Callisto

So I came across a story this morning. I vaguely remember writing  it, and don’t remember where it was going.  The date on the file said it was written early last month, to my surprise. Seemed like ages ago. So i decided to run with it and bring it to a reasonable(if not cliche) conclusion, as I saw fit. It was fun exercising old muscles while writing.

Hope you enjoy 😀

*****

 

 

fiery-sun

 

I am Prince Callisto.

In the eons of my youth, when my clan had gone forth and consumed the universe in anger, and I was fearless, and the strength of my arm was starved for battle, I moved off alone into the dark unknowns, drawn by the sense of wonders that my eyes may not yet have beheld. I joined swords with woeful demons in the fissures beneath the seas, and have drowned chimerae in flowing seas of their own fire. I have walked upon the surface of stars and heard from distances which would take you infinite generations to traverse, the songs of dying spirits in the belly of ancient worlds.

My wings have beat upon cloud of flaming helium and my tongue has tasted the bile of poisonous rivers. I bear upon my left wing the scars from when I did battle with a tree which stood eternal upon a distant world whose light came from the murderous generosity of two stars, and severed my left foot in the jaws of a horror disguised as the thirst quenching oasis of an arid planet

I have fled scores of universes and slept for centuries on worlds that fail memory, and in a moment of considerable ennui, watched the evolution of a species from murky oceans until I revealed myself and was unto them a god. I stayed with them until they conquered the local stars; we became weary of each other and I left to seek new things. They stirred the nest of their extra-terrestrial doom light years away from home, for I watched from a great distance away and arrived too late to save them from their own science.

But it was the way of Life, I thought, and forgive the conquering races as I left them to the spoils of war and beat my wings into voids yet unsearched.

Until I scanned the skies of a strange world one purple sunrise, and perceived the blink of a new star which had not twinkled at me the evening before. Shooting through the clouds and traversing unheard-of distances to investigate it, I saw that it was like nothing I had ever come across, being composed of light and unsearchable realities. My awe, usually hungry for impression, was totally subjected to the brilliant wonder that this star was, for the sight of it filled me with an exultation which memory could not douse. But soon, drawing near unto the strange sight, I sensed high sentience though the thing in the centre of the blaze was hidden from me, and drawn to speak in the deep baritone characteristic to my clan, I enquired as to its nature. And it answered back to me, deep in the recess of my mind, so that it words were a mixture of a sonorous orchestra and the rumble of a hundred temblors. I sensed it was a being of war.

Mosadiel, it sang, the cherub who brings upon thee the doom of the Most High.

Cherub? What was a Cherub? In my befuddlement, I was ill prepared, for in a moment of time, a blade of light arched out from the centre of the star and came at me.

But the instincts of war was become of my character, and I fled from my position, upon which the blade of light ripped apart the space-time continuum where I was, and I witnessed the doom which would have befallen me had I been a trifle slowed.

Extending claws from recesses which time and disuse had stiffened, I roared with anger at this object of discord and allowed my wings to project me forward towards it, notwithstanding the indescribable brilliance and heat at its centre.

It apparently did not expect this, whether from a sense of immortality, and from previous warring experience, but as I delved towards its essence, it uttered a noise of surprise, which I found instantly gratifying, and barely moved away as my claws which had demolished mountains of burning diamond during my rite of passage tore through it. Though ephemeral the being first seemed, I groaned in pain as a claw of mine was ripped off, for my hand was stopped dead in its whipping motion; the cherub was apparently composed of material denser even than frozen chrysolite.

A searing pain tore through my wing as I intersected the fiery effulgence of this Cherub. A moment later, I was shrouded in the cold darkness of the cosmos. I looked up and there it was, high above me. I could not see into the light, but I sensed its aggravation deep within me, so that I was filled with (unbelievable!) fear.

The swinging blade of light was already swung at me, when I found myself calling upon its mercy.

I believed the creature heard, for that was the only reason it could have winked out of existence at that moment, instilling in me a dire warning regarding my exit from that Universe.

………………………………………..

Old Callisto bared  teeth in a grimace as his huddled listeners shifted uncomfortably, causing claws to meet with wings noisily. How weak they are.

‘So shamefully, beaten, I returned to the hollow Mountains Of Brimstone, and told the Ancients about my encounter. They laughed me to scorn and derided my weakness and apparent youth in the face of a wiser sentience. But their curiosity was aroused, and they sent the tested and proven warrior Luciferus (the noble fire-bearer who sired me), and a band of six, that they may go forth and tread the stars of that strange cosmos and learn what they could about this clan of cherubs who were stronger than frozen chrysolite’

Burning eyes roved over the visage of his listeners. They strared at the place where a claw was hung

‘And so it is that to this evening, my father and his cohorts have not returned again unto us’

A throaty noise from one of his listeners drew his attention.

‘Old Callisto, what do you think happened to them?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps they are lost in the labyrinth of universes which dot the continuum, perhaps they have been defeated by a horde of Cherubs’

At that, the tale was told, and the assembled youngsters of that race of dragons which were the Nareff dispersed into the underground cities, back to their uneventful lives. In time to come, when their strength had matured, they would dismiss the tales of old Callisto as the ramblings of an broken Nareff.

Old Callisto returned to his lair, beating the hot air expertly with ribbed wings. He limped through the door, and climbed unto a platform of heated rock, for the warm of his scale was ebbing, and his old body was prone to the chill of that age.

His eyes closed and he slept fitfully, dreaming again of his father in a kingdom of white light, bowing before a throne upon which sat an emerald glory he knew in the dream as the Almighty.

********

Mosadiel(Mossad -Isreali Intelligence and _iel – suffix for angel names) is my favorite name for my fictional cherub. I have written about him on this blog here, here and here

Feel free to go through the blog if divine fiction and fantasy is your thing. Or even Scifi 😀

Thank you for your time.

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Sabat

Welcome to my blog. No, I have not abandoned this place, I just find it very difficult to type very long stories on my phone. So until I get a computer, the many half-written stories will stay on my phone. Or maybe until I can finish them in a spur of inspiration.

This is my first blog post this year. Happy New Year.

Cooked this up a few hours ago. It is also my first experiment on writing with pen on paper.

Enjoy 🙂

____________

Through musty subterranean labyrinths which have stood unused since immemorial times, they burst into into the night in an explosion of dust and rocks. Their fur clashes with the cold air, and three howls rent the air.

