Tuesday, 26 January 2016
Monday, 25 January 2016
Wednesday, 20 January 2016
Monday, 18 January 2016
Exquisity from and savegry to oneself
Why does your crimson river flow?
Stamped as regressed mental health
your own self destruction you sew
Were you born with heart simply too big
For the cruelty of the world?
Or was it just the fools and pig
That made your own mutilation so allured
A flower cannot live without feeling the rain
Just as it can not live without whilting
All life must learn pain .
To feel your own life slowly rotting,
Would I have you on my shelf?
Flawless flower fixed beyond glass display
None can spend eternity in good health
Dont mourn a flower after its day
If you perchance to see a flower bloom
It made your world more beautiful
Yea I've been writing poetry lately, what it to you? :)
Thursday, 14 January 2016
The above image is watermarked, this is not the case for the prints.
Friday, 8 January 2016
Trees cast long shadows that do little to stifle the humidity in the thick of the copse. Peter notices that his house coat is soggy with sweat and had ripped while traversing under brush.
He can't remember why he decided to leave his house. Doesn't remember why he refrained from dressing and drove an hour to pull over and stroll into the woods. But Peter Ward doesn't intuit anything amiss with a morning jaunt so he presses on.
Wandering until he uncovers a clearing with a derelict shanty tucked into the underbrush. A structure long deserted and in a clear state of disrepair.
Inescapable curiosity compels him across the open field and through the shattered egress that was once furnished with a primitive door. In the rotting stomach of the shed, a stench of moldy and decaying wood hangs in the air.
Opposite the doorway, two rows of rudimentary wooden shelves hang. Immediately to Peter's left lies a work bench. Tucked between the bench and the far wall is a meter tall cabinet caked in grime.
Peter opens the cabinet drawers, sorting through yellowed magazines and rusted tools. His hands work through the contents until he comes upon a mason jar coated in ancient dust.
Clutching the jar in his hands, Peter is transfixed on his acquisition. Unaware of the twigs that have torn through his slippers and that his feet are bleeding. Peter scrapes his hands raw against the coarse rust coating the jar's lid.
After a struggle the top unscrews and soundlessly plummets to the moss floor of the cabin.
The jar's contents gives off a putrid odor, some combination of rotting meat and brackish water. Despite the offensive nature of the scent it’s not enough to dissuade Peter's prying eyes.
Inside the antique vessel: movement, dozens of tiny tendrils attached to a primary stalk. Peter: mesmerized by the way each stalk seems to move of an independent will in the briny liquid.
An instant of agony and Peter's thoughts are swept away in a wave of psionic energy. Pain overbearing all his senses, wrenching control from him.
Peter collapses bashing the Mason jar against the cabinet. The alien presence opens itself to Peter and unleashes a malign and baneful proclamation. To destroy, spawn and consume until it has assimilated everything it can reach.
With no hope to close his mind’s eye, Peter is cast adrift in a downpour of macabre Trans-dimensional images.
Phantasmagoric apparitions transmit from the creature that lives to devour and spread its malign influence. It has many names, all of which were only whispered in those inner circles of occult practitioners or researchers; Cykr-Ghoggothu, It That Eats, Zarcillicono or the Old Hunger.
A putrid emerald perdition fills his cognizance, panoptic in purview. There Peter found himself unable to judge the behemoth's scale, unable to focus on where Cykr-Ghoggothu started or ended. No matter where he directed his vision, It That Eats was before him. Both towering above him and stretching out to beyond the limits of his own vision.
Peter watched for what felt like years as its most conspicuous feature, a handful of continent sized tentacles, thrashed against the bonds of its reality. Bonds that after millennia of abuse had cracked scabbed over and healed to jagged scars countless times.
Closer to the creature's bosom, its skin was alive with the movement of billions of tiny tendrils. Working and kneading its own body without end, severing microscopic and macabre dandruff to cast out into the abyss.
There the particles float amongst burnt terra and ghostly deadlights that make up Cykr-Ghoggothu's domain. Drifting until it can find its way through one of these still scabbing cracks.
