as the active one in this separation, but eventually he realised that ‘her’ was some woman to whom his father did something similar to what Peter’s mother did to him. ‘Of course, I didn’t leave her to whore around!’ he could suddenly shout, but then he’d say that he still shouldn’t have left her.
At this point, his father’s anger would be pointed at his family. He’d complain about how they convinced him to do what he did, telling him it was the right thing. ‘Heartless robots, that’s what they are. All they care about is the rules. I could have been living with the woman I loved  right now, but instead I sit here like a dog.’
When he said that, a few weeks ago, he suddenly noticed Peter. He grabbed him, looking him right in the eyes, and said: ‘Never leave your family because of religion. Never. Promise me that.’
He stared at Peter, until the latter realised he actually wanted him to promise that;  at first, he wanted to tell him he wasn’t counting on having a wife, and that if he ever found a person he didn’t want to murder like usual but rather want to grow old with, he’d simply grow old and do it with them, unless he found a way not to grow old, because after all who wanted to grow old? but then he realised that arguing with his father about such nonsense wasn’t a good idea at this point, and said ‘I promise.’

 

 

The Creation of Ally Hilonestry

I wrote this today. It basically tells the story of how Peter Kane became Ally Hilonestry. If you read about about Ally Hilonestry in The Devil Is Calling, it would be clearer.

I recommend reading the .doc version, which may be downloaded here.

~ ~ ~

‘Hello, I’m here for the…’ I became silent. I didn’t know what to say. It was a stupid thing to say anyway; and the only part of it which wasn’t entirely obvious, I left out.

I cleared my throat. ‘Yeah.’

The secretary looked at me, bored. ‘You must fill in the form before—’

‘I wasn’t given any form.’

‘There are some over there,’ she said, and pointed at a stand with a few papers, to my back. ‘After filling it in, we examine it – and if we find you fit, you will be given our treatment.’

‘F…fit?’ I asked, confused. She looked at me with a pseudo-wondering eye – an eye that knew very well why I was confused.

‘Yes, fit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a private clinic, Mr, uhm…?’

‘Kane. Peter Kane.’

‘Mr Kane. We don’t have to give you any treatment. If, after examining the form, we choose to give you our treatment – rest assure, it will be given to you.’

I wanted to shout at her. I wanted to tell her she was an idiot. I wanted to tell her she knew nothing about anything. But to what point would I do that?

I turned away to the stand with the papers, and threw a look at the form. It was rather odd.

‘All right. It shouldn’t be too hard,’ I thought. ‘Just answer all the questions, and hope for the best. You don’t even have to tell the truth.’

 

Name: Ally.

Sex: No, thank you.

Gender: Too much.

Origins: Ape.

Income: Slightly bigger than the outlay.

 

1.      Would you change your sex?

If any sex were good enough for me.                                                                                           

2.      Name three things you’d want to do.

1.      Fuck a frog.                                                                                                                        

2.      Only use the word ‘were’, instead of ‘was’.                                                                   

3.      See May.                                                                                                                               

3.      On you gravestone, what will be written?

                                                                                                                                                      

I halted. What?

The rest of the questions were just odd, but this one got me thinking. It was very odd, too, of course, but it got me thinking nonetheless.

What would be written on my gravestone, once I’m dead?

I haven’t yet done anything worth mentioning. There was nothing I wanted people to remember about me. There was no one worth mentioning; she was just a passing obsession.

The only thing I could possibly think about was something philosophical; something that would summarise all my philosophy. But what? What was the most important part of my philosophy?

But no – no. I hated my philosophy. I shouldn’t write anything about it, I thought. But perhaps… I could write about someone else’s philosophy.

 

5.      On you gravestone, what will be written?

I’m not really dead, if I’m still being read.                                                                                    

 

‘Hu. It even rhymes,’ I thought. I went to the secretary again, and gave her the form. She examined it, and, to my great surprise, nodded. ‘Very well. You may go.’

I looked at her, disbelievingly. Could it be? Could it finally happen?

The secretary got up, and walked to me. ‘Come with me.’

She the then led me to a white corridor, which led to a white door. She opened it, and walked inside. I followed her, dreamily. No, it couldn’t be, I concluded. It just couldn’t.

 

The room behind the door was even whiter. In it, was a doctor – or just a guy with a white robe. I couldn’t really tell the difference.