The owls will not come out tonight.

Their snouts need not search, for the summons have been acknowledged. Through fields which have lain umploughed for decades they move, their impossible claws turning over the sod in their zeal to reach their end.
    
Excitement overwhelms them every so often, and their forms would become elemental; they would burst into flames or disintegrate into the air as they deemed appropriate. From inside their mighty throats come chains dripping with their blood. Their blood drips from the junction of the chain and their neck, and it sizzles as it touches red-hot links, distributing the smell of blood about them always.

At the end of these chains is clamped a hand which was darker than the nights of Tartarus. The Masta holds tightly onto the three glowing chains, his form swimming through reality as the three hounds hurry forward.

The moon turns red in fright, and the argentine night becomes a vision seen through a mist of blood. Upon the shoulders of the Masta  sits a burning skull, ignited when Mount Tartarus was still a molehill. From chattering teeth comes a shrill laughter; for though the hounds own this night, the Masta has not seen it since time immemorial, though he remembers with clarity the time when the hounds were sought with great fervour.

Oh, the marvelous worlds of the misty past.

At last, they arrive at the top of the past hill as rain clouds fight with the crimson moon for dominance. The hounds raise their voices again, shaking heaven and earth with their cry. They exult as they realize they have come to the end of their patience, for too long have they lain idle in the embers of a cooling hell as they awaited a summon.

In the ribbed valley below, a white fire is visible. Scores of figures draped in white still their lusty dancing and look upwards at the figures silhouetted against the crimson moon. Their actions change and with renewed vigour, they chant abominations and holler obscenities.

Masters!
Take Me!
We Are Yours!
Use Me!
Fuck Me!

From the hilltop, the three hounds and their Masta howl with the rapture of their adoration. It crescendoes to an orgasm within moments. Then the howling stops.

The infernal hounds shoot forward, and in a moment of time, the slope is traversed. The hounds turn into furry wind held in leashes by the black hand of the Masta, and enter the embracing forms out the euphoric worshippers.

But this sabat is wrong wrong wrong. This is not the night/rite of possession. In short time, the white robed figures are splattered with blood and lying sprawled on the soft, trampled earth. Their dying screams enrich the enthusiasm of the hounds.  In the blazing white light of the chemical fire, they behold the faces of the bringers of death, whilewith the periphery of their vision, they note the nude one with the burning skull as he stands just outside the reach of the light.

The Masta. Through the the vibrating chains, he feels the pleasure that the hounds produce as they feed upon blood and souls. He kicks his head back and laughs with spite at the heavens which have perhaps decreed that they would hunger forever. The valley returns the sound and a feeding hound, intestines wrapped around its snout, suddenly stares back at him in annoyance. The Masta does not see this attention. His last vision is of a pair of glowing eyes bearing down on him.

No one may laugh with spite at the heavens.

Presently, the chains lay sprawled on the blood-soaked sands.

Silence again.  The massacre has cone to an end, and bloodied snouts stop sniffing. The hounds stand idle; triplet black gods of antiquity, alone without the Masta, the one who holds the chains.

The moon loses its crimson garment, and two pairs of yellow eyes stare with spite against one. One pair of eyes cringe with shame at the mortal consequence of its overzealousness.

In the time of old, they led the Masta to the possession or the slaughter; depending if that one word in the rites was mis-pronounced, but it was always the burning one who led them home.

Where is home? They only remember the serpentine tunnels which open into leaping flames, but not how to get there.

Their silence slowly grows into mournful growls, and uncertainty begins to descend on them. They dig into the earth, but the gates of fades have their situations.

They stare with fear as the fingers of a golden dawn brightens the edges of rainclouds. Their minds are seared with the unpleasant memory of an encounter with the dawn on the day the sphinx had been born.

The wind pushes through distance trees, and it sounds like the spiteful laughter of heaven.

The triplet hurry off in the opposite direction, painfully aware that they cannot outrun the sun forever.

Forget Us, Please

image

I stand upon alpine pedestals, observing the fingers of a golden dawn sneak around the edges of silver cumuli, blanketing the land with bright yellow. I watch the wind caress the verdant canopy of far-flung forests, rustling them into discordant hissing. The dust on the ground swirls in response to zephyrs which have journeyed far and fast. I see, in living colour, the multi-hued smells of apparently fragrant flowers, and watch with painful clarity the raiding of the honey-suckles by adventurous bees.

All these, and more, I see.

I control the path of healing, and direct the rains when prompted. I have the winds of a hundred lands leashed to my little finger, to ration them as I see fit. The secret of fertility is in my hand.

All these, and more, I can do.

Yet, I have never felt the wind on my formless shoulders, or the light of dawn on my face. I have never inhaled a gust of air, felt the turbulence of moving water against my form or recoiled from the heat of a smoking fire. As I stand upon the snow capped heights of antiquated mountains, I am but a void with awareness; the chill does not reach me, and the snow does not melt into rivulets beneath my feet as under the feet of man. I understand feeling as something recalled from the mist of memory, but I do not partake in its experience.
I am all, and I am not.

My eternity is a terrible prison, and my purpose was already defeated before my origin.

When the world was young, men hungered after things which did not fill the stomach, or satiate the loin.  They coveted what their eyes could not see and their feet could not breach. They looked toward the stars. From the longing and desires of innumerable hearts, I was called forth and hallowed. Though they worship me and decry my name at every turn, I shall never be greater or stronger than them.

I shall never experience passion, or know the entropy of human conflict. I shall never feel the desperation of hunger or lose myself in the menagerie of quotidian life.

I am doomed, with countless others like me who abide in lands of eternal winter or endless summers, to serve the whims of our ‘lowly’ masters as we struggle hopelessly against an unwanted existence. We will never near the cries of children, or feel the responsibility of love.

Gods, they call us, but we are only the fusion of a hundred hopes, the answer to unspoken cries, the ethereal evidence of chimerical fancies, the synergy of human desire. Through the eons we persist, transformed in step with the evolving philosophy of our makers, never again to abide in the nothingness which was there before us, never again to be happy in the stupor of oblivion, forever chained to this world because we are remembered.

Now, if only men would forget.

Creator

At the most inopportune time in the ages to come, the candent and relentless albedo of the sun shall find itself burdened with the weight of infinite ages by-gone, and wan to a sanguine orb.