Apparitions blossom in Peter's mind of a new unified gospel, spreading itself through the multi-verse into uncertainty. Peter felt its malevolent hunger and celebrated it as an affirmation that there was something bigger than him in the universe.
He knows he is here to nurture this God and knows his servitude makes him superior to any human law or ethic.
Peter wakes from his vision quest to rise to his feet and find that for this world it has only been a few hours. He finds the way back to the road and it’s a shorter walk out then it was in.
Peter comes upon his car as he left it, the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition.
Positioning himself in the driver's seat, he starts the engine before turning off the radio. It’s not as late as Peter expects, he's sure to make it back to town and find something to eat before 11.
Traveling at a consistent 30 Kilometers above the posted traffic speeds for his pilgrimage. Peter is unobstructed by local law enforcement.
The highway seems completely devoid of life until about 50 kilometers outside of Coldcastle. On a straight stretch of highway with no traffic for as far as Peter could see in either direction. Peter spies a young man plodding through the shadows on the shoulder of the highway.
The youth wears a faded denim jacket with a large hiking pack slung over his shoulder. His blonde hair is shaggy, unkempt and hanging to his shoulders.
Peter slows the car to just about thirty and honks to draw the young man's attention.
The boy pivots and obtrudes a thumb into the air, as so many evanescent transients have done on this gloomy scrap of motorway. Peter jerks the car into the boy and sends him sprawling through the air, into the darkness. Into the night.
The car slides to a stop and Peter springs out his door and down into the ditch after the young man.
The boys arm is broken and he cries out in anguish as Peter swoops down upon him. Punting him in the skull with his heel, the young man's whelps for mercy only inspire Peter's assault.
His strikes are so repeated that Peter loses count, continuing until the young man is unconscious but still breathing. Peter has no problem dragging the limp boy back to the car and loading him into the trunk.
After closing the trunk he surveys the highway for a long moment, there is only the sound of his car engine and the wind. No headlights cut through the night.
Peter allows himself a moment of elation courtesy of his righteous victory.
He smiles to the empty highway. His lack of discovery is all the proof needed that he is following the divine script, that he is unstoppable.
Peter plucks the jar from its resting place in the forsaken frame that was once a shed. As he grips it in his right hand he perceives its contents clamoring in anticipation on the other side of the glass.
He holds the jar's aperture above the unconscious wayfarer and pours. The sludgy black water drips to the young man’s face, splattering a Rorsarch test across the mossy floorboards.
Following the brackish water comes a rush of clamoring tentacles descending upon the young man’s succulent face. Its extremities pulsating in delight.
Its appendages withdraw, revealing rows of tiny mouths, hidden between the feelers covering its amorphous corpuscles. Peter blinks and the young man's nose has vanished, then in the next seconds his cheeks follow.
It consumes the young man's face, and then tunnels into his trunk. The chest cavity caves and in a few minutes the young man is gone. Peter is prideful gazing at the mass of limbs and teeth that has doubled in size in the wake of consuming the pabulum.
Affording a few moments to watch it begin the undertaking of devouring the shed's moss carpet. He imagines he can hear the tortured shrieks of the earth itself and the thought brings a smile to his face.
Peter was struggling back out through the underbrush when he happens upon a man in his late 40's. With Salt and Pepper hair and slight wrinkles in his face. His once immaculate business suit, torn and sullied from traversing the thicket.
"What are you doing out here so late?" Peter's tone casual suggesting a general aloofness about the scenario. As if it was in no way uncommon or bizarre.
The man: calm and not at all taken aback by Peter's sudden appearance. His expression: blank as he turns to address Peter.
"I can't sleep, and I just felt... like taking a walk in the woods." then almost as an afterthought, "Why are you here?"
"I found something incredible in a nearby clearing and I've been trying to get it out of here all day; can you help me?"
Appearing to stop listening as soon as Peter begins, the man nods and follows to the overgrown shed.
