Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Three

And here we are, at the top of that coaster, anticipating the fall. And we're excited! 

For those of you who are new here, please... do not be afraid to dive into the Table of Contents. 

For the rest of you who are already in the water... 

            Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Three

  

Transcripts for your read-alone or read-along pleasure:

  The lifestyle didn’t change all at once.  In fact, the changes were slow coming, the seeds surreptitiously planted early on.  It would take years of fertilization and other such necessities in order to grow and spread like a cancer, undetected until it would be too late.

     Scattered within the majority of those past days--days when everything ran smoothly albeit an argument here or there--were the minority of days; days when the hours were laden with destructive deeds.  Aden’s father, like anybody, had a temper; but unlike just anybody, Alexander oft had trouble controlling that temper.  Aden’s family happened to be one that believed in the obligation of certain remedies, such as physical punishment.  But there were differences in method, to be sure.  For instance, Emily’s rendition was very sincere:  When one of her children spoke out of line, she would give them a daunting shake of the head followed by the words, “Get the belt.”  The children, when receiving their punishment from the belt that they themselves went to fetch, understood the reasons behind the punishment, and even when they didn’t agree with it, Emily made herself clear, accompanying the physical dealings with an earnest explanation.  Aden couldn’t speak for his siblings, but he himself felt he had a good understanding that the few lashes he received from his mother were earned by his own poor decisions.  As a result, however stern Aden’s mother would portray herself to be, anger was not present, and so fear was never part of the respect given.  But of course, Emily wasn’t the one who had trouble controlling her temper.

     When Alexander punished his children for misbehavior--which could have ranged anywhere between a disrespectful slur and the sound of the children’s laughter during his attempts to enjoy a television program--he went to go “get the belt” himself, often times coming back with a wooden spoon, or a plate, or a chair, or a screwdriver, or anything at all that wasn’t attached to a wall.  He would then throw the item regardless of how big or sharp it was.  Alexander would often miss, but sometimes... unfortunate proceedings would occur.  Anger was riddled in with his extremities regarding “everyone” and “no one,” and time frames such as “never” and “always”.  The pain released from Alexander’s fury was something to fear.  Punishments from Alexander were often times misunderstood, and so the intensities seemed erratic.  Aden didn’t learn to respect his father like he had his mother; his sense of compassion and responsibility towards Emily was something of aspiration, while his obedience towards Alexander had been bred of terror.

     There was one specific instance that stood out vividly in Aden’s mind as the singular, prime example of how these events would transpire:

     Ariel was absent, visiting a friend’s, and so it was only the four Walkers who ate at the dinner table that night.  Some time after dinner, Aden poured himself a small bowl of cereal for dessert.  He sat at the empty dinner table and scooped up a mound of sugary crunchables.  As he ate, Angelica pulled up a chair and sat across from him, drawing in a sketchbook.  Together, the two of them sat in peace while Emily tidied up the kitchen.  The room was quiet, and the people present, although acting apart, were very much together.

     And then from up the stairs, a knee popped to alert them of his coming.  Alexander stepped around the corner without his glasses, his eyes sunken in, the hair upon his head still damp from a shower.  He was sporting a red wife-beater and grey sweats.  The energy was in his appearance, in the very way he walked, and the first thing he did was stand behind Angelica to twirl his fingers through her hair; he did it in a way that was clearly bothersome, going so far as to create inexplicably high-pitched piggy noises with a vinegary, scrunched up face.

     Angelica said, “Stop it.”

     Alexander mocked, “‘Top it, ‘top it!”

     Now little Angelica repeated herself, lifting her hand to swipe Alexander’s away.  “Stop it.”

     Alexander continued, getting into the groove, moving his legs now along with his fingers, repeating his chant:  “‘Top it!  ‘Top it!  ‘Top it!”

     Angelica must have reached the end of her personal ultimatum, for she slid out from her chair, raised her arm, and sent it down harshly through the air, hard enough to leave a little girl’s red handprint on her father’s bare shoulder.  The sound of the slap caused a pause in everyone’s behavior:  Emily stopped washing dishes; Aden stopped crunching; Alexander stopped his juvenile dance; Angelica stared up at her father with a look on her face filled with pure defiance.

     For that instant, the world stood still.  Aden didn’t perceive it in the moment, but years later, he would return to this memory and see the courage like fire in his sister’s eyes. 

     But courage isn’t all that’s necessary to win a battle.