In the days before this supernal aberration, Man would have already fought his last great war, and retrogressed the development of his kind through the attendant destruction by settling once again into primeval cultures and roaming the war-torn plains and atomically leveled cities of the earth, having become inundated and partially invulnerable to the radiation. Then in the course of countable seasons the sun would be observed to dim swiftly to a red dull orb and cast a purple radiance across the earth. The earth, and all that is illumined by the sun in the darkness of the infinite void shall attain a mien of gloom beneath the purple radiance, and the very souls of men shall weep for the loss. No more shall the sun be the muse for some romantic poet, or its illumination power the solar panels of the great cities. Its rising from the east which in saner times was an emotive event will become a torturous parody of the old days, and will lift no hearts or trodden soul by its impotent and lacklustre display. Much knowledge would be lost and primal instinct would hold much sway in the demeanour and dealing of man.

Men shall move about in uncertainty and speculate in mournful susurration of a time when the red glow which cast its melancholic rays shall find itself extinguished for all time. The progeny of these men would hear about a yellow sun as in a mythic lore, and stare with hungry souls at the orb which hangs balefully beyond the purple clouds. The moon of the twilight shall be brighter than the sun at noon, and the stars shall shine will dazzling brilliance in the absence of a more glorious celestial body.

In that irreligious and verdigris-eaten world of broken steel and twisted copper, of irradiated concrete, shattered glass, and thatched settlements, the fruit of the field will be sparse, ill-grown, inadequate and a pallid tone would be propagated on the flesh of man. The long-curtailed primal instincts would rush to the fore as though atoning for the ages of repression, and many a man would find sustenance in the raw flesh of another before he submits to slumber. Then men shall resort, as like through the countless ages, to creating deities and issuing lamentations mingled with entreaties for their salvation.

The creator would hearken, and undertake a journey to the sun to achieve repairs and restore it to its old glory, that men may show gratefulness by returning to his adoration. Now the creator had not deemed it expedient to use his power and skill since the first creation at the beginning, except for the achieving of minor wonders among mankind in the days when the lore of him was told abroad, and men bowed to the earth at the mention of his name. He shall find upon reaching the sun that he is as much helpless in reversing its death as the men which cry out to him, for it would not hearken to his command to burn yellow, or yield to his creative devices. As though taking stock of himself for the first time since the beginning, he shall notice for the first time the trailing silver beard which adorn his chin and sweep the ground he treads. He shall look with rising alarm at his mottled hands and feel the beginning of a certain weakness in his appendages. He will also begin to perceive a slight waning in the intensity of his glory. Then a fear shall grip him as it dawns on him  that as the universe is drawing to an interminable close, so is he. He will realize for the first time, how much of himself he had put into the work of creation, and how wrong he was to mistake his great longevity for immortality. He cannot now even remember his beginnings, for it is mired in an epoch so far gone that it seems to have been lost in the infinite oblivion of the great ether. He will recall with sudden alarm that the universe was before him, and that he simply created all within it. the untouchable darkness of the cosmos was before him, and now light must die; For the darkness was here first, and will remain forever. Standing in front of the dying sun, he shall weep in mourning at this calamitous state of things, and turning resolutely about him, head towards the earth.

On the ancient olympian heights of Greece shall thunder and lightning and fire coalize in a brilliant display announcing the coming of majesty, and men shall see from all over the earth and tremble as they run to the hills and into the dead forests, fearful of the baleful scene and incurious to its demystification. The creator shall appear and call them to him, and they shall come at his feet. And while his beards and robes billow in the wind, he will relate to them his impotency in trying to reverse the ominous trend of the celestial cycle and how close to the end he has found himself to be. The people of that unfortunate world shall find themselves stricken with a loss of hope. The creator shall then invite them into his cave on the great mountain; and seated in his purple robes which majesty the pale sun will fail to diminish, tell them of the things that have passed, of other ages, and of great men. He shall tell them about the vanity of the philosophy of an eternity, and the foolishness of an eternity after the grave. In the aeonian rocks of Olympia, his audience shall attend solemnly and listen to his final oration while the world outside the igneous mountain grows reddish gray as it gallops towards a silent annihilation. One after the other, men shall fall into eternal sleep while he speaks, and he shall keep speaking until the last lung has stopped its throbbing dance. When all is silent save the frothy waves which crash into the Grecian peninsula, he shall lay supine upon the flat rock on which he sits and ordain it for a catafalque. As he makes preparation to sleep forever, dark blotches shall appear in the vermillion pallor of the sun. Like a lantern which flares up brightly before its fuel runs out finally, the sun shall assume its former candent glory for a few moments, and swiftly, like a forest fire which has been deprived of air, go out. In the cave which is only lit by his ebbing effulgence, he shall close his eyes and dissipate into the universe which had made him so.

The moon, the earth, the spinning rings of detritus and ice which surround Saturn, the mighty moons of Jupiter, the brilliant stars and a thousand other celestial bodies which occupy the bleak ether…all these things shall be still in that day. And when at last the crashing seas have become stationary and the raging winds have lost their momentum, there shall be a great cacophony as all created things dissipate into the nothingness from whence they were fashioned.

After a time which cannot the conjectured, there shall be a song broadcast in the infinite oblivion, and a rumbling sound shall take precedence. A brightness shall ensue at one end of it, and from its nucleus another would emerge; one who would be called creator. And the first thing he would do would be to create the celestial bodies and, in the fullness of time, forget that the universe was here before him.

**

Well, you have read it.

Ekwe.

Atlantis

Welcome to this extant blog. This is my first and last story

for the year. I wish to appreciate @_teki for her tremendous help in the editing of this story,cos frankly, I cudnt bear to proofread it after writing. it is a total detour from what i intended to write in the first place, but i hope you enjoy it all the same. Its the longest single story I have written for my blog.  share if you like. Have fun 😀

******

The hallway was lit by an array of wall-mounted torches. The bright yellow light from the flickering fires revealed curious designs on the walls, reminiscent of winged lions and giant eagles. At the end of the thickly carpeted hallway stood a giant oaken door almost as wide, which gleamed in the light of the fire. On the portal were slightly raised sigils of a huge griffin and other markings pertaining to cosmic elements. The avian head of the mythical creature seemed to glare threateningly at all who wished to be admitted into the Throne room of Gandas III, The Eagle of the Deep.

