Transcendence (Quick Sho)
Small dustings of light danced upon Shaindra's face, lending her the look of a sleeping angel. Her face was pale, downy like new born's. She stirred. She was dreaming again.
She remembered that she had been here before, within her dream, although, she had never done so.
Upon awakening, she witnessed that same, cold, familliar feeling that danced wickedly upon her spine, and took hold of her neck. The hairs along her arms stood up, and her skin goose pimpled.
Rising fron her bed, she walked over to the windiw, having noticed it was wide open The gauzes draped down from the window frame fluttered gently in the breeze. She closed the window, knowing that she had gone to bed with the window closed. This was to ensure that insects did not crawl into her chambers of a night. The insects out here were cruel, and very dangerous. They were known biters, aggressive to anything live that was not their own.
Just as she was about to change into some suitable clothing, she happened to glance at the furthest wall of her room. There, on the wall, crawled an Anmiphigian. This was a dark green and black creature, with no spine, semi circular, possessing ten legs, and two antennae, and two very vicious fangs. Along its back a vivid redstripe stood out. It was the size of a man's fist. It's body was see-through at times, and if you ever got the chance, you would see the inside of it's body, a grotesque oddity.
Shiandra screamed. The creature turned its neck around, whilst still clinging to the wall. It had a humanesque face. It squealed back, mimicking her taunting her. Red wings rolled out from either side of its body as it prepared to take off and launch itself at her. These creatures were known for targeting the face.
The Demon Flower. Sowing the seed of evil.
Clouds intersected one another on the warm, sunny afternoon.
The wind was wild, and it blew Shavanah's hair about all the place, irritating her slightly. She hated her hair in her face. Usually, she wore her hair in a long, dark plait, but today, she had felt the weather pretty tame.
Watching as a nearby black bird came to join her, she carried on with the task of sorting out Blue Orchid, the black mare.
It was her job to look after the twelve mares, and the two stallions, who were to be put out to stud pretty soon. The stallions had to cover at least five mares in order for the situation to improve.
Gazing over at the young woman working away, busy with the task of grooming the horse, Malachi sighed. The woman had been with them for four months now, and everyday he had watched her going about her buisness. He half felt like a stalker, but he was afraid of her. Afraid, in case he was to make a fool of himself. He wasn't very good with women. His last girlfriend had gone of with one of his female friends, which had been a considerable blow to himself, as you can imagine.
Try as he might, he could not shake off the hold this girl had over him, had he really wanted to. He could not get enough of the girl's appearance, her long, dark ringlets, and oh! Those eyes. If heaven had held a door for him, he could have dove straight into those pools of liquid blue and never come up for air. He would have drowned happily.
Friday had come and gone with it a dervish whirl wind.
Christian gazed into the pool, reflecting on nothingness. Sometimes, it was nice just to come here and think about nothing in particular. It was a skill not easily achieved. In fact, it was a skill of meditation that was highly prized amongst certain cultures.
Rocking back and fort upon his heel, he sighed, reflecting on the emptiness. Life was always too fast for you to stop, think, and catch your breath. Before you knew it, the week had gone in the blink of an eye, and you were rubbing your hands at the prospect of a free weekend up to do whatever your hearts desire, only to didcover, it too, had passed before your very eyes.
And this is what Christian feared most. Time. It wasn't death, and teh inevitability that all this ultimately ended up at the same goal, destination. No, it wa steh fear that he would be plucked from the earth, before he had barely begun to leave his immpression upon a small portion of the world, possibly even the stars.
You see, Christian was a sceintist, but also a philosopher, and he never stopped thinking. Even his dreams were like minature movies, played back to him like a show reel in an old Black and white movie.
He dreamed in colour too, or partial colour. But that was
the dreams he also feared, The ones he could not explain. For he would always dream of them, partial reddened in colour, like a hidous red inked stain, like fromca jar of something indelible, fooding out across black and white pages, crawling off the edge of the page, printed across his brain, the edge which would not fade quite so quickly as the dream itself.
For these dreams predicted the future, and Christian himself, had not devised a plausible solution for this of yet. And that unerved him in a way, to not put a name to something, to acknowledge its existance..but to know it existed without 'proof' either of the eye, but to know deep inside that something did indeed breathe, in some way, or take up space within the word, it was rather frustrating to not be able to articulate this knowledge into a workable theory.
‘’Lions and tigers’’ the words drifted to meet his ears.