     Alexander lifted Angelica quick as lightening flickers; the sound her body made when he threw her upon the couch was like the inevitable thunder that follows.  Suddenly the world spun, and Aden could feel his heart beating as his father hit Angelica wildly on the buttocks, on the back, on the shoulder.  His syllables accompanied every strike:  “Don’t... You... Ev... Er... Fuck... Ing... Hit... Me...!”

     In the background was the weak voice of Aden’s mother, of Emily saying what she always said in times of Alexander’s rages:  “Lexi.  Lexi!  Alex, stop!  Alex... Alex!”

     But of course, he never stopped.  Do words alone stop fires?  Do words alone stop cyclones or tsunamis?  The world was spinning, and not much of anything could have ceased the damage, especially not words.  The only thing that could stop Alexander in that situation at that time was Alexander himself.  Even Aden in his boyhood knew of such a truth.

     The rampage finally ended with Angelica running away crying, running to her room to be alone, running to be free from the fear of Alexander’s demands.  And so she left.  But Alexander was still angry, and if he ever yelled or struck out at Emily, Aden never saw it, which left him as the one available target.

     Sitting across from an open sketchbook with a half-eaten bowl of cereal was little Aden Walker, who felt afraid, who felt a shiver all around his body as the man stomped back and forth.

     “I’m sick of this bullshit!” roared Alexander.  “I’m sick of these kids who never do jack shit other than bitch and complain and take and take and take!”  The man stopped and spotted Aden.  Eye-contact had been made.

     Aden felt instant guilt, realizing his crime of overindulgence, or maybe of insulting the man’s wife by eating after the man’s wife had cooked, or maybe he was staring the wrong way, or maybe--

     “Here’s a goddamn kid who--!”

     But Aden only heard that initial statement spill from the man’s oral cavity.  He sat thinking of himself as the goddamn kid who watched helplessly as the man pointed a finger at him and roared his hatreds towards the woman in the kitchen.  Aden sat silently, wanting to get up, to throw away the rest of the food and get away from there, but at the time he was afraid that by doing so he’d be blamed for wasting food.  He just sat and saw and heard, anticipating whatever should come.  It was all he could do.

---------------------------

Next Part: II. Value and Worth - Part Four

Though this segment begins the downhill slope of unfortunate events, I do hope you have... felt something towards it.

You can follow me on Twitter @Keatongwolfe

Or you can become invisible... 

Or even see what's behind the curtain. 

Until next time...

Art by Keaton G. Wolfe

Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Two

And so it's time for:

For those of you who are new here, please feel free to explore the Table of Contents!

For the rest of you, enjoy!

             Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Two

Transcripts for your read-alone or read-along pleasure:

  Aden’s memory tunneled into a time somewhere back in the past, back before life became riddled with complexity.  The dreary lifestyle of sorrow, confusion, and inhibited frustrations would eventually enter his life gradually, like an invisible poison set to grow with the turning of each season; but before any poison entered the blood of his spirit, Aden remembered when he was, on the contrary, a very carefree soul who smiled often and spread his positive nature with a creative, exuberant aura.  It was in his history where an entire collaboration of memories existed, real memories of an optimistic universe.

     He could recall a man, his father, Alexander, teaching him how to swim at the public pool, promising to catch him if he so decided to leap into the deep.  He remembered Emily, his mother, the way she would exchange the loose change he’d find for small pieces of candy in order to teach him the necessary basics of mathematics before he began formal schooling.  Aden remembered his eldest sister Ariel, the firstborn of the three Walker children who would occasionally dress her little brother up in several silly outfits for no other reason than to enjoy the genuine laughs that stemmed from such behavior.  She would take him out for ice cream, let him meet her older friends, practice her cheerleading routines in front of him before asking for his childish opinion.  Aden remembered his other sister, the middle child of the Walker children, Angelica, who would often read to him, voicing out the many characters from dozens of books, teaching him that as long as you had an imagination, you could see the pictures that were otherwise hidden.  But most of all, Aden could remember the smiles.  They were happy people, this Walker family.

     Aden recalled the scent, after so many years, of the cologne his father would wear.  He recalled the way his father’s hair had been cut, the top of his head thick and full, the back of his neckline squared off, his dark hair barely sprinkled with the traces of white tips.  In his blue work uniform and slacks, his father had groomed himself well.  Alexander’s big horn-rimmed glasses and his full-beard would always arrive from the hallway, traveling into the kitchen.  His knee would crack, and he would pick up the morning paper, tapping his finger upon the counter while humming softly as his eyes scanned the black ink.

