Wednesday, October 1, 2014


I mus' be writing this in small, little letters, for I am very shy and this makes me feel less observable. You may ask what I am. I would tell you, if I knew, but that knowledge is not known to me. I am a wraith... a thing. Not disembodied, for I never had one of those. I float. I see. I taste. I die. But my death is not like yours. What befalls me is more like a sleep... a deep, blackness... a cosmic 'off' switch. Though at any moment, whoever's in charge of such things might turn me on.

I saw neolithic settlements, desolate and alone, embedded deep into the post ice-age tundra.How grey the sky. How cold the air. Smilodon roamed that boggy plain, ripping the flesh from huge, white aurochs, juvenile mammoths and solitary humans. And bats, such as they were, had wingspans three cubits wide. Twenty four was middle aged. Few reached thirty. What misfortune to have lived back then.

I saw beings from afar touch down in glowing orbs and lie with frightened girls. They whispered secrets, bit off fingers (just the little ones) and swallowed them down like hors'doeuvres.

Ur had ziggurats. Kemet had pryamids. Mohenjo Daro had what Mohenjo Darans liked and Sodom had brothels. No age is unique. Even yours. You're not so special. What? You got lipstick, burger joints and lap tops?... Wage slaves... You're nothing but wage slaves. Rome had more style. Cathay more intrigue. Hellas better athletes. Hurry off to bed. The boss wants you bright and early. Make him rich. Go on. He'll throw you some coins. How I miss the Viking Age. No hypocrites there. Tear it off and make it yours. Kill the boss. Kill his kids. Kill everybody's kids. Then eat and drink and hump and sleep. I must say, they did put on quite a show... Some of the Arabs do that now, ISIS and all that. The only difference is 'time.'... It moves so quickly now. What will come next?

I know a portal... a passageway 'tween this place and somewhere else. Speak to me not of parallel universes, or intersecting universes, or other plains, or whatever they tell you to call it. That's the trouble. 'They' tell you. So few people create anything now. They wait for others to sanction their very thoughts.

Want to see inside? Tomas comes this way. A new Tomas. A different Tomas. Unafraid to be hungry, or to satisfy that hunger. I'll show him. I'll take him.

Shhhh.... He smells something, an electrical frisson... a convergence of energies. None can see inside, til they are inside. Then the whole thing opens up. Tomas has seen other things before...

But this time he brings something back. This time he isn't afraid. A surfeit of human blood will do that. It provides strength and heat and courage.

Assert your power. If you don't have it, get it. I don't care. Just get it. Get it. Get it.

Or create it out of thin air. Maybe I, myself, should not be so damn shy.

<next time --- The Laurel Hill Doorway>

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