‘’Huh’’? Was Christian’s reply,
‘’Lions and tigers ..That’s what they remind me of’’
‘’Funny, they had me more in mind of the ‘Straw Dogs’’
They both gazed for a few moments at the villagers milling around, watching as the burning ephigy smouldered away to nothingness.
The owner of the dis-embodied speech shrugged his shoulders and waked off again, the indiluted peace now shatterd like a cheap vase.
Snapping back to the god-awful present, Christian sighed deeply. If he could have chosen, he would have stayed in his little dream-world for ever.
But he still had to find the other piece to his heart, and he wasn’t quite sure how. But he had a feeling that it had something to do with patience. And Christian had plenty of that.
Remebering something his grandfather had once told him 'in order to know one's future, they must also know of their past. To know ones self, is to know one's future, and where they are headed.'
Christian smiled. He miseed the wiley old toothless begger. He had been a character. Had fought in the first and second world war, had nearly died twice (once on a n operating
table in Vietnam) the other time at the hands of a 'ferious, see-through' beast- whatever that had meant. He had been a brilliant story teller though, and an astounding mathemtician. He could calculate algorithms before you could even decide which cereal you wished for breakfast.
He had married three times, each wife as charming as the first, each as well looked-after as the third, but all were taken brutally away from him, so he remarried no more.
Shavannah ran happily, MoonCloud trotting closely behind her. The pretty black coloured mare cantered after her, throwing her head back merrily, her long mane flowing wildly in the wind, almost at one with Shavannah’s own loose hair, still not tied back properly.
The boy watched a little longer, wary of his father’s immineint approach. If he were to be caught once more slacking off, he would get a very severe wage dock. His father was not known for his lienency. That was not the way to get rich.
He reluctantly slunked off. He was head stable boy, and he wasn’t much fond of his job, although he loved horses. His father felt that that’s all his son was good for- the-and I quote; ‘No good boy, only fit for shovelling dirt’.
After reaching the stables, he set up his equipment up and set to work. After fivteen minutes or so, for it was hard work. (Truth be told, he just really did not enjoy the work) he looked up from his work, set down his tools, and gazed out the stable window. He was disappointed to see that she had gone, along with the mare, MoonCloud. He sighed, about to return to his work. I really ought to get a bettter job, he siad to no-one in particular, except maybe the horses. As if in response, one of the studs, Juniper whinied and stamped his feet agressivly.
He walked over to the horse, with the intention to soothe ihim.
‘’Woah, boy’’ Whats got in to you, hey? What on earth has spooked a big guy like you?.’’
He patted Juniper’s nose , running his fingers gently down the stripe. Juniper continued to rear, causing the bridal and bit to pull feroucuiosly against the wooden post that it was temporarily secured around.
Grabbing hold of the rein’s tightly in one hand, the other continuing to calm the wild before the storm, he struggled to keep him still.
‘’Oh god, Juniper, no!’’
The horse whiinied loudly, before pulling free of both the boy and the leather rein. Knocking the boy to the floor, the stable door left wide open. He bolted.
A phone had previously been installed at one end of teh stable, specifically for emergency use, not for calling your girlfriend to see how she was the last five minutes you’d spend talking to her.
He quickly yanked the phone off the hand set on the wall, and dialled this father’s number, grimacing. The secretary put him through to his office. He took a deep breath, telling his father what had just occured.
confident of the verbal abuse he would recieve, he held the phone away from his ear. He was right. You could have heard that phone call in deepest China.
The boy, his father, and adog named Boo, all set of in search for the missing horse, the prize stud of teh entire collection.
‘’If anything happens to that horse, boy!’’ His father threatened, shaking a fist at him. The threat, although seemingly violent in nature, was not. His father, as horrid to his son as he was, would never dream of lifting a finger
to anyone smaller than he, built at 6ft 4, around two hundred pounds, a boxer in his day, knew that one punch correctly administered, could have devastating results.
Although he felt his son was a little on the weak side for his eighteen years of age, this was not despised. It was the fact that his bisuiness acum did not seem to have been passed doen genetically, and he only gave him a hard time to make him work harder, to give him that drive that his father had given hin, albeit in a slightly more crueller way. His father had beaten him soundly for sixteen years of his life, and this is what had made he train to be a boxer as soon as he was old enough, with the intent to use his strength to protect himself the next time he was brutally beaten.