     Emily would be in the kitchen, cooking a quick breakfast, perhaps of oatmeal, or sometimes of eggs and homemade biscuits.  She’d kiss her husband good morning before placing the plates around the table.  She always cooked enough for everyone, assuring full stomachs as well as leftovers.  Her hair would be made up, shiny, dark, and thick.  The clothes she wore would be neatly ironed, and her earrings would shine beautifully.  She was a caring woman, often providing more than necessary.

     Ariel would have been doing her own thing in her bedroom, either listening to music or talking on the phone.  While Aden loved and looked up to Ariel, she was more of a role-model than a friend.  Angelica on the other hand, was the sister with whom he shared much of the same experiences.  Their closeness in age ensured this truth.  They would see each other at the same school; most of the people who knew Angelica knew Aden, and visa-versa.  Their home life was filled with the same joys and troubles, often times getting each other into one or the other without complaint or apology.  Angelica was definitely the Walker who Aden felt most connected to.  It was a kinship that was built to last through thick or thin, given the circumstances.

     Aden remembered who he used to be as a separate entity, away from his family.  Whilst amongst peers or exploring the young academic lifestyle, Aden was often a very polite, jovial kind of boy.  He made friends easily.  The only enemies he had were those he chose to have, which meant that he had none at all.  He made the bullies laugh, and he flattered the girls.  He had been raised by his mother and father, who taught him how to lend a helping hand, especially when a helping hand was all that was needed.  That happy-go-lucky mindset with the smiles and the friends lasted for a while.  It was a time when things were good, just as his family had been a content unit.

     Each of those recollections followed the one most tangibly potent:  Alexander’s cologne.  It reminded Aden of those times when everything made sense, when smiles were genuine and frequented by real people.  Even as he washed his vomit off of the bathroom floor, he could smell that cologne, like a spice sprinkled upon the surface of an old memory.

     The good times would eventually roll away, and the value of those times only rendered subsequent events more painful.  Sometimes, Aden wished he had been born in grit and grime.  He was convinced that if things had begun in the dark, then he wouldn’t have lost his sight adapting to a place without light.

-----------------------------

Next Part: II. Value and Worth - Part Three

I hope you've enjoyed going deeper into the abyss!

You can follow me on Twitter @Keatongwolfe

And you can read about my more personal take on life events by becoming invisible.

Also, you can find my analyses of works that have inspired me (literature, film, music, etc.) by clicking right here to magically teleport!

Have a wonderful time wondering.

Until next time...

Art by Keaton G. Wolfe

Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part One

Good evening my Earthly neighbor human!

It is time once again for another segment.

If this is your first time here, feel free to explore the Table of Contents! 

As for the rest of you... enjoy!

            Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part One

Transcripts for your read-alone or read-along pleasure:

The conversation ended with acceptance.  Despite this feat, a severe heat spread throughout Aden’s body, radiating from his hand and transferring into the plastic of the phone.  Aden placed the phone onto the charger; it rattled before he let go.  He wiped his sweaty brow with a wet forearm.  His stomach felt a little sour.  He looked up at the picture hanging on the wall above the desk.  It was of his deceased sister Angelica.

     He looked into her still gaze and tapped his fingers rhythmically against the wooden desk, lying to himself:  “It’s only a dinner.”

     Aden entered the kitchen and filled the largest glass he could find with ice, adding chilled water from a worn, pale blue pitcher.  The glass was empty within seconds.  He crunched his teeth into the ice, swallowed, and proceeded to inhale slow, deep breaths.  He stretched his arms up towards the ceiling, and then he reached around, twisting his back.  When he was finished, he stood tall with his hands on his hips, triumphant.  He felt good.  The first step of his final deed on Earth had been accomplished without error, the calls were made and the invitations were accepted.  It was a successful step.

     But the next thing Aden knew, he was in the restroom, vomiting violently into the little blue trash bin that Angelica had bought when he first moved in with her.  He held in some of his sickness and crawled to the toilet, letting more half-digested food eject from his throat and slide past his tongue where it landed both in the toilet bowl and onto the cold tiled floor.  The pumpkin-colored festival of mush and the complex, acidic flavors that were sloshing in his mouth worked together to force another uncontrollable bout of hurling.

     Finally, under what little control he felt he had, Aden groaned and pulled down on the flusher.  He stood to his feet, a feeling of weakness replacing his previous sense of false pride.  As he prepared to clean up his mess, he thought to himself:

     Intimidated by a dinner.  Have I progressed at all? 