Peter wordlessly enters, there is a dripping coming from the back corner. It That Eats waits in the darkness, he feels it is pleased to see him return so soon.
"Look." Peter points to where the horror has perched itself.
The man walks forward, disappearing in the gloom. Peter hears the wet noise of the creature dismounting and plunging onto the man. Its many tentacles working in tandem grabbing at any suitable footholds jutting from the man's face.
In the darkness it grasps his teeth and pries his mouth agape.
The man's sense of self-preservation seems to finally kick in during these final nightmare seconds, he rallies back against the slippery abomination. Hands struggle against the flailing monstrosity, finding only rebuke.
The tired walls echo the sound of shattering bones. His fingers shatter then the man's jaw cracks open. He chokes out a gagged scream as It that eats forces past his teeth.
Nuzzling into his mouth and sliding down his throat, transforming his body into a divine conveyance.
Watching it tunnel, Peter relishes the sound of tearing muscles. The body seizes and tremors before finally keeling over to rest limp on the floor.
The suited-man is lifeless and still for a long moment before struggling back to his feet.
Peter studies his movements as they exit the shed-jerky and stilted like a child learning to walk. It finds a more natural gate by the time they reach the highway.
The man's vehicle parked ahead of his own on the road's shoulder. Upon seeing the suited man's car Peter feels a pang of kin ship. Both men were called to these woods to serve a higher purpose. Peter affords himself a moment to wonder how many others might heed this calling before he pulls away.
The hum of the car engine and the steady dripping in the passenger’s seat is the only soundtrack to their pilgrimage.
Standing with the husk in the one bed room apartment that he called a home for the last 4 and half years is a bitter reminder of Peter's humanity. The majestic teal wallpaper and cheap paneling he had become so accustomed to felt alien.
Pointless junk litters the apartment, heirlooms and Knick knacks that Peter had allowed to define him for too long. Dozens of framed photos line the walls.
Some movie posters in the living room but Peter is distraught to realize the majority of these narcissistic idols are of his own design. A monument to his shallow approximation of art.
Captured moments he had thought would ring for eternity. Despite his best efforts to preserve them, he now accepts they're destined to the same atrophy that will befall all mankind`s creations.
His photography now only serves to remind him of his loathsome humanness. To his insignificance to the universe's greater meanings.
He snatches one of the photos for which he had once felt deep nostalgia. A color photo of four local preschoolers grouped around a large snake. Peter had taken the photo during a reptile exhibit that came to Coldcastle five years before.
After he managed to sell the photo to his local paper for a tidy profit. It was enough encouragement to start working freelance photography in his spare time.
Peter's rage festers in his gullet while gazing into the happy faces in the photo. He resents himself for having the delusion to think that any of it had mattered.
For years his art served only to feed his own narcissism and ego. A hollow pursuit in a hollow life.
Overcome he casts the photograph to the carpet and stomps it under his slippers. The glass frame breaks and he feels it puncturing his foot. Throwing himself to his knees he yanks the picture out of the frame before tearing it to pieces.
Peter turns to gaze upon the insignificant mementos he had collected in monument to himself. In this moment Peter learns HATE. Peter hates his T.V, his posters and his collection of books most of which he had never started reading.
He hates them all but above the others he holds his photography at the peak of his contempt.
Peter rises to his feet and begins pulling pictures frames from the wall. Wanting only to eradicate anything that could remind him of his former pride as a man.
Feeling revolted by his conceit. Peter now considers the displaying of his work as pure egotism born out of profound arrogance.
Although lost in passion for several minutes Peter never cries out or exclaims. The only sound in the apartment is a slippered foot crunching glass beneath its heel.
Sheryl had been drawn out of her residence by a commotion in the neighboring apartment. She stood in the hall debating about whether to let herself in.
The door hangs unlatched. Grunts drift from apartment 204.
"Hello Peter?" Sheryl queries to the murk pooled beyond the doorway, half hoping no one will reply. "Are you hurt?"
The murk offers no acknowledgment.