The guy in the white robe was given the form, and examined it himself. He, too, nodded, and signed me to lie on the bed to his side.

I did so, and smiled. Perhaps it could be.

The guy looked at the form again, and nodded once more.

‘Close your eyes,’ he told me. I obeyed. It could be.

‘Good night, Ally.’

 

A Heroic Quest?

A few months back, my English teacher gave us an assignment to write a story.

Now, I’m pretty sure the guy’s a drug addict, so about a week later he sends as an email saying ‘STOP THE PROGRESS’ in big red capital letters. He didn’t send it to me. I finished the story a few days later.

Everyone told me, when they still thought we needed to write this thing, that it needed to be at least ten pages long, and that he wanted it to be about fifteen.

Being a writer, it quite freaked me out.

Writing fifteen pages is hard. It takes time and much effort. We had about two weeks to write this thing. The idea that some other people, who don’t even identify themselves as writers, could write fifteen page stories in two weeks made me nuts. I wanted to kill myself. The one thing I thought I was talented at was apparently something every jerk could do.

But eventually, I got myself together. These idiotic jerks I started to hate would probably write crappy stories anyway. And if they don’t – and I’d find out that every mother’s son who knows English can write stories of this length that are worth something – than, I could kill myself in peace, knowing that I was worth absolutely nothing, and that the one thing about myself I thought was unique – writing – was apparently NOT.

To be frank, I’m still waiting – you see, we’re supposed to write it next year, so I guess I’d see by then whether there’s a point to my life or not. Those of my classmate who already started writing the story are divided to two: people who couldn’t pass the tenth page, and people that got to the eighteenth and barely started the story. It’s sort of comforting, because I wrote nineteen pages (in a day!) and already finished. And, in my opinion, beginning stories is much easier than developing them.

Well, that’s the story behind the story. The story itself is not a masterpiece, but it has a beginning and an end, and it is finished – and I don’t have many of those around. I usually just write single ‘scenes’.

I took characters from the Third Dimension, but I’m not sure whether the plot would fit the rest of its events. We’ll see, I guess.

I won’t post the entire story (it’s nineteen pages long, after all), but I will post the first chapter (each chapter is quite short), and upload the .doc version of the rest.

Enjoy!

The .doc version.

~ ~ ~

Chapter 1:
The Discharge of the Previous Servant

On the Highest Place in the Darkest of Chambers there was the Tallest Throne.

On it, sat the Queen of Hell, the Guardian of Destruction, the Maintaining of All Evil, the Mother of All Demons, the Goddess of Witches, the Dark Feminine Principle.

She wasn’t happy.

There were nine gateways leading to the Darkest of Chambers; four on her right, four on her left, and one opposing her. The eight gateways on her right and left were locked.

The one opposing her was being locked.

It was being locked by none else but the two most loyal of the six hundred and sixty five Beasts of Hell.

And trust me, my dear friends, there was a reason – a most specific, fundamental reason – why these beasts weren’t called the Beasts of Disney World.

And the Two Most Loyal Beasts of Hell were now walking towards the forth, least free person in the Darkest of Chambers. They stood behind him, unseen but well felt.

‘You failed, it seems,’ said the Queen of Hell, the Guardian of Destruction, the Maintaining of All Evil, the Mother of All Demons, the Goddess of Witches, the Dark Feminine Principle. ‘Again.’

‘My… my master… it was too hard! How could I fight alone against such a thing?’

‘Don’t try to talk yourself out of your mess! You’re a failure. You’re useless. You’re pathetic. You were so much more charismatic in your first life, Abraham.’

‘I… I…’ he stuttered. He stumbled, and fell to the Floor of Nightmares. He was desperate.

And in desperate times, desperate ideas crawl into one’s mind. Ideas of meaninglessness; and in times like this, one might abandon his hopes and believes. Hopes of justice, hopes of redemption. And in times like this, one might not only begin to wonder whether justice and redemption were on their way, but whether justice and redemption existed at all; and then, slowly, begin to wonder whether they could even exist in the first place.

At this point, one might even feel remorse. Not for having done evil; but for believing there was such thing as evil, or at least for believing such thing should have been avoided in any kind of way. Not for not doing good; but for sacrificing so much because you believed you did something worthy, while you just threw your life away. And most of all, for believing that by not slaughtering your son, you avoided selling you soul to the devil; while what you did was willingly handing it to the closest next thing.