-----------------------------------

Next Part: II. Value and Worth - Part Two

I do hope you've enjoyed your nutrition.

You can follow me on Twitter @Keatongwolfe

Do you have what it takes to witness the invisible?

And if you are enjoying this tale thus far, you may want to learn of my greatest inspirations.

Until next time...

Art by Keaton G. Wolfe

Red Abyss Insatiable - I. Blood Pact - Part Four

Hello once again, my fellow earthly humans! I am in good spirits. Why? Because of the moon!

Anyhow, if you're either new here or you just want to explore, feel free to delve into the Table of Contents! 

As for the rest of you, it's time to enjoy the final part of the first chapter!

              Red Abyss Insatiable - I. Blood Pact - Part Four


As always, here are the transcripts for your pleasure, to either read alone or read along:

“You must prove control to yourself.” 

     Oshvail’s words violently yanked Aden out from his ocean of memories and he quivered from the sudden chill.  “What do you propose I do to prove this to myself?”

     “Your spirit has undergone too much of your brooding.  If you let it get worse, I’m afraid you will not be able to heal.  Your purpose, all the work you’ve put into the last few years, would then become void.”

     Aden clenched his fists.  “I won’t allow that to happen.  Tell me, what must I do?”

     Oshvail produced a vial from what appeared to be thin air, displaying it in his hand.  Inside the vial was a blue, glowing liquid.  “Firstly, you must confront those of your kin whom you feel have betrayed you.  Invite them into your home, prepare a meal, and cater to them.  Serve them.  Converse with them.  Sup with them.  Create an environment that they’d be comfortable in.  Keep them comfortable from the moment they step into your home, to the moment they leave.  Do not give yourself reason to regret, and don’t give them a reason to think anything less of who you really are.  Your spirit needs this confidence to heal.”

     Aden’s mouth fell open.  Oshvail’s request was a heavier blow than Aden had anticipated.  All of his potential protests were excuses, he knew, and so he felt ashamed for even considering them.  Though he had a strong distaste for the given task, he remembered and held onto the responsibility supplementary with the blood pact.  His place was the loyal pupil.  “If that is what I must do, then consider it done.”

     Oshvail raised the vial.  “Once you have completed that requirement, drink this.  And Aden, do make sure you perform these duties in the order I have provided.  Drink this after the feast.  Any sooner and I cannot promise your safety.”  Oshvail tossed the vial over to Aden.  “Everyone has a spirit.  I dare to presume that yours is somewhat damaged and requires a bit of refurbishing.  I’ve created this as best I could to suit your entrance.  You have struggled with yourself for too long.  Make a final decision and pursue your path.”

     Aden observed the liquid, all shiny and blue.  Apparently the answers to his years of emptiness and brooding were separated only by a thick glass and a cork.

     “I will open my domain to you,” said Oshvail.  “But do not return unless your task is complete.  The next time we meet, I will be sending you to Grendia.  Your purpose requires the most vigorous of spirits.  Come prepared, ready for your new life.”

     Aden squeezed the vial.  “And what if I fail to fix things once I enter this... construct?”

     “If you fail, it would mean that you have either given up, or your essence has expired.  Whichever the case, your purpose will have become void.  I urge you not to let that happen.”  Oshvail stood to his feet.  “Above all else, remember that we are friends.  This assignment is to your benefit.”

     Aden could not pinpoint his feelings.  He managed to say, “I understand.”  Of all that encompassed his mystical education from Oshvail, this task, this dinner... it was the one task thus far with the crippling power to overwhelm Aden Walker.

     “You may have doubts,” said Oshvail.  “I assure you this is within your reach, and is absolutely necessary.  I would never send you where I think you would fail.  At times you may feel overcome.  It’s at those times you must remember to use your strengths.”

     Aden looked at the vial and gripped it tightly.  He had a horrible feeling in his stomach.  Revisiting old wounds wasn’t his idea of a new future when he originally partook in the blood pact.  But the pact was alive, nonetheless, and Aden remained true to his position.

     Once again, the opposite wall of the dome had become translucent, and Oshvail was already on its way to joining the other counterparts.  Aden turned from the creature and saw his private exit:  The round, white wooden door that always reappeared when it was time for him to leave.  Outside the door awaited the spiral staircase, and beyond that was snow, followed by more snow, followed by his apartment where he would magically arrive, standing in the bathtub to face the blue shower curtain as well as the most difficult task of his life.  Aden figured he would take his time.  After all, he was in no hurry to let his essence expire.