Pushing the unlatched door open Sheryl finds herself in her neighbor's shadowed hallway. Following the grunting to the living-room, she's alarmed to find her neighbor crouching in the darkness.
Peter is so enthralled by his work that he is yet to notice her presence.
Sheryl is now feeling the full weight of the precarious nature of her undertaking. She must not be here, she feels she must turn and run.
A hollow moan wafts from the ill lit corner. A man in a filthy business suit lies draped on a beige sofa. His mouth dangles from his face at an unnatural angle.
Peter stands and turns to her, eyes blazing in the dim light cast by the infant flame at his feet. "Everything's OK, I know this must look odd but I'm just having a hard time right now."
Transfixed on his cold, merciless eyes the only tell that betrays his calm tone. Noting in some small part of her brain that this is the first time after years of passing each other in the halls, they had spoken to each other.
She found it entirely bizarre that she could know someone but never really know them. She knows his name from the buzzer, and he had never been unfriendly in passing but they had never stopped to talk.
A resounding crack in the silence of the murky apartment as the man in the suit's chest splits in half. His body, bisected at a perpendicular angle. A grayish-brown mass of writhing tentacles catapults from his pieces.
Sheryl has no time to react as her arm disappears into the monstrosity. It circumscribes and flagellates while seeking new crevices to continue invading.
Peter shoves past her towards the door. She knows that if he locks her in there will be no escape.
Buzz-saw teeth start churning. Her arm transforms into mushy pulp. The pulp is harvested by dozens of squirming tendrils. It's takes but a moment to reap the flesh from her bones.
She hears her bones crunch inside the creature's body as it spreads up to her shoulder. Then the world turns dark as It That Eats engulfs her face.
Peter had locked the door and returned to the living room in time to see his neighbor's final struggle. He stares transfixed on her twitching legs as his god devours her from the neck down.
It takes less than a minute for her body to disappear. Then It That Eats’ finishes devouring the remaining pieces of the shattered drudge.
Peter feels no anxiety that anyone had overheard her struggles. No fear of discovery. It could only accelerate the process.
It That Eats hauls itself to the recliner in the corner. A loud tear as it rips into the cactus colored polyester shell of the chair. It devours and replaces the stuffing.
In short time the chair's innards are imitated and It that Eats lurks below the shell in anticipation of more meat.
Then Peter leaves his apartment and steps into the night. Somewhere on the quite streets of Coldcastle the next meal is waiting.
Peter pulls into parking lot of the 24/7 convenience store just after 1 am. It's empty save a lone girl loitering around the corner from the front doors.
He parks the car, surveying her from the corner of his eye. Her hair is cut short and bleached. Doubtful she is more than 18 years old.
He recognizes the ember of a cigarette, the glitter of facial piercings under the dim parking lot lights and the rest is just vague shapes in the gloom.
Peter locks eyes with the young girl. She has a hunger of her own.
"Hey, can you help me out?" her voice gruff regardless of her age, she's a long time smoker.
Peter stops and tries to muster his most affable face. What luck that she baits her own hook.
"How can I be of service?" The words feel hollow but she doesn't seem off put.
"My friends and I are just trying to get some beer and I don't have my ID." She smiles like a shark, all teeth.
Beer cans rattle in the back seat and Peter can feel the girls’ eyes burning into the side of his head. He tries his best to make small talk, trying to keep the girl comfortable but most of the ride is silent.
"You know, I don't usually just hang out with random guys I meet in parking lots." She says in a teasing tone.
"I didn't assume anything..." His lack of humor seems to bother her, but not enough to protest.
"...What's your name, anyways?" She asks sheepishly after another moment of sitting in silence.
Although he recognizes its necessity to the hunt he resents this trivial small talk.
"I'm Peter Ward, what's yours?" He holds out his left hand to shake as he steers with the other.
Their handshake is brief. The touch of another person feels extrinsic and Peter's skin crawls, he tries not to let it show on his face.
"Katrina but call me Kat," then adds with a grin: "I can't believe you let me in your car without asking first."