At this point, Abram cursed himself, his son, all his offspring, and most importantly, his God.

‘Just give me… one last chance.’

‘I’ve been giving you one last chances for four thousand years,’ she said sneeringly. ‘Take him back to his cell. And then, bring me someone else.

‘I want the Oldest One.’

The Two Most Loyal Beasts of Hell grasped Abram, and dragged him to the Cells of Despair.

 

All souls passed through Kaf HaKela before moving on, before they were brought to what God called justice. But some souls – to which no proper justice could have been given (to God’s opinion) – stayed there; and those poor souls were brought to the Cells of Despair. And they were lost; held in neither Hell nor Heaven, expecting nothing for nothing expected them.

They were just lost, lost forever.

And the first human to be held in Kaf HaKela, though not the first to pass through there, was now sitting on the Floor of Nightmares.

He’d been sitting on the Floor of Nightmares for the last few millenniums.

There was no point in moving. There was no one to talk to.

He tried to stop; stop talking, stop moving, stop thinking, stop existing. And he was doing quite well; better than he had expected.

But no one could go on like this forever.

Only that this time what ruined his succession was one of the Guardians of Hell.

He opened the cell – which was locked for no reason, since the Prisoners of Meaninglessness had nowhere to go – and said, ‘Come.’

Slowly, painfully, the Oldest Prisoner of Kaf HaKela raised his head, which wasn’t moved for seven centuries. He gradually, excruciatingly opened his mouth; but no voice was heard.

The Guardian of Hell grasped the most old prisoner, and dragged him, not very gently, but quite slowly, to the Darkest of Chambers.

 

The Devil Is Calling

The Devil Is Calling is one of my favourite stories, actually.

I recommend downloading the .doc version, which may be found here.

~ ~ ~

Had you asked Dew Nestry how many people were his servants, he would have, in all likelihood, told you that there wasn’t a certain number. The lack of certainty was a motif in Dew Nestry’s character, is what you probably heard if you asked him why the Hell he didn’t ever give clear answers to anything. A similar answer you’d most likely have received if you asked him what exactly these servants did for him.

Although, there was, in fact, one certain thing that these so called servants did for him – killing. This is why they were mostly referred as Nestry’s Hit Men.

This story focuses on one, certain, hit – you know what? I’ll finish this sentence later. Anyhow, this person wasn’t the best of Nestry’s servants in the contract killing business, or, quite frankly, in any other kind of business, but was, to Nestry’s opinion, the most extraordinary one. But enough with the general talking – let us focus on one, certain, rainy Tuesday, in which said servant, whose name was Ally Hilonestry, was in one certain mood.

 

Ally was sitting in her armchair, waiting. She was nervous.

She took a sip from her tea, which was a bit too hot and a bit too without milk, and checked her watch.

It wasn’t there. She didn’t wear a watch. Of course she didn’t, what was she thinking? Who wore watches? Especially with a white dress? No, no, the two things just didn’t fit. How could she expect herself to wear one? Didn’t she know herself better?

No, she definitely did. She was probably just nervous. Her mother should arrive soon.

A mother she hadn’t spoken to for years. She wasn’t sorry for that or anything – actually, she was quite fond of this position – of not having spoken to her mother for so long. The longer she went on, the easier it was to continue going on. And that’s exactly why she was so nervous of speaking to her again. What if some primal, idiotic feelings would surf? That was the last thing she needed at the moment.

She’d have to finish the job quickly. But how could she? What if her mother had changed? She had to find out, didn’t she? Of course, even if her mother had changed, she’d have to kill her nonetheless, but at least she would know that she had.

She took one of the pillows from the sofa next to her, and hugged it. It made her feel cute, in some foolish way.

She laid her cup of tea on the coffee table, trying to figure out whether she was actually able to do this job without even speaking to her mother beforehand.

She remembered how her mother cheated on her father. It wasn’t the main reason she’d stopped talking to her, but it was the last straw, so to speak. Basically, she just didn’t like her mother – and when the latter moved in with her boss, it also seemed like an excellent way to get her out of Ally’s life forever.

Nevertheless, Ally was still somewhat human. She couldn’t know no primal instincts would arise at the least convenient moment. And the curiosity was even more troublesome.