--------------------------------

Next Part: II. Value and Worth - Part One

I do hope you've enjoyed yourself thus far, and this concludes the first chapter, Blood Pact.

You can follow me on Twitter @Keatongwolfe

And don't forget to check out my twin blog, Invisible Glyphs, where I speak more freely about life in general.

Also, you can find me on Wordpress, where I discuss and analyze some of the most inspiring pieces of work (music, television, film, literature, etc.) that have helped sway my style one way or another.

Until next time... 

Art by Keaton G. Wolfe

 

Red Abyss Insatiable - I. Blood Pact - Part Three

Hello my fellow Earthly humans!

If you're new here, learn more by checking out the Table of Contents here! 

The rest of you know the drill. Just read/listen, and enjoy!

              Red Abyss Insatiable - I. Blood Pact - Part Three



 Transcripts to read along/alone for your pleasure:

  Aden Walker was in the minority, possibly the only one who actually ran into the frosty gale; Oshvail wouldn’t say.  The otherworldly deity would only suggest that the majority of those he had beckoned, even those already surrounded by natural snowfall, would decide against entering the mystic realm, for human eyes were altogether suspicious of the unearthly aura.

     So far, the Oshvail politely revoked specific questions, refusing to discuss with Aden its method of choice, or of how much power it wielded.  After all was said and done, Aden didn’t have a clue as to how many people were employed by the creature other than himself, or whether any of those potentials were from Earth, Agmora, or perhaps from other worlds beyond.  It was one of those few topics Oshvail considered taboo, one that could possibly endanger the goal itself.  Aden liked to think he understood.  And so Aden ascertained that Oshvail’s secrecy was necessary, at least for now.

     After much personal debriefing, Aden understood that to be an Oshvail was to perceive an entirely separate reality, something impossible for him to achieve under his biased, male, human cognitions.  Aden was satisfied at least as much to agree with Oshvail’s preferred plan regarding the containment or destruction of the Granatium, and that such an artifact must be separated from human use by any means possible.

     Now, Aden stood upon the familiar pearl floor, under the equally enclosed, empty pearl dome, regaining his stamina.  It was a normal occurrence for a portion of the pearl dome to become translucent, revealing one of many varying landscapes; the one presented before him now happened to be the green hills and large pond where the rest of the Oshvails lived, relaxed, swam, and slept--if indeed they slept at all.  Oshvail, in the form of any of the observed Oshvails, would usually step through the translucent wall to speak with Aden one-on-one.  The particular form Oshvail had chosen that day happened to be short and slender, perhaps only four and a quarter feet tall.  Exactly like all the others, this one had large, deep blue almond-shaped eyes and long pointy ears, its furred textured skin shone mostly white except for random blue blotches surrounding its body.  Its mouth was a dark line between thin lips, and its face, despite whichever physique it chose, always managed to make Aden feel comfortable and welcome.

     Aden had grown accustomed to Oshvail’s amalgamated mind, but every once in a while he would become lost in the overbearing truth that the ones beyond the dome were somehow the same one that was standing directly in front of him, and sometimes it frustrated him to try and comprehend their simultaneous performance and activity; he wondered what it would be like to swim and speak, to breathe and to hold a breath, all at the same time.  It made his head ache.  As if Oshvail noticed the tension behind Aden’s eyes, the translucent portion of the dome became pearl again, blocking the land of the Oshvails from his vision.  This particular Oshvail spoke with a tone, however subtle, that Aden couldn’t help but identify as masculine.

     “You were losing yourself in your thoughts again,” it said.

     “You tend to do that to me,” replied Aden.  In an attempt to change the subject, he bowed.  “Oshvail.  I feel that I am finally ready.”

     “Not yet.”  Oshvail the Oshvail sat cross-legged upon the pearl floor and placed its hands gently upon its knees.  “I have provided you with the proper tools for strength, given you the necessary skills and available knowledge, and you, in turn, have repeatedly proven your determination, but you do not yet have the appropriate values.”

     Aden was thinking of something to say, to retort and provide proof of his... values.  But in the end he decided to remain silent.  He would do as bid and respectfully listen.  It was something else he had gotten used to within the last three years with Oshvail.

     “The experience you need is something you must learn, but not something anyone can teach you.  I believe you are ready in bodily capabilities.  But if I am to send you to Agmora as one of my own, then it is my responsibility to ensure your competence in both body and spirit.  Now is the time if ever there was one, Aden, for you to let go of your Earthly pains.  They will not aid you in your future with me.”  Oshvail paused.  “Do you remember the first time you entered this realm?”