"Name's don't matter at the end of the day." He says dismissive of the idea that it might be strange to invite a stranger into your car.
"I feel that way about age, too many people put stress on things that just don't matter." She nods at Peter earnestly; "in fact, a lot of people tell me I'm sort of an old soul. I'm very mature for my age-"
"You know you can smoke in here," Peter's mask was slipping "Just thought I'd offer."
For a moment the car returns to sweet silence while she lights her cigarette.
"Did you want to give my address to your friends in case they wanna have a drink with us?" Peter can't help but smirk while he asks.
Peter sets the beer on the ground as he closes the door and locks it behind himself before turning on the lights. Katrina walks ahead into the living room.
He motions to his Cactus colored recliner.
"Take a seat over there, never mind the mess and I'll get you a beer." Peter turns his back as Katrina walks over the recliner in the corner.
"Jeeze, this chair sure is stiff." Kat complains while plopping down with a heavy thud.
"It's good for your posture." Peter shouts while opening the fridge "Do you prefer beer or hard liquor?"
"I don't care, it's just been way too long since I've gotten fuckin' drunk." her tone feels so irreverent to Peter... it’s almost enough to make him laugh; so ignorant of her own death.
Peter returns to the door way with a glass of whisky and ice cubes in his left hand and his camera in his right. He offers Katrina the glass and she joyfully snatches it.
"What are you gonna do with that?" She gestures to his camera, an older model that still took conventional film. Peter had upgraded to digital a few years ago, of course, but he never got rid of his first camera.
"Do you know what drives most people to create?" She won't be here for much longer and Peter wants to help her understand before she is fed to the yawning jaws of eternity.
"No... that's not something I often think about." she seems to find this basic philosophical question troubling. Peter considers dropping it and letting her last moments be as ignorant as all those that led up to them.
"People create because we fear being forgotten after death," Peter was deliberate and spoke quickly now "people are afraid to die but more than that they are afraid that their lives will have been meaningless."
"Some people are happy enough just to live the lives they choose for themselves." Indignation rang in her voice.
"They call depression: the pain of an easy life. These same people who rally for their right not to contribute are often plagued by unhappiness."
Peter sees a pain in her eyes when he mentioned depression.
"Are you trying to upset me?" Her eyes, now wet, met Peter's.
"This was my tool of creation," Peter can't stop the words now that they've started. "I used this to fool myself into thinking I was an artist, to think I was doing something that would echo my voice beyond my own life time. So that people would... remember me."
"Are you going to take my picture?" Kat choking back tears.
"I want you to know that your life is in service of a greater being, that I'm giving you the opportunity to be one of the first to contribute to the new world."
A sound of tearing fabric comes and chair gives away to the Old Hunger. It ensnares Katrina's limbs and her mouth gapes open too shocked to scream.
Fear turns to agony while a half-dozen tendrils tunnel into her back with exploratory curiosity. They dig and wrap around her ribs; trapping her against the recliner. More tendrils go to the task of peeling the skin away from her lower back.
Then It That Eats begins yanking against her organs. She feels thick ropy worms working against her stomach, kidneys and lungs. Her organs are plucked from their proper locations and fed into the endless abyss of constant hunger.
A thick tentacle slides around her spine before tunneling up her torso and out her mouth. Utterly obliterating her oesophagus in the assault.
Finally It That Eats pulls Katrina backwards into the churning teeth that await in the blood drenched recliner. Her body folds over like a collapsed cardboard box and she vanishes.
She is gone but Peter's camera has documented the young ladies devourment.
After It had consumed her he took the camera down to the local post office. Planning to drop it into his neighborhood mailbox. It was trivial but it brought him no small feeling of accomplishment. At least these photos would show something meaningful.
The night was cool and Peter spent his march to the post-office entranced in the memories of It That Eats’ overwhelming power.
It comforted him to imagine it preparing for further company at his apartment. In his mind Peter saw It eat the rest of the chair and begin devouring the wall of his apartment. It was making the apartment part of itself, replacing the walls with its thick carapace.