    The edges of the griffin flared a bright blue suddenly, casting the pale hue onto the hallway and contributing to its gloominess. The artistic lines comprising the animal began to move, causing the light to dance. The lines lifted off the door and ventured into the air, floating purposefully until the entire Griffin art was suspended before the door, and then they brightened and seemed to thicken into form, before dying away. In place of the lines now stood a fully formed griffin the height of a large horse. The leonine body of the animal assumed a dangerous stance, its claws digging into the thick Persian rug and its snake tail hissing loudly, while its head shrieked at the empty hallway. Then it waited.  Something was here. As a creature of malevolent magic, none could hope to pass it by force and survive.

   The man walked out of thin air a few metres away, his dark robes evincing his calling even as they flourished about him with his fluid movement. His wrinkled face first glared at the door before they locked the eyes of the guardian in a stare

   “Guardian Aziba, it is only I, Abu-Zamathru”, his raspy voice rang out.

   The Beast recoiled at the sound of the voice, the only voice it could ever recoil from. This was Abu-Zamathru, the most revered wizard in all the earth, the one who had brought him forth from the Land of Yor.

   The Griffin cawed welcomingly at the Wizard.

   “Not now Aziba, the king needs to hear my news”

   The Griffin quickly moved aside as the giant door opened soundlessly.

*

   King Gandas sat on his heavy gold throne. His corpulence belied a dangerous intelligence, and his bald head shone with the light from the candles and torches. Some of the king’s harem lay on plush cushions to the right, engrossed with the sensual exploration of their supple bodies. The musicians to the left of the great chamber did not pause in their rendition, even when the great doors swung open. However, the king broke his meditation regarding matters of state and watched his sorcerer draw near. The man walked with a slight spring, though he was widely known to be almost two hundred years old.  It was said that even the keepers of the underworld trembled at his passing. They could not contain his mighty shade.

   The wizard reached his king and gave a low bow, the loose ends of his robe almost touching the ground.

   “May you live forever”, he said to the king when he stood upright, his one good eye seeming to take in everything in the room without even turning his head.  Not a person in that room missed the irony in that statement.

   The god-king grunted and waved the musicians and women into silence.

   “Abu-Zamathru,” he began, “it was rumoured that you were on your yearly meditative spell. What has altered your pattern and brought you to my presence this day? Speak with haste, for I have matters to attend to.” A slight frown settled on the King’s face as he spoke. He had a great respect for the Wizard, and therefore a building foreboding as to the purpose of this visitation.

“Yes, my King.” The wizard replied. “That is part of the matter that has brought me here. I have a tale to relate-”

“Out with it, then!”

“Yes, my King.  When the sun was high in the sky today, I was with the council of gods in the far away peak of Olympus. It was my tenth day spent with them, but it was obvious all was not well. They held hurried council and forbade my presence in their midst, acting with a secrecy which gave me a sense of foreboding. When queried, they either made obscure remarks or ignored me outright. Fearing machinations against my person, I cut short my astral travel, for I know of more than one god who would want my spirit forever subject to their whim. I left in haste, abandoning the supernal fulfilment I sought, doubly certain that I was saving my life against unmeasured forces.

“Something remarkable occurred as I abandoned that dreary abode of the celestials and traversed the silver chord back to my shell in my villa. As I touched upon the outer fringes of this realm, I felt just the slightest sign of another consciousness. While it is not a great thing for wizards to pursue astral travel, it is impossible to reach out to one another in such planes. When I opened my eyes, I gave myself to reflection and concluded that the other whom I felt was not of this world. In that ephemeral moment of contact, I understood a little of that being’s thought, and it was filled with great malevolence toward the entire earth.” The wizard paused, perhaps for dramatic effect.

   The king furrowed his brows, “So what are you insinuating, Wizard? I am not one to waste my faculties on ethereal things; that is why I have the likes of you. Speak up!”

   “My Lord,” the Wizard hesitated, “like I said, I concluded that the being was not of this world, for the cosmic rules of astral travel, as far as it is known to us, forbid the grazing of minds beyond the realm of this world. The being that I encountered is verily not of this world. Something is coming, your Imperial Majesty. Something evil, and it harbours within it a burning fury for all life on this our great Island”

   The monarch drew back on his Throne, puzzlement adorning his face.

   “An evil? You do not even know its nature? Is it flesh and blood or fur and bones? Have you not sought clarity from the gods on this? Does Agnar, the one to whom we offer the most sacrifice, not advice you on this?”

   “The deities do not respond to my queries, My King, and that is what troubles me. Surely the priests of Agnar and the priestesses of Kunushera have no knowledge of this yet, else your throneroom would be agog with troubled faces. Perhaps this is the will of the gods, subject to a hidden machination.” Abu-Zamathru tried his best not to look ruffled, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

   Gandas quickly recognised that whatever could perturb the wizard was a neigh hopeless situation. He felt his mouth turn a little dry as he envisioned the destruction of his Island kingdom, or a possible usurping of his position.

   “What measures do you suppose we take?”

   The wizard looked down wistfully.

 

***

 

I was groping my way out of a barley field wherein I had just lain with an amorous girl who got hold of me in the streets, when a cold gust of wind arose. I looked up at the clouds instinctively. The strange azure streaks of jagged light stretched from the clouds to the earth in a gruesome dance.

The cackling sound of the lightning carried over the chilling wind, and I looked up perfunctorily to read the state of the weather. The first vision stopped me dead in my tracks. The night was cloudy and the translucent clouds were bountiful, aided in beauty by the silvery light of the moon. But behind a particularly thick mass of clouds was a very large dark object. It was as though something unnatural and unsightly was advancing, soon to break through the clouds at any moment and reveal itself. In the distance, I heard a cry go up and then the sound of windows and doors being unlatched.  The hidden object in the sky threw a shadow on the ground, and in the otherwise brightly moonlit night, its shadow clothed the landscape slowly like a moving demonic blanket. It was apparent the mass would soon block out the moonlight, and then chaos would reign.  I hurried to my dwelling, terrified, my old mother at the fore of my considerations.