That time came, only this time, it had been directed at his mother. So, at sixteen, with half a boxing training, he executed a shattering punch, strong enough to be the devastating blow. His father died of a heart attack, wether shock that his weedy son had had the balls to stand up to him -his face contorted into a look of utter surprise- but he had freed he and his mother of a life time of pain.
Out of hardships, is born ispiration, and determination to live. Charlie Mackingtosh went on to win several world championships, before retiring to become a major shareholder in horse racing.
His relationship with his mother is strong. Sometimes it takes a ‘small thing,’ to do a ‘big thing.’ proofing that strength comes in all shapes, skins, and sizes.
They found Juniper, just a few yards from MoonCloud. who was laying lifelessly on the grass.
A large, grinning wound spoiled the otherwise lovely midnight black coat, only recently groomed. The horse had been shot. Out here, in the middle of the countryside.
A few feet from the poor mare, the body of beautiful Savannah had been thrown.
Christian Mackingtosh, having not yet been aqainted to pain grew up about 20 years in the space of as many minutes.
Alone, with the illicit memory of a life once lived, once savoured for the pure life it truely was. And in one, fatal grasp, all is gone. And, no matter how how you wish, no matter how often you reflect, you can never pin down the feathers of a fleeting memory.
Once it has come within existance, it quickly moves out of the future, into the present, and into the past. We cannot manipulate time, control law of physics, and send the word of mankind truth spiralling back into subduity. Quite simply, it is, because it is. Things are born, and they are quickly reverberated into the shadow of the past.
On my mind right now.
Poverty Fear Oppression Injustice
Ugly words that pierce the nightsky like a thousand rusty knives.
Words that shatter the pure silence like a piercing scream.
Infecting minds, and bending perepectives beyond repair.
Heal this world Heal my heart. I can actually hear the mantra as it races around your brain, filling every nook an cranny with the faintest glimmer of hope.
I see the glint in your eyes. You see a way. You see hope. I want to pull the blinds up from the window, let us be bathed in the gloryfyng warm light.
I want the light to emit from our bodies as we cling in fierce embrace.
This hope is possible. Why?
Because we have Love. The age old cliche. An unseen force, gifting the ability to see things in the way they are supposed o be. To each is to love life, and other people.
If there were more of this love, I daresay that the lust for greed would be greatly quelled.
Another war is another chink of armor removed from the thin shell that is humanity.
War makes me weep.
No really, it does.
Teach. Respect. Love. send a famillar voice through the dark night. Let people learn to trust you. Honour that trust.
But then, I guess I am only saying what everyone else says..
I think an E-zine is a fab idea.
Isn't it amazing how one thought can quickly be born, end up as three, four. And once you have a thought, how those thought's turn bloom into idea's?
In this life, we are given two choices. Either, we give in to the demons that dog us, placing themselves high above us on shoulders that serve as the proverbial pedastal. They present us with the dogma, ridgid thinking, and predudices. This in turn, bears heavy upon the soul, making you feel unhappy. Your soul is soaked with negtive residue, you cannot help but to get ill.
The other, is to try to swim, keep your head above the water, take note, take heed, and learn from your mistakes. This may well seem terrible black and white, even a bit preachy, butt I am only presenting some of what I have learned, noted and radiated back out. You take a little, you give a little in return. This helps with teh balance of things, I feel. When the scales tip over, that is possibly when nastier things may happen.
As with anything else, you have two options. To take my advice, or don't. It really is as simple, or as complicated as you make it.
The way to reach any possible conclusion is by the impulse of imagination. Once the imagination has sparked off, you have the nessesary means fuelled to take you anywhere.
The only limit, is your imagination, and not your intelligence. Because, they are one and the same. The higher the imagination, the higher the Intelligence Quotation. -Elle
Questioning all that you can
How can we hope to change the world, if we cannot even change ourselves?
The major powers of the world are big on change. They like to make up new words, and have big ideas and throw a lot of money at them. When they inadvertedly blow up in their faces, they don't want to know, and instead like to list their overall achievemnets, leaving out the failures. Perhaps if they took a long, hard look at what they were actually doing, and tried to change, they could asee what is really going on.
They have all the power in the world, and still people in war-torn countries suffer. Still children over here in the U.K are beaten and abused, children leave school without the abilty to read and write..
-More on this another time- maybe.
There are things that I will always be angry at with the U.K. It just widens the divide that I feel towards 'my country'. My country where my vote is not actually counted, and even when over sixty percent of the country vote 'no' against certain things, they go ahead and do it anyway. What is democracy for, if not for the people to cast their opinion, and to be heard.