The bell rang.

Damn it.

Ally hurried to the door, and opened it.

‘Oh, Mrs Kane, hello! What a great timing, I just got back home. How are you? Please, come in.’ Ally smiled the cutest fake, non-sexual smile she had smiled in a while.

This would require more phoniness than most of her hits – but make no mistakes, all of them required some.

‘It’s Miss Thompson, actually, I’m no longer married,’ smiled Mrs Kane. ‘You know, you look very familiar. Have we met before?’

‘Ah, I don’t think so – but who knows. Please, take a sit, I’ll make us some tea. Did you find the place easily?’ asked Ally.

‘Oh, yeah, it’s a lovely neighbourhood. You know, those shoes you are wearing are just lovely, where did you get them?’

‘Ah, you know… One of these places…’ mumbled Ally, and went to the kitchen.

It didn’t seem as if she had changed.

She took out two cups, and poured to them some hot tea, thinking that these high heels were getting quite uncomfortable.

She was getting sick of this dress, too.

She added some sugar to the tea, and opened the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of milk.

She started to feel rather annoyed. She didn’t have patience for any of this – not for killing her mother, and certainly not for talking to her. But, yet again, she couldn’t miss that final opportunity to judge her.

Although, she somehow became fairly careless, too. She knew, deep down, that her mother hadn’t changed, that she’d kill her quite soon, and that she’d foolishly feel sorry afterwards, and think of it constantly from that moment onwards. She knew she’d feel bad, and that she was somehow already feeling slightly bad, but that entire concept of feeling bad and good and yet bad again seemed so expected and dull she could hardly care about it – even when her own feelings were in question. It was a bit as if she was watching a bad show and wasn’t able to switch the channel. She felt disconnected from it, yet it was the only thing available.

As (s)he returned the milk to the refrigerator, (s)he noticed that the nails of the hands with which (s)he did so weren’t polished. Quickly, (s)he examined the mirror on the refrigerator’s door – that house was full with mirrors, for exactly that reason – and realised he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

Damn it.

His mother would surely recognise him now. He had, indeed, grown up – and his burns were gone, but that wasn’t enough to prevent a mother from recognising her son. Breasts, were a fine start.

He thought of pinkish and stuffed stuff, but the more he did so the less girly he felt.

What made him feel girly?

Blood. Knives. Bloody knives. Sucking the blood of bloody knives. Bloody knives piercing the hearts of men.

Dresses. White dresses. White dresses stained with blood. Blood.

A bloody knife. She was holding a bloody knife.

Her hands were covered with blood, and she was wearing jeans.

Well, it’s certainly better.

Hastily, she washed her hands, took the cups and went to the living room, putting the knife in her pocket. She couldn’t exactly get rid of it – and, well, she did need it.

‘I’m sorry it took so long,’ she smiled to her mother, ‘I felt too dressed up, if you know what I mean. But perhaps I give these things too much meaning.’

‘Oh, no, no. I absolutely understand. Shall we begin?’

Ally sat on her couch again. ‘Yeah, sure, but let’s not be too formal, shall we? Do you like it?’

‘Oh, yeah, it is a lovely apartment. Why are you selling it, by the way?’ she added, as if it wasn’t important, with a smile even more fake than Ally’s.

Surprisingly enough, instead of primal instincts concerning unreasonable feelings of love and forgiveness, to Ally’s mind surfed new unreasonable feelings – to which many reasons could have been found, and yet were caused by something else entirely – of resentment towards her mother. Her face, her smiles, her way of expressing herself in general and her constant annoying use of the word ‘lovely’ in particular, her little motions – most regular motions – they all seemed remarkably sinister.

‘Ah, because…’

It was a scary thing, really, talking to a person you were about to kill. You could truly say anything, even the most awkward or bizarre thing that would come to your mind. Some people – fictional people, that is – had used this most peculiar condition in order to spill out their ultimate plan, unaware, obviously, of being fictional, and of the very high probability therefore of a deus ex machine showing up at the very moment they have finished talking. But deus ex machine or not, spilling out your heart to someone that you were or were not going to kill was too normal, too cliché, and mostly too stupid and pathetic for any Hilonestry.

Therefore, most of Nestry’s Hit Men used this most abnormal circumstance in quite a different way.