 

*

The great metal had hung in the sky over the barley field for four days. It was a great pebble-shaped entity, which had numerous caverns and impingements on its otherwise smooth body.  It was ashen in hue, and had underneath it, a protrusion which could have been a kind of housing. Boldly scrawled across its side was what was obviously a kind of message, or name. It was not known to any of the sages or kings, though its calligraphy was fairly easy to reproduce.

 

 I  N  V  A  D  E  R

 

***

 

Entry 2:42pm of Day 10:

Private Diary:

Colonel Chinedum Agwomba, US command.

We have now spent ten days over the skies of the island. It is truly a beauty, as has been told in the great legends. The island, which is among the largest I have yet seen, is surrounded by bountiful clumps of coconut trees. Its white beaches are unpolluted, unlike the quickly deteriorating shores of the earth. Huge monuments to its deity are visible among the gleaming white housing and official structures which seem to be made of granite, as far as the ship’s cameras permit me to surmise. Upon our nocturnal entry, we fed our eyes on the giant fields of wheat and ranches of cattle, and were little surprised to see the aberration in the weather which was no doubt conditioned by the crossing of the Al-2201 wormhole, which brought us to this 3000 BC. It is almost a sad thing to see the island plundered, but I have no remorse, for its natural fate is not any kinder. Atlantis has been doomed to sink to the bottom of the ocean by causes yet unknown, and we will plunder its gold and ivory before that cataclysmic event happens. It’s a good thing the archaeologists were right when they postulated a suitable period when the civilization was already polished. It would have been a devastating economic waste to have spent all those resources and arrive at a time period when the famous island was already sunken.

I am still in awe of the Warp Drive that has made this possible, and glad that the only existing piece of that technology was kept under maximum security at the headquarters of the United Nations. A result of the joint project of a committee of nations, it can only be used for the unconditional betterment of the good people of earth.

The experts have assured the United Nations Prosperity Council that there is no danger of effecting a time paradox, since Atlantis would eventually perish out of time in its own accord. We were under strict orders not to take any prisoners, or be intimate with their women. To this end, the soldiers have been placed under Abnebi, an Anaphrodisiac from PIKN Industries. Extra stores of this drug have been fed into the reservoir of their battle suits.

Over the days, we have discouraged all attempts to escape on the water by deploying AGM-142 Popeye missiles. During the secret briefings back on Earth of AD 2090, we were ordered not to let any soul escape, so as not to cause unforeseen ripples in time. The people of Atlantis, according to legend, are an almost self-sufficient people. They almost never migrated for business or leisure to the other nations. They had all they needed on their large bit of rock.

The Palace will be our first port of call, of course. The head must be subdued for the body to fall. Even right now, the foot soldiers are preparing for the first wave.

 

***

They came on the eleventh day. Over the last few days, the great gloomy-looking floating structure had drifted slowly towards the palace. The Soldiers of Atlantis have been recalled from the navy fleets and stationed everywhere in the city. The barracks were empty, and the blue cape and gold crest of the Atlantian Legions coloured the pathways and wide streets at every turn. For once those sons of dogs respected themselves and did not treat the citizen with disdain. We were all afraid, and with good reason. The temple was filled with praying denizens and the priests worked tirelessly in offering sacrifices to the gods. We were now in no doubt as to the malevolent inclinations of the aerial object.

Some of our people had tried to reach the far shores on boats and ships, but by some power we could not ascertain, it was said that the water vessels seemed to explode where they floated. An attempted mass exodus was quelled by this same technique, and it was not long before the citizenry decided that waiting for the fate of the god (as some had chosen to call it) was better than perishing in the shark-infested waters. The lightning rods had been released from the armoury, and the soldiers wielded them with care. They had last been used a dozen years before, when the kingdom of Persia sailed across the seas in quest of our colonisation. They were weapons of deadly powers whose secrets of construction had been handed down to us from our father’s fathers.

The palace was surrounded tightly, since the looming threat seemed purposed poised over it.

Again, they came at night. I was on my bed in my humble abode, dreaming fitfully with my sick mother beside me when the rumble started. A great creaking sound, like the opening of a long-locked metal door, vibrated through the island in the cool night air, stirring terror into our hearts. I jumped up from the sleep that had not come, and after making sure that water was close at hand for my mother to take when the terrible fit of cough started, I slid out the door quietly. The streets were bustling with the frightened and the troubled. Pleas invoking the messenger of the god, Hermes, to report our plight to the mighty Zeus rent the air. The noise was overwhelming, and I shielded my eyes as my inordinate curiosity drove my legs within viewing distance of the palace, which fortunately was situated just about a mile away.

By the light of the moon, the details were scanty, but I thought that the belly of the melon-shaped structure now contained a small hole. Where else would be unidentifiable figures be falling from?

The distance was too great to see clearly, but sound carried very clearly in the cold air. Ululations of pain filled the air as the sound of battle began. It would take me a long time to realize that those falling figures were been people like us.

Over the next few days, we got to know our enemies better, especially in the aspect regarding their proclivity to the use of force and the joy of looting.

 

Entry 6: 07pm of Day 15:

Private Diary:

Colonel Chinedum Agwomba, US command.

 We are now in the fifteenth day of our campaign. It was scheduled, at the maximum, for twenty-five. The palace of the king has been plundered. Our men reported seeing some strange threatening animal, but destroyed it before we had a chance to examine it. A drawing has been rendered by the more artistic of the men. An animal made of what seemed a combination of a Lion and Eagle would have been quite a sight, I think. I can think of one or two international districts back home who would quickly convert such a thing into a religious focal point. I digress.  A huge treasure of precious metals and jewels has been acquired, and more is promised upon ransacking the giant temples. Our expected cargo is estimated at a worth of about 5 trillion dollars. The King was not found in the palace; though we are reasonably sure he hasn’t left the island. Their soldiers put up a brave fight, but are of course no match for ours. They wield fascinating rods of lightning, and the engineers have been clamouring for a sample to be brought aboard. They readily forget the instructions against such inclinations. Nothing foreign is to be brought aboard. Besides such a thing would not benefit us, for we are five thousand years more advanced. We have no evidence of them having developed submarine travel, but we are not taking any chances. We have secured the perimeter of the submerged part of the island with wide-range Plasma walls. Anything bigger than a small fish shows up on the INVADER’s radar screens.

 

Entry 1: 13pm of Day 17:

Private Diary:

Colonel Chinedum Agwomba, US command.