     Aden recalled.  It had been the cold gateway into what Aden now referred to openly as Oshvail’s Domain.  And he remembered his first time walking through it well.

#

     Aden was born and raised in the United States of America, specifically in the southwest corner known regionally as Southern California, and although it sometimes grew cooler than normal--eastern tourists often scoffed at what the residents considered “cold”--not once had it snowed in the area in which he resided, at least not during his years.  But one day, it did; the snow fell heavily like a windless blizzard, the atmosphere as mystifying as it was veiling, distorting the world before him, the neighboring complexes gone, replaced with nothing but cold white frost.  Immediately, he ran back into his apartment to grab his winter mountain clothes, rushing as if the surreal phenomenon would vanish if he slugged too long.  But it remained, and so he leapt over the sunlit porch perimeter and trudged into the thicket of glum frost.

     Aden marched through the winterland wilderness, which was populated by great pale trees and numinous blue-spotted mushrooms.  He ended up traveling into a cold vacancy surrounded by forest where a singular, enormous mushroom skyscraper stood unaccompanied, salient in its loneliness.  There was a planked, round wooden door that had either been built--or in some manner grown--into the stalk.  Too curious to be afraid, Aden opened the door and entered into a dank room.  He was faced with what appeared to be an extremely lengthy spiral staircase, ascending to such a height that he could not see an end.  Already, he was feeling tired and weary from traveling through the snow, but his curiosity assisted his endurance, and so Aden made his way up the staircase.

     His ascent alternated along a peculiar spectrum of lighting:  Some of his steps were shrouded in darkness so void of light that he couldn’t see the steps in front of him, while other areas had been illuminated with a glow where unmarked sources of yellow light lit his path.  Finally, long after his calves and quadriceps burned and numbed, Aden managed to reach the top.  Another wooden door awaited him on the higher end of the mushroom tower, and although it was much like the door in the stalk, this one was an elderly white.  He almost hesitated with this one, but with a strong will to continue forward, Aden opened it just as quickly as the other.  The pearl dome was then revealed to him, and in the center stood a tall, hefty Oshvail who greeted him kindly with a deep, jovial baritone as if congratulating Aden Walker on his ascent.

     As ludicrous as he knew it should have seemed, Aden did, in fact, feel quite rewarded.

#

     “Aden,” said the short, slender Oshvail.  “Do you remember?”

     Aden returned from his memories.  “Yes.”

     “Your senses have changed since then.  But tell me the truth:  Have you found a way to relinquish yourself of the mourning?  Do you still blame as you have?”

     Unwilling to speak a lie to his mentor, Aden clenched his fist.  “I remember your warning well.  And I’ve tried to forgive.  But that’s a part of my life that will always be.  I will never forget.  Forgiveness is impossible.”

     Oshvail slightly tilted his head, ever so subtly.  “Though forgiveness is important, do not misunderstand that your future is not centered on your ability to forgive. It is, however, important for you to maintain self-control, and if forgiving those who’ve harmed you somehow helps you reach that point...”  Oshvail raised its brow.  “This is the time for you to let go of your past troubles.  You must not waver.  You must not let sorrow, anger, or regret take you from your purpose at any time.  Those are weaknesses you cannot afford for the tasks ahead.”

     Aden held his posture.  “I understand.  But...”

     “If you return to your previous wretchedness, then you will not be allowed to return here.  You’ll live your life on Earth with your Earthly sorrows, for I have no place for them in my endeavors.”

     Aden inhaled and nodded nervously.  The creature had the right of it.  “Sometimes it’s difficult for me to sleep, I admit.  But if you were me, then--”

     “I also have no place for excuses.  I know your worth.  And your hypothetical proposal is not the nature of things.  If I were Aden Walker, I would be everything that you are, of hindrance and of brilliance, and I would not be Oshvail the Oshvail.”  Oshvail raised its hand palm-up.  “You came during your time.  You and I partook in the blood pact.  Our lines are intertwined.  You are Aden Walker, and I am Oshvail.  There will be no regression.  We drank of the blood.”