‘…frogs.’

‘Wh—what?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I, ah, didn’t understand – why are selling the place?’

‘Oh – because frogs.’

‘There are frogs in it?’

‘It? We’re in “it”, you know, you can just say here, and of course there aren’t frogs in here, if there were, I would have mentioned it in the advertisement, but I didn’t, because if I have, you wouldn’t have come, would you, and I needed you to come, otherwise I wouldn’t have sold the place, and if I haven’t sold the place, I wouldn’t have advertised the advertisement, and if I haven’t advertised the advertisement, I couldn’t have mention anything about frogs being frogs and the reasoning of the conclusion therefore that I’m selling this place, and therefore meeting you, and therefore not needing you no longer, and therefore not needing advertising anything about any apartment or any said frogs, or, for that matter, the reasoning of yet again the conclusion that I’m selling the place, so I didn’t say anything about frogs in the advertisement and about said reasoning, because if I have I wouldn’t needed have done so in the first place, because than I wouldn’t have needed you, because you’d have come, but you came anyway, so what’s the point of talking about any frogs being or not being for that matter other frogs?’

Mrs Kane was silent for a few seconds. ‘Hu?’

‘Er… I. Did. Not. Say. “Because. Of. Frogs.

‘I.

‘Said.

‘ “Because—

‘ “Frogs.”

‘That’s.

‘Fucking.

‘It.

‘Can’t you pay any slightly little tiny bit of miniature attention? It doesn’t actually requires truly paying, you know!’

‘Wh—what are you talking about?’

‘Frogs, twenty seven commas, and a hundred and ninety seven words. How many things can I possibly say?’

Mrs Kane laughed, assuming this was all a joke she didn’t understand and that everything was going to get back to normal after she had recognised it as a one.

‘Anyway,’ she began, but –

‘No, no, no, no no no, no – no. No. No, absolutely not. I am not going to – no, no, do you think – do, do, do you actually think that I – I – am gonna sit here and listen to your voice? whatever the latter speak of? No.

‘No.

‘No.’

‘Are—are you okay?’

That was a very good question.

That scenario was quite common, actually, with Nestry’s Hit Men. You see, most fictional people spilled out their hearts while speaking to a dead man walking – but Nestry’s Hit Men spilled out their logic, as a result of the fact that, after ‘signing in’, their right and left frontal lobes were replaced. Or something.

Point is, Nestry’s Hit Men were usually – mind you, usually – rather sane. But, being under the command of Dew Nestry, insanity did tend to slide in, as it were. And sometimes, their logic experienced something usually referred as ‘Super Nova’ – which was rather like a bizarre ‘Opposite Day’, only much less consistent, and, as its name suggested, had absolutely nothing to do with supernovas.

The Hilonetries customarily tried to restrain their logic, not letting it overnestry itself, so to speak. Then again, while speaking to a ‘dead man walking’, it became somewhat difficult for them to hold it together, as you might say.

‘You see, Mrs Kane, you’re an idiot – and I couldn’t count all the mistakes you’ve done over the years even if I used all my frogs’ toes – oh, oh, you think I’m exaggerating, Mrs Kane, for it does indeed seem quite unreasonable, but trust me – I tried, and I couldn’t have counted it, I really couldn’t – but of all of these mistakes – these many, many mistakes – you have made three big ones – and I know you think I’m referring marrying my father, giving birth to me, and coming here, but no, not at all – I’m talking about real big mistakes, real really truly bigy big mistakes – well, perhaps now I’m exaggerating – no, no, I’m not – you have made three that big a mistake – three that big mistakes, I mean – wearing that dress, wearing these shoes, and wearing these earrings – and I know that you’re thinking those are five mistake, but you know what? I miscounted them, you’re right.’

Mrs Kane opened her mouth, as if about to say something, but she wasn’t sure what exactly it would be. She didn’t hid much the ‘my father’ bit, but even she realised at this point that she wasn’t talking to a very stable person. Unfortunately, she didn’t realise in what way precisely was she unstable.

‘I know, I know, I know that – that you think that these five mistake are just some ultimate divine joke of life that none of us mortals can understand – some way of escaping the cliché path of naïveté – or some five random things that happen to pass through my mind at the time – but no, not exactly.