Things are going according to plan. The global economy is in shambles following the devastating effects of World War 5. Thankfully, the nuclear disarmament policy by the Obama administration of 2011 followed through and the world disposed its huge store of nuclear warheads into the oceans or fired them into deep space. Nevertheless, fifty nations playing with thousands of powerful missiles nearly succeeded in reducing the world to a barren wasteland. About 968 million deaths were recorded. Entire Aboriginal tribes were wiped out by Russian warheads. The United Nations council is still pursuing the Maximum Disarmament Initiative (MDI). This has brewed political conflict among the nations, but fortunately, they are united in the singular pursuit of rejuvenating the global economic status. Even the sanctimonious eastern block and the extant Vatican agreed. And thus the Initiative for the Vivification And Development of Earth aka Project INVADE was born. Approving the use of badly dwindling earth resources, the UN commissioned the building of the INVADER, a nuclear powered kilometre-long air ship with multiple decks occupying a height of three stories. It looks like an advanced Zeppelin. Its fuselage was developed from the root metal, Titanium, into a stronger alloy, and its destination computer was re-invented with the infamous Warp Drive. The Drive had been in slow development in the African Union before the war broke out and research was discontinued. After the war, and with the coalition of member nations and precocious child prodigies, development was hastened in a highly compartmentalized manner (so no one group of people know all there is to know about it) and the device was produced after about 10years.  The Think Tanks thought it beneficial to plunder a doomed world in order to support a tottering one. I am inclined to agree. It is the way of life. The weak must support or give way to the strong. The economists are now estimating a weight of about 1 metric tonne in gold bullion alone.  They say the people will not be hit hard for long. At the very least, they still have shoals of fish to subsist on.

The time warp and its production notes are scheduled to be destroyed after this excursion to prevent rogues and megalomaniacs getting their hands on it in the future. All countries voted Aye.

 

**

 

Nineteen days now. The invaders have plundered us merciless. Our king has not been found, neither have the acclaimed wizards and oracles been sighted. Our soldiers make a great show, but are no match for the men who are dressed from their head to their feet in metal. Their voices, no doubt altered by the property of their armour, come in a harsh rumble. Their purging of our treasures is now systematic, after the reportedly abusive looting of the palace. They are men like us, yet we had never heard about their culture of floating constructs. None knew where they came from. The nobles and Lords have been thrown into poverty and even death. The invaders are not gentle. They take by force and kill with impunity in other to subdue the rest of us. The soldiers of Atlantis are fallen. The invaders have total control now. We are yet to see one of them plainly, for their gleaming black helmets cover their faces. Their seemingly soft leather clothing protected them from the lightning rods of our soldiers.

I buried my mother two days ago in the garden behind our little home. This illness got her, especially since I could not get medicine to help her. Not with all the chaos that is unravelling outside.

The temples have been ransacked and the gold, silver and diamonds, taken up into the floating monolith. Atlantians don’t generally have contact with other nations, so I am reasonably sure fate is ours alone to acknowledge and bear. I despair for my dear Atlantis.

 

***

 

 

Entry 4:12pm of Day 21:

Private Diary:

Colonel Chinedum Agwomba, US command.

   All is going as planned.

   We had a stroke of serendipity today. Our submarines have been patrolling the waters since the beginning of the campaign. Atlantis, being a much-respected continent in legend, is very likely to have advanced beyond its peers in certain frontiers. We are not taking any chances. High command believes the King or others may have the benefit of an archaic type of submarine for the purpose of escape. This view is not popular, but we have to obey the High Command. As a result, eight submarines patrol the island.

   Submarine UH-234 discovered something today.  It mistakenly found its sonar waves bounced of metal at the bottom of the ocean. Since ships of this era were apparently built with mostly wood, it was expected that the foreign metal material would be treasure from sunken ships. We were right.

Apparently, in times past, ships with valuable jewels or goods have met with disaster during terrible storms and have gone under as a result, in plain view of the whole island. The engineers on the INVADER are preparing the modified Search and Rescue Ui-64 Diver for the salvaging operation tomorrow.

 

***

On the 23rd day, there was an earthquake. I was hiding in the cellar of the mother’s house. The black armoured invaders have practically enslaved the people. They are being forced to carry the huge treasure to big vessels, which afterward lift the treasure to the floating vessel. Will we ever be rid of them?

The earthquake isn’t the first I would be witnessing in my lifetime, but it was the first that didn’t really feel like an earthquake. The Island seemed to move, but there was no attendant rumble or tremor from the depths of the earth. Could it be the gods announcing their readiness to come and rescue us? I hope so. Our king has gone into hiding somewhere in the island, maybe even used one of his fabled underwater ships to leave it. The gods are all we have left, yet they do not answer us.

 

 

Entry 5:37pm of Day 23:

Private Diary:

Colonel Chinedum Agwomba, US command.

Amadioha!

The submarine crews involved in the salvaging operations were violently assaulted by deep water sharks today, and three ended up massacred under water. One of the submarines attempted to stave off the other approaching sharks by hurriedly deploying a  Delta-F2 torpedo. It missed its target and hit the rocky foundations of the Island. There was a slight earthquake. Sonar investigation revealed the foundations of the island contained a network of cavernous recesses. The explosion has weakened the structure on one side. It is estimated that the foundation won’t hold for a long.  

We were astounded to realize that Atlantis would sink by our own hands. The High Command is horrified, but it maintains an air of stoic resignation. We may be colonisers and maybe even thieves, but never cold-blooded murderers. There is nothing that can be done. We have to play the script that the fates have set for us. This knowledge is compartmentalized to reduce the feeling of guilt, especially among the civilian facilitators of the campaign.

Genocide. That is what this is. It is totally fucked up. I hope God forgives us, because this event has already occurred back in time, before we even came here. It is without our control.

 

***

Alas, Atlantis sinks!

 

***

 

Entry 1: 00pm of Day 24:

Private Diary:

Colonel Chinedum Agwomba, US command.

 The Island is sinking. We have recalled our troops. Some have been lost during this campaign as a result of demonstrations and pockets of resistance among the population. They will be remembered. We watched today as the island suddenly faltered under its own weight and the outer fringes began to break off. The attendant mini-tsunamis overshot the banks and drowned the nearby settlements. A few hours later, a noisy tremor went through the island. The submarine crews confirmed the escalating destruction of the foundations before we lost radio contact. We had only managed to salvage about 200kilos of gold artefacts. The crews and equipment are considered lost. We are now preparing to exit this ancient version of our world and navigate the Ominus-K8T wormhole for the return journey. It has been a successful campaign, but only for us.