     Aden could still recall the taste.  It was after visiting Oshvail several times in the beginning that he came to understand the nature of how the creature needed someone for a particular task, namely, to seek the Granatium.  Aden asked so many questions, and what he found odd was that the creature actually answered most of them.  The creature didn’t go into high detail, but Aden knew enough about the situation regarding the Granatium--and was curious enough--to make a pact with Oshvail, what Aden sometimes couldn’t help but think of as terms of employment.  The terms were that Aden would travel wherever the creature sent him in order to perform a given task, and in return, Oshvail promised to provide the means to increase the chances that Aden had good health, keen senses, strong mind, and most importantly, a purpose.  Aden was given the choice to refuse, but he didn’t, which was a component Oshvail proclaimed to be of the utmost importance.  In an act of loyalty to each other, they partook in a ritual; Aden cut himself across the right palm, just enough to let some blood drizzle into a clay bowl from one of Oshvail’s many landscapes, and Oshvail did the same.  Red blood mixed with blue, and Oshvail added other ingredients--spices and soil, grass and water, roots of plants that Aden had never seen, along with other such things--mashing and churning them all up to form a thin paste.  Aden drank one half, and Oshvail drank the other.  According to Oshvail, the ritual was enough to connect their fates... for life.

     Aden didn’t feel any physical difference at the time, but he did become sacredly committed, travelling each morning into Oshvail’s snow, spending the entirety of each day performing whatever was commanded of him, to strengthen and to heighten all kinds of attributes.  Oshvail provided the food, the necessary terrains, even the Oshvailian bodies for practice in the physical martial arts. 

     Quickly Aden came to perceive Oshvail’s loneliness on a deeper level.  Aden thought the history of Oshvail was beautiful, heartbreaking, hysterical, haunting, devilish, and tragic; each of the people who became an Oshvail had a history of their own, all of them disconnected from the realm they once knew.  Though not of such magnitude, Aden believed he could share in the feeling of having lost a past existence.  Perhaps loneliness and disconnection were what drew the two of them together.  Aden sometimes thought so.

     After all, the snowy invitation presented itself at a time when the chips of Aden’s personal life were scattered all over the place. He was willing to go all the way to Agmora if that’s what it took to attain a purpose.  But in all honesty, Aden believed he would probably end up in a mediocre position, just as statistics and previous experience had taught him he would.  He didn’t look forward to majesty or splendor, but just the idea of something new appealed in more ways than one.  In either case, no matter which path he would face, he had partaken in the blood pact, and he entered the snow every time it beckoned him, no matter where it invited him; this time for instance, he entered the Domain from his own restroom, pulling open the shower curtain to reveal the chilling snowfall in place of the wall that should have been.  This surreal nature was part of his new life, and it was welcome.

-------------------------------

Next Part: (to be updated upon availability)

I hope you enjoyed this latest installment.


You can follow me on Twitter @Keatongwolfe

And you can find more activity on my twin blog, here. 

Also, something new... You can find my personal inspirations and how they have affected my style here:

Keaton G. Wolfe on Wordpress. 

Until next time...

Art by Keaton G. Wolfe

 

Red Abyss Insatiable - I. Blood Pact - Part Two

Hello and welcome!

So the second part has arrived.

If this is your first time here, click here for the Table of Contents! 

For the rest of you, enjoy!

              Red Abyss Insatiable - I. Blood Pact - Part Two


Original transcripts for your read-along or read-alone pleasure:

  Oshvail’s genesis, as far as Aden understood, began roughly one thousand years prior to the date of Aden’s involvement.  It began on a planet called Agmora.  Even before Oshvail’s birth, the humans on Agmora discovered traces of a mysterious element of supernatural capabilities.  A small population dabbled in the ether to produce effects that were nothing if not considered magical.  The element and its effects eventually became the study of subversive curiosities.  It was a time when self-proclaimed sorcerers would be willing to trade their unusual knowledge for copper, or if they were lucky, gold.  But eventually those students of gullible minds became aware of the deception, and so the victims who lost their fortunes began spreading the word of false pretenses.  A few unexplained deaths, a few more dark catastrophes, and great debates sprung like weeds amongst the people of more civilized nations.

     Rulers across lands began to outlaw the use of the mysterious substance due to the troubles and fears associated with its effects.  Only small populations thereafter welcomed the usage and observation of the element.  But still, there remained those shadowed doors where hidden intentions were carefully--and sometimes carelessly--nurtured.  From those trivial times evolved an era of darkness when war and murder was aplenty.  Directly in the prime of those dark ages arrived a day when an artifact was born, the masses vicariously hunting, lusting after its enormous supremacy.  It was an artifact bred from sorcery and blood, referred to as the Granatium.