About a half hour later the rest of the kids arrive. Before unlocking the front door Peter closes and locks the bathroom door from the inside.
Three young people, two boys and a girl, none of them look old enough to be out of high-school.
The first to make eye contact with Peter is a tall boy in a black beanie, dirty denim jeans and a black faux-leather jacket. He has a particularly weak mustache and hazel eyes.
Behind him are two slightly younger kids, most likely junior's at the local high school.
A short, thin boy with greasy dark hair who seems quite timid. Barely raising his eyes to look at Peter as well as a bulky young lady with muddy brown eyes and slight acne.
Adam Webster is turning 15 next March. This is his first night drinking with Ricky and Maggie, he is just there to spend time with Kat feeling like a utter third wheel in her absence.
He regrets leaving her alone. Especially since she had asked for him to keep her company but Ricky forbid it saying:
"There isn't as much chance of them getting a buyer if there’s two people asking," Ricky waited a moment and added with a grin. "especially if one of those two has a dick."
Adam had absently grumbled in defeat, Ricky would get his way in the end; he always did. Adam often wondered how Ricky got so much smarter about this stuff in just two years’ time.
He wonders if Kat will still be annoyed with him, everything had worked out for itself in the end. They had their booze, forty dollars’ worth and a place to drink it.
40$ worth of skipped lunches, a whole week of school time fasting to afford their booze and Adam didn't even want a drop. It was just the only way Ricky would let him in his car. If he couldn't get in Ricky's car, he'd never have a chance to make a move on Katrina.
Adam's thoughts take his immediate attention and he doesn't look directly at Peter until Maggie bursts past, introducing herself.
"You must be Peter, Kat say's you're solid!"
Peter tries not to show his contempt for her shrill voice. "Come in, please. Kat's just in the bathroom and there's beer in the fridge."
The three teens file past him, Peter catches the smell of tobacco from Ricky. He closes the door behind them and Adam notices the beer still stacked next to the door.
"Did you forget to put it in the fridge?" Adam asks, not meaning for it to sound like a complaint.
"Pipe down kid." Ricky grunts.
"It's alright, there's another in the fridge; I just like to keep a lot of beer on hand." Peter fakes the best smile he can and beckons them into the living room.
As soon as they enter the feast begins.
Peter lunges at Ricky, wildly clutching at his throat. Ricky pushes his hands into Peter's face trying to force him off while Peter snaps his teeth against them in an animalistic fury.
Adam can't move or look away as Peter smashes the back of Ricky's head into the ground. It makes a dull wet thuds until with a heavy slam, Ricky stops moving.
Adam doesn't notice the wall that the creature has covered until thick tendrils spring and ensnare Maggie's legs.
The wall is crowded by chomping mouths, each crevice seems to grow and split into two. Continuing on in this fashion until countless mouths with indigo gums and rows of razor sharp teeth carpet the wall. Salivating maws and whirling teeth anticipate their next meal.
The look of terror on her face as she’s yanked across the floor makes Adam feel helpless to even comfort her. Her face red and her eyes wide as she is drawn into the wall of flesh that makes up Zarcillicono.
The teeth proceed with assaulting every inch of her body and in that instant she stops screaming. There is only the sound of teeth tearing through flesh and the gurgling of frothing blood in a thousand lipless mouths.
The blood runs down the wall of flesh but never stains the carpet; It That Eats drinks in her life's blood as it rips flesh and powders bones. Adam watches all this before he feels the tight grip of It That Eats around his left ankle. It tightens until he feels bones shatter inside his leg.
He watches It That Eats pull him in and as it goes to work dissecting and devouring. Adam hopes he won't feel it but he does. Although he hopes for a quick death his agony will never end.
Peter feeds the unconscious Ricky to It then he goes back to his couch and sits down. Watching the creature stretch its grisly carapace across every square inch of his wall and ceiling. Peter is astonished by its growth... It uses its nutrients well and flourishes.
There are now dozens of thick strong tentacles besides the hundreds of smaller tendrils hanging from the walls and roof. Like stalactites of an unspeakable nature.