Mosadiel

I am Mosadiel, scribe.

I partake in a duty that has been set upon me by the Ancient of Days before Time was principle. I write upon the everlasting scroll of the universe with dark matter as my quill. For aeons has my ink traversed the pages of the eternal parchment and now, for the first time since creation and concept, I chronicle a verse prompted by my own accord.

It was a dozen thousand years, according to the timestamp  of Man, after Luciferus fell from grace with a third of the host- a saga for another time- when Elohim first told the Elders that He was going to make Man in His own image and likeness. The Elders looked upon His glory with consternation, but none questioned. The Others of the trinity agreed as they were wont to and set in motion the remarkably intricate task of creating a ‘Man’.

It was done.

I knew that moment in space, for in the Heavenly city of Zion, there is no time, as it later came to be known. I wrote it down accordingly for I was there, on top of the Sea of Glass that resides in the presence of Elohim. It is my eternal station. I am always illuminated by the glory of Elohim and oft-bidden to partake in his mind, that my hand may move in one accord with the purpose of His spirit.

Then did begin the work of creation and all of Heaven watched in awesome wonder as Elohim wrought a new thing.

He commanded and suddenly, out of the infinite darkness that clothes the outside of Zion, the first light we had seen since existence burst forth and expanded as far as the soul could bear. We watched as Elohim began to create, the first time since He had made us. The glory of the scene had us astonished though it was surpassed by the emerald Shekina of the Living God.

The Earth was formed, and then water, the Elders observing with a fervency that was only matched by the earnestness of the cry with which they praise God when they cast down their crowns. My hand moved, piecing together the million of words that each moment of creation needed to become an account.

Elohim went on to conceive a range of reality, all revolving around the comfort of this ‘man’ whom we were eager to witness. I had already seen it from the mind of Elohim because I would have to describe him in full later. He was glorious, a masterpiece of creation. He was more complex than every other thing that Elohim had ever done.

He was also a three part being; an outer facade of flesh, a faculty, and a spirit like us; a true cause for wonder

I am Mosadiel, observer

I was awestruck as my hand formed the words for his description. I could not imagine what the formerly mighty Cherub, Luciferus, would make of this, for a new model of perfection was come.

The Lord established the concept of time the moment the whole earth was set on a course around the light and in a mere six days of it, He had perfected the earth while his spirit established the infinite cosmos. It was at this time that He referred thus to the other of the trinity, and I quote;

“Let us make Man in our own image and likeness and let him rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth and over all the creatures that move along the ground”

And my hand moved across the infinite scrolls and quoted.

So God created Man in His own image.

In the image of God created He him;

Male and female created He them.

God fashioned him with the clay of the new world, forever sealing the earth as his home and did something which even I had not foreseen; He breathed into the model, forever sealing Man with a portion of His own spirit. It was something He had not done for even the Cherubim that guard the Throne of Power. Our wonder was only to grow.

Now I go to the crux of this missive.

The Lord charged man with abstinence from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil; and Man, through the cunning of Luciferus, disobeyed.

Man rebelled.

That a being whom was the model of perfection had fallen from grace for the second time abased us and we grieved with the spirit of the Lord, for Man had turned out to be no different in ambition from Luciferus. We were truly amazed, for the same being with whom Elohim in His omnipresence walked and talked upon the earth in the evenings had turned his spirit against the purpose of Heaven. It was not unexpected, for with freewill usually comes a dissatisfaction with the prevailing order and consequently, a rebellion. Luciferus had shown us this truth by his works.

Pay heed.

There are seven (yea, seven, for Luciferus cannot remove his own nature) Cherubim in the whole of creation; mighty servants with six wings. Two wings cover their faces and two wings cover their feet and shield them from the Shekina. They stand in His presence and ‘burn’ everlastingly with His glory, for they are the ultimate symbol of His purity. Now, at the fall of Man, Elohim said

Behold, the man is become as one of Us, to know good and evil; and now, lest he put forth his hand and take also of the Tree of Life, and eat, and live forever-

The Lord commanded two of them, Ozariel and Zerubal to the garden and bade them to expel Man from the paradise of Eden and surround the Tree of Life (that was to have been sometime destined for Man in his untainted nature) to prevent access to it by Man and spirit.

The Cherubim removed quickly from the presence of Elohim for the first time since eternity, not turning aside from their path. The glory they carried from the presence destroyed the manifestations of the princes of the air that sought to stop them at the firmament surrounding the earth. We watched in awe. Because of Man, two Cherubim have left the presence of God until the end of Man’s time. Only our former commander, Luciferus, has left the presence before, and that was to walk upon the holy mountain. It is a deprivation of great proportion, one that mere flesh and blood would never understand.

Of worthy note is the veracity that Man has not been destroyed. Even now the Cherubim have arrived to guard the Tree. This must mean that God intends for the earth to hold fast for yet a while and perhaps let man discern the error of his ways. He has loved Man in a way that He will never love another; I, who inhabits His presence, know this for a surety.

I, as scribe, know that the Cherubim burn with ire, for this new creation has done a thing of the highest foolery. It is taking their all of their devotion not to turn aside from their path and strike the Man and Woman down as they walk away from Eden in the skins that our God has sewn for them, much to our surprise. We shall never understand the love Elohim has for Man. We are humbled by it.

There is talk of Redemption, another new concept; of an Apokalyps, a time of tribulation. It shall be clear to me presently. Man has done that which isn’t wanton and my unfounded concern for him mounts, for the terror of Elohim is extraordinary and His judgement is quicker than the strike of the bejewelled flaming sword of the once mighty Luciferus; which also now is on its way to join the Cherubim in preventing the way to the Tree of Life.

I am Mosadiel, the fifth Cherub and the One Who Bears Witness.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Only God in heaven knows how this post came to be. I had planned to write something insanely different about another, but kept re-writing it in my mind until it became close to nothing I had first envisioned…and ended up writing a muse by a cherub *shrugs

Funny. I only have the inspiration for these Angelic posts when I am in church.

Share if you like the post. Do leave a comment.