‘I have never liked clichés, mom, and that’s also why I never liked you. Firstly, because you never respected that, and secondly – because you’re a cliché walking.

‘But sadly, mom, I can’t always escape them. I can’t even justify not being able to always escape them without using one in the process, as it seems others can.

‘And you know, these cloths you’re wearing – that dress, these shoes, these earrings, they say one thing – “I’m not married. I was never married. I’m Miss Thompson. But I’m willing to change it for a few hours, if you like, Mr Gentleman.”

‘You know what? Fine. Fine. Do what you will, I don’t give a damn about it. I never wanted to. You and my father got married because you were – are – two damned idiots. Fine. And of course it wasn’t a one-time mistake, no, it never is. And that dumb dwarf you went to live with – I know you left him too, because I know you, for I had the unfortunate luck to be your son. I don’t care. You can be or not be with how many men or women you like or don’t like, and lie or not lie to how many Gods you believe or don’t believe in that you think or not think that it means something. Fine. But why, why, why giving birth to someone without thinking? Why? I understand you follow some crappy rules of some crappy society – fine – but why not think twice when there’s a person – an innocent person – for heaven sake, I don’t think even Catholics think that a person that hasn’t yet been born is not innocent, but who knows – when a person like that was involved? Why not realise what it means when a kid disappears for a week and gets back home with burns on his face?

‘No, no, no, I’m not falling for that. I’m not seeking logic. I know better than that.’

He got up, taking out his knife (which, luckily, was still there) with a mad look that somewhat emphasised the burns on his face. He felt, most annoyingly, small.

 ‘You know what? You’re an idiot. And you know what else? I wish you were there for me. Because if you were, I would have still hated you. And, considering the fact that you were there, or more precisely observing that option, I would have probably stabbed you. And if I stabbed you then, I wouldn’t have started all this. And I wouldn’t have stabbed you now. I would stab you back then, willingly. And I wouldn’t have needed work for a mad man.

‘And I wouldn’t have been in this cliché scenario.’

His mother was still shocked, her mouth still open, but it seemed as if she was getting the grips of what was going on by now. I wouldn’t have thought so, but…

‘P… Peter…?’

Peter took the knife and penetrate it right to her stomach.

Then, he threw it away, and settled in his couch, tired.

He didn’t care.

He really didn’t.

He lay his head on his right hand, rolling his eyes.

No, really.

He sat there for a few minutes, almost feeling his burns disappearing and his body getting bigger, when his phone rang.

He liked this phone. It had a shellfish shape, and it was probably the only thing on him that didn’t constantly change. There weren’t many numbers in it, but he’d given each and every one the exact proper name it deserved, after giving a lot of thought to it.

 

The Devil is calling.

 

Ally answered it.

‘You’ve got a hell of a timing.

‘It’s Godhood, not timing.’

‘Same shit.

‘Is it done?’

‘Obviously.’

He hung up, and threw the phone aside.

One’s down.

Two more to go.

 

Peeling a Peel

This one is even more ‘mysterious’, but I think you’ll be able to understand the important part.

~ ~ ~

‘You’re peeling a potato’s peel,’ a voice from the couch said.

Steven closed his apartment’s door behind him, and hung his jacket on it.

‘Am I?’

Steven walked towards the couch to reveal a shaded figure holding a glass of wine, its back facing him.

‘I prefer to look at it as peeling an infinite number of potatoes, with no means whatsoever to do anything with the said potatoes. “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.” ’

The figure laughed. ‘So it’s the philosophical suicide you choose, I see.’

‘I believe it is called revolting.’

‘Believing the journey is satisfying in its own is believing in hope. Believing in hope is committing philosophical suicide.’

‘In this case, my only other option is committing actual suicide. That would only lead to dreadful decade or so, I’m afraid, in my case.’

‘The idea of revolting is not entirely nonentity. You can truly face the absurd; you can understand your life is meaningless, hopeless, pointless; and live with it.’

‘And that’s what you do, eh? But I’m afraid you’re wrong. The way I see it, revolting is simply facing the absurd and the meaninglessness in life; it’s not rejecting hope. Hope is simply the act of believing things could be better. I don’t hope for anything, anyway. I just enjoy the journey up the mountain. Not because it’s meaningful. Because it feels meaningful, and is therefore enjoyable. I’m not trying to reach the top; I’m trying to find the most interesting way up there.’