Several hours later there is a knock at the door. Peter assumes the police have finally come for him. Certain the creature could overcome any number of interlopers he has been scheming how to lure them into the living room.
To his surprise there is no police officer at the door but a man in his late 30's with long stringy hair and a thick beard. His skin cracked and aged beyond his years while his clothes smell of urine.
He walks past Peter and into the living room. Eyes illuminate upon viewing the wall of tentacles. They embrace him and scoop him up into its waiting mouths. He's split between them and consumed without a groan or moan.
Another person comes in the next hour, a young woman dressed in nurses’ scrubs; she doesn't make a sound either.
In the hour after that another three people show up independently. All have the same absent look in their eyes.
After eating, his God not only covers his apartment walls but has begun to creep up through his neighbors floor boards. He wonders how long until it will find them asleep in their beds.
He knows his God is big enough to last on its own now, that if it is discovered it would more than survive. It will overwhelm any aggressors and convert them to nutrients.
Beyond that it is calling more apostles on its own with the same psychic energy that lured Peter. People sensitive to such callings are coming from their beds, from their jobs, from their street corners and from their computer screens in the middle of the night. To sacrifice themselves for something with purpose beyond their empty lives.
Because of these reasons Peter is not surprised when It That Eats ensnares him with a tentacle and brings him into its countless rows of teeth.
The searing pain as his flesh is processed into chunks isn't unexpected and doesn't quite overwhelm his sense of dedication. Although he does call out for death to end the pain.
But the pain never ends, even when the blood drains from his body. Even when the creature has chewed and swallowed all his pieces. When he is just pulpy mush, not more consistent then apple sauce he feels the pain in every cell.
Peter's thoughts are drown in a maelstrom of mental energy. He knows that he can not die, that he is now a part of It That Eats, that he will live on forever as part of his God connected to the thing and its victims.
Those fed to the creature are alive here. Their cerebration running together as voices jabbering and pleading for an end.
Peter is consumed in the white noise of psychic chaos. Another cry in the chorus of the creature's victim's, struggling for recognition.
He has a life eternal and came to know this white noise for all time. No voices ever leave the chorus of screeches but many more come. They hear the call, coming from all over and those who can bring their children.
About the Author: Mitchell MacEachern was born and raised in Prince Edward Island, Canada.
|Painting done in December 2015 by the author based off the short story,|
Wednesday, 6 January 2016
Finished January 6th 2016. Acrlyic on Canvas, by Mitchell Maceachern.
The accompanying poem was written while I created the painting.
Oh merchant of mana
Oh priestess of mars
Bringer of Nirvana
Embraced in your obscure scars
Measurless commonwealth of the dried sea
salt ammased within the crimson
Earth. Winds foul and gusty
Deliver your scent to my prison.
Shatter the cold shackles
In shiloute, across the martian desert
I race against jackles
Released of all disconcert.
Throw myself before the priestess
We are the universe as we embrace
For a moment, a smile of venus
Comfort from freezing in deepspace
Warningless, we are scattered
Sending smoke signals
Strength of bond our new sigils
The sudden silence
A heart hides in a shroud.
I plead to her higness
Meerly smoke in the clouds
I sit at the cliffs, above a theater of the absurd
Contemplating the cosmos and my own dim flame
I hear the taunts of the mocking bird.
I wonder, will I fly the same?
Tuesday, 5 January 2016
Major Arcana number 15 the devil. Usually I try to add a macabre twist to the tarot cards which is difficult with satan due to his unholsome nature so I took a very straight approach.
Its almost a complete rip off of the original tarot card except a few differences, the demons at his feet have been replaced with people and they aren't chained(symbolism here should be obvious but feel free to draw your own conclusions)
The faces covering his body is a homage to early depections of the devil (from before he was red) suggesting that the creatures body is in a constant state of flux... this was also often depicted by giving him both sexes which is an idea I love but I didnt work in here...
This was my first completed painting of 2016.
Painting done on canvas with Acrlyic.