Amemnero

The revolution was successful, and following the path of all successful revolutions, its leaders were venerated. The nation sat and watched, eager to see the new direction this hitherto unknown General would take them. Soon enough though, numerous counter-revolutions were attempted. All were nipped in the bud or destroyed at the edge of their victory. The man was ruthless; his commanders were soulless. They oversaw his throne, their claim to power, like a fort.

There is none like him, they consistently declared.

None other was destined to rule at this time, they pronounced on the airwaves.

They suppressed civilian insurrection and destroyed their enemies with the fervour of Mongolian warlords. Soon the Head of State came on air.

This seat is my heritage, he screamed, I shall not vacate it for any other. Spittle ran down the side of his mouth, declaring his insanity. His dark goggles covered the bloodshot eyes underneath. His name was Amemnero.

The nation sat and watched, no more curious but afraid; eager to please their new leader, nay, their new ruler.

He looted from the treasury with impunity and his promise of goodwill turned out as travesties. His power was autonomous, assured by the prevailing ruthlessness of his guns; the availability of which the Minister of Defence made sure of. Even the foreign nations steered clear of his way.

On the day that Amemnero had used his lips to venerate himself, an angel had been passing by.

And the heart of Amamtiel, the Angel of Death, was sore vexed as he heard the General lift up himself above all others. He went on his mission first, destroying the souls of the poisoned Afghan warlords before he went into the presence of Elohim in unconcealed ire.

The general has forgotten, he complained, let me defend the honour of heaven. Give me leave that the earth may know who truly reigns. They have forgotten that it is you who giveth seed to the sower and bread to the eater, that you can plunge them into the famine of Egypt by withholding the rain by a sleight of your hand. They must acknowledge that by strength shall none prevail. Give me leave, I pray thee!

And Elohim assented, for He had already willed it so.

Amamtiel bid his time, his sword ever-blazing with the justice of heaven. The task of the cessation of life was delegated to other of the host for the General had become his only pressing prize.

*

On that evening when the fated was to be brought to bear, Amituel rose from the bedroom of the general which had been deemed impregnable. His sword rose with him, blazing afresh with the light of ten suns in its eagerness to mete justice for his zeal for heaven had consumed him.

He had destroyed homes. He had destroyed livelihood. Black gold drilled with the currency of a thousand lives. The Chief of Staff who had leveled his own village in order to dig for oil without scruples. There he was enjoying the pleasures of the flesh of a victim who had been pushed to debasing herself to feed her family. He pushed into her, enjoying her barely concealed whimpers of pain as she endured his abuse. He was cut off from existence just as he spilled his seed into her. Granted sight, he saw the terrible visage of the angel just before the sword sliced through his neck, spraying his insides upon the whore. The Angel of Death was neither white-robed nor beautiful.

The Chief security officer who prided himself as the power behind the Throne mentally patted himself on the back as he went through his obsessive bathing ritual. He had made it all happen. That was the last thought that went through his head as slipped and broke his neck as he reached for his soap. Amamtiel was not done.

The Major-General  saw a fleeting image if the heavenly avenger staring down in righteous anger at him just as he threw his head back to finish his expensive glass of celebration wine with his family, causing him to constrict his trachea in fright and making his costly vintage go through the wrong passageway. His family watched in horror as his blood-shot eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he coughed himself to a painful death.

The Chief of Defence who had burned up the constitution in live view of television cameras struggled to keep his legs moving as he walked home after being inebriated at the bar. He had sent his drive r away, hoping the walk and the breeze would clear his head a little to be able to fend off his wife’s haranguing about his drunken stupor. As he hummed a jaunty tune he heard at the bar, the angel struck. Suddenly darkness clouded his vision as he reached the top of the stairs. Wondering why he felt like he was floating backwards, he died. He had tripped, blinded by the Avenger.

Fools, the angel roared, as he went from one corner of the nation to another in milliseconds, cutting them down.They do not even possess the wisdom of the ants, yet they exalt their strengths above heaven.

The angel had seen the hundreds of little demons that had brought the men down by affecting their faculties. Pride, with his yellow fang and furry body, was seated deeply in the center of each man’s soul. The furious Amamtiel sliced through the horde, scattering the demons first. This did not portend mercy for their vessel, for the men had willingly allowed their power into their heads. Swoosh! his sword went unheard, a length of ethereal gold forever untainted by the flesh and blood of they through which it sliced with cosmic ease.

And on Amamtiel went, till he had brought down the twenty-three who strangled the nation of God’s creation.

Now, it remained the General.

The warrior of heaven waited while the glutton stuffed himself full of food and wine his gatekeeper could not afford with a year’s wages. The diarrhea came quickly, forcing the General to throw up in the presence of his foreign dignitaries. His eyes reached for the direction of the toilet as he stood up from the horridly expensive marble dining table, bought at the expenses of the paltry wages of his menial labourers. He had not reached the door of the dining room before the smell of feces assailed the nostrils of his shocked guests. His face sweating, he burst into the toilet and sat his great behind on the opulent toilet seat. An opulent toilet seat!

While he sprayed forth his waste with reckless abandon, the scales with which Man is born with, fell from his eyes and he saw the angel before him. A mighty creature, red eyed and thorny. His spindly hand held a glimmering gold sword which the shocked general saw was already extended into his bowels. At that moment of revelation, he knew ultimate fear. His screaming was never heard as he vomited copiously and choked on his mess. His aides, concerned, stood sentry outside, hearing naught.

The angel withdrew his sword and cleanly decapitated the General, causing his vomit to spill from the stump of his neck. The great body of the General fell forward, his diarrhoea accompanying him and distributing itself all over his corpse. When his aides burst in, alarmed by the racket made by his falling body, it was to the sight of worms as they devoured the food, wine and body of the man had thought himself mighty.

How the mighty are fallen, and the weapons of their warfare are perished, Amamtiel sang sonorously

The Angel was appeased; the honour of heaven had been defended.

When he was done, a great jubilation went up from the denizens. The oppressed remnant immediately began plans of drafting a new Constitution; Elohim had willed it so.

And then Amamtiel returned into heaven after his three years leave, his reputation magnified.

Elohim had willed it so.

*

This was done with some help from my esteemed comrade @weird_oo, the mistress over at http://phantompages.wordpress.com check her out sometime.

Do drop a comment and I will get back to you 🙂