Steven walked to his drinks cabinet, and took out a bottle of scotch and a glass.

‘Are you now?’ said the figure. ‘I wonder.

‘Steven, do you know what the Original Sin is?’

‘I don’t believe in this Christian crap. I don’t care what my forefathers did and why it was or wasn’t moral; I don’t give a damn about moral. Letting alone the fact the first man is not even my ancestor.’

‘Oh, no.’ The figure laughed. ‘You got it all wrong. I’m not talking about the Christian view of the Original Sin; it is quite inaccurate, to put it delicately. Wrong, even, one might say. They got one part right; what the Original Sin was; not why it was a sin or even what a sin really is.

‘Yes, eating the Fruit of Knowledge, or the Fruit of Deception as I like to call it, was a sin alright. Not because it was immoral; I share your views on moral. Because it was stupid. Goddamn stupid. I was naïve, like you.

‘On the one hand, I had the Tree of Life. The Tree of Freaking Life. Immortality, living forever and ever. Something real.

‘On the other hand, the Tree of Knowledge. What does it even mean? what kind of knowledge? Would it help me? Why is it capitalised? So many questions. Perhaps it would make me understand why I mustn’t eat the Fruit of Life; perhaps my entire logic is invalid, and I don’t realise it. “I can’t eat the Fruit of Life before the Fruit of Knowledge!” I was thinking.

‘But if I ate one of the Fruits, I’d die; and they were quite far from  each other, God would surely catch me before I’d get to the other one. Perhaps the Tree of Life would protect me; but can I really count on that? Would the Tree of Life protect me from God himself, the Creator of both me and the Tree of Life itself? Perhaps the Tree of Fucking Knowledge would supply that kind of information. Perhaps not.

‘So you can see the tricky situation I was trapped in. But I had a few centuries to think of a plan, before I die of old age. Nevertheless, I came up with one after merely a decade. A decade!

‘My idiotic third wife comes to me. “Have this fruit, it’s delicious!” the idiot tells me. As if I haven’t already tasted all the fruits of the Garden! Nonetheless, it just might work for me; I can tell God I didn’t realise the idiotic wife he himself gave me was giving me the Forbidden Fruit, and gain more time in the Garden; and then, take the other Fruit. A perfect plan, isn’t it? I can lie to God. Ingenious.

‘But I shouldn’t be too harsh on myself; after all, if you look at things this way, it’s pointless to try and do anything at all. This kind of thinking gets you nowhere. So I tried to deceive God, like he tried to deceive me; only not as successfully. He didn’t buy it. I was perished from the Garden for eternity.’

‘So what are you trying to say?’ asked Steven, pouring himself a glass of scotch. ‘I shouldn’t be impatient? In what way am I impatient?’

‘Impatience? No, no. If you think of a plan, you should go for it; you might not get a second chance. Waiting for centuries is needless. That wasn’t my mistake. I was perished from the Garden of Eden for eating the Forbidden Fruit; but was it for eating the Fruit of Life, that would supply me immortality down there in Eden? No. It was the Fruit of Knowledge. Knowledge of what? NOTHING. Absolute, painful, Nothingness. Don’t chase Nothingness, Steven; don’t try to achieve the Tree of Love everyone enjoys, and you seem to be unable to taste; don’t try to understand. You are not blind; they are drugged. You can’t see it because it’s not there. It’s inside their idiotic, delusional minds. Looking for it may seem to you like “the most interesting way up the top” – and it may be so, for now; but eventually, you’ll internalise you’re not moving. And you’d become depressed, like I was for more than nine, hundred, YEARS. Only to face Death and realise my idiotic first wife now rules Kaf HaKela, and is in charge of Death, and to be forced to make a deal with her, and find her that which she wishes to have. Don’t go there. I’ve been there.’

And by that he got up from the couch, and, living the half-finished glass of wine on the table next to him, got out of the apartment.

 

A New Beginning

I wrote this about half a year ago, I think. It’s rather funny, actually – I wrote the beginning of a second novel before I even truly started the first one.