     The Granatium was created by inhabitants of Agmora, and it was by no means an accident.  The creation began with the sorrow of a ruler, who found himself in a thick gloom of mourning over the sudden death of his lover.  He voiced the command for his people to bring his beloved back to him, at any cost; his reward was overtly handsome, promising jewels, titles, and rich, fertile land.  As expected, all walks of life and status came forth, men and women, each promising more magnificence than the last.  Allowed to display their merit before the ruler and his guard, challengers produced their worth in a competition of the forbidden arts.  Several competitors relied on tricks, turning the event into an illusive farce; of course, those tricksters were swiftly beheaded as a warning to other wily sorts.  But there were a handful of subjects who appeared to fare legitimately; there were unexplained doppelgangers, miniscule temperature variations without the use of visible tools, and even evidence of telepathic activity.

     Eventually, after various arts had been displayed, the seven who proved most capable were selected to combine their skills.  And so they attempted to do just that, placing their ethereal strength into an ordinary stone the size of a man’s fist, and after several weeks, after innocent blood was sacrificed, they returned, proclaiming the object to have gained extraordinary potential.  The ordinary structure of the stone morphed, glowing a deep, dark, mesmerizing red.  Not a single hand was to touch it except for the ruler’s own, and upon presentation he lifted the glowing artifact with a child’s anticipation.  There he sat with his magical artifact, high upon his golden throne, studying his priests and his knights with a worrisome expression of befuddlement.  Without a single explanation, he forcefully expelled the stone from the nearest window and wept, dismissing all from his presence without reward, without punishment, and without answer.  Three moons later, witnesses spread the word:

     The queen had been resurrected.

     The rumors stretched quickly amongst the peasants that a magical artifact had indeed existed, one that could grant them their wishes just as it had the great ruler.  Soon the entire kingdom was searching for what people called the red rock, the ethereal orb, the wish giver, the blood stone, eventually the Granatium.

     Merchants took advantage of the situation by painting regular stones red, plastering them with scented oils and selling them for a high price to anyone susceptible enough to buy them.  Of course, the truth was unveiled of these vile merchants, and mass violence ensued.  Between the believers and non-believers, those who cursed the ways of the ether and those who prayed to it, came the vast accusations and spilling of blood, decapitations, stabbings, hangings.  Amongst the chaos, the true artifact traveled from city to city, from land to land, and eventually across the oceans. 

     And so, as the ether quickly began to evaporate from Agmora and the era of magic and illusion came to an end, the artifact itself slipped into myth, told around night fires to warn little boys and girls of what would happen should they pursue such greedy absurdity.

     The tale of the resurrected queen, however, continued to be told.  It morphed from those of glory to those of grim terror.  Some said that her resurrection was not synonymous with life, that she was an undead creature heinously feasting on human flesh, some details more gruesome than others.  Laypersons rumored that she became a vampiric demon who stole men from their wives, disemboweling them in her ocean cave where she fed the remains to her monstrous serpent-children of the sea.  Horrific tales told to the young for scares or for caution, none of them backed by an inkling of proof.  But there were those who believed in the legend, especially in hoping that the Granatium was somewhere out there, hidden on Agmora.  Tales in the south proposed it was north, and tales in the north suggested that it was in the east.  Nobody was willing to put time and finance into an actual seeking.

     According to Oshvail, the artifact did in fact make its tour around Agmora, but it did not do so on its own, and by this time, it had changed the lives of many unsuspecting individuals.

     Oshvail said that a touch was all it took.  The stone’s power became stimulated by human contact, the brush of a finger or a kiss of the lips, any part of human flesh that was connected to a beating heart, flowing blood, and living brain.  The artifact would somehow interact with the individual’s spirit, sometimes providing skills based on his or her desires, while other times twisting upon their jealousies to unleash any latent disgust.

     From the Granatium’s travels around Agmora began Oshvail’s genesis, when one human happened to stumble across the red stone.  The human’s spirit was kind, gentle, yet in its very nature was the desire to have a peculiar sort of power, a power of knowledge and a power to be more than human, to be able to guide others in whichever manner was considered to be good, a very subjective ideal indeed.  But alas, an ideal nonetheless; it was more than enough for the Granatium to activate.

     That person, upon touching the artifact, transformed into a new figure, humanoid in appearance, yet animalistic.  The individual felt only slightly more powerful than before.  But eventually fate connected another person of the same nature, and when this second person made contact with the Granatium, their spirit was added to the original, causing the first to grow more powerful in areas of strength, knowledge, and the supernatural.  Together as one, they named their new self Oshvail. 

     This pattern continued, and more people of the same goodish nature and desires became additions to