~ ~ ~

In the Darkest Place, inside a cell, lay what looked like a seventeen year old boy at first sight, and like a sickening, divine-like entity at the twelfth, and increasingly more so the more one looked at him. He hadn’t eaten, drunk, talked, or moved at all for the last years – the exact number is insignificant to us – though only the latter absence is worth mentioning, when it comes to being locked inside a cell in the Darkest Place. None of the prisoners there ate, drank, or talked – they didn’t have the means to do any of those actions. But they always moved. They tried to stop, for a few minutes, hours or even days every now and again – but, eventually, they all started to move restlessly again. But he had never needed to move. Thinking was always enough.

But this time, he didn’t even think.

He didn’t even exist, in a way.

Until now, his guards had just been looking at him, sometimes wondering what was wrong with him – or at least that what they remembered doing, and what he, vaguely, remembered seeing. But memory could be modified. It was very annoying – that all one’s memories and feelings of continuation may have been just a delusion of the mind, and perhaps every second an entire new reality, life, personality and feeling of continuation were created for each one of us, and only to destroy themselves the next second and to be rebuild once again a second later, and so on – perhaps even the most annoying thought that had ever passed through his mind. But it had excellent competitors, the best of which was probably the idea that his mind’s logic wasn’t logical.

Most people ignored these thoughts most of the time, or didn’t even think of them, but they were always crawling at the back of his mind. Not only because he had seen and heard twice as much as was actually there – if his ways of telling the difference between reality and hallucinations were worth anything – he had also been told by many persons, either real or not – he wasn’t sure which kind was more convincing at that matter – that he was insane.

And now, he was waking from what felt like long sleep, or rather long inexistence – he remembered the End as clear as though it was yesterday – if there had been, indeed, a yesterday at all – but felt it was much longer before. Something was wrong.

He wasn’t supposed to wake up. No one was.

 

Retirement

Something I wrote a few months ago. It concerns Dew Nestry, which is a character in a novel I’m trying to write.

If you read this (yeah, right) and don’t understand everything, don’t worry, you’re not supposed to.

~ ~ ~

‘I’m glad I could find you.’

‘Hmm…’ The man raised the teaspoon gently, and slowly dissolved sugar in his tea. ‘Yes, I guess you are.’

‘There are a few things I must know.’

Slowly and gently the man drew the teacup to his lips. He drank it for a few seconds, until he sluggishly put it down again. ‘I doubt it.’

‘A few things I want to know. As a result of my will to be alive.’

‘That sounds more reasonable… I doubt it.’ Again, the man raised his teacup slowly.

‘But, first, I must know –’

‘I doubt it.’

‘–want to know –’

‘Doubt it.’

‘–why are you here? Why do you lie low? Why aren’t you… doing something?’

The man sipped the liquid in his cup.

‘I did what needed to be done.’

‘But why don’t you do something again? I admired you, but it seems to me you just… gave up.’

‘Hardly. I have nothing left to do.’

‘You can try to change the world again.’

‘That would be quite… pointless. I tried, I failed, I died. It’s someone else’s turn now.’

‘But don’t you think there is a reason why you returned?’

‘Certainly. To show that my… heir is nothing but that; an heir. God chose to make that clear… rather disputable decision, to my opinion. But he made his choice. Perhaps he will change it… and then this meeting will never occur. So if I have any hope left in me, I should try and believe this conversation is pointless… Although, I must admit I actually prefer, obviously subjectively, God’s choice. Though I must admit I prefer the name “Creator” – it fits my believes better–’

‘So you’re just gonna say “God says so” and do nothing?’

‘You may find it hard to believe, but my life hasn’t change that much. It’s basically the same, only without the camera that used to follow me. I’m happy, because the Creator made me happy, and thank God for that.’

‘He should have let you die, and remain a great man.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I just don’t understand why you can’t try. What will happen? A lightning will strike you?’

The man laughed. ‘Oh… I wouldn’t be me if I tried. I would have just been one of you lot. Do you think I want to change the world? You think I care? I wanted to see if I could change the world. I couldn’t.  Perhaps one day I will try again, for the fun of it – but it’s just pointless right now. I didn’t stop living, my story has just stopped being told. And I hardly care. Perhaps my time will come again, and I would want to do something once again. Until then, I enjoy my retirement.’

They were silence for some time. ‘Well, it’d pointless to argue with you about that. Nevertheless, can you answer a few of my questions?’

For the last time, the man raised his teacup, and sipped, dully, what was left of his tea. He lowered it, and said –

‘Sorry, I’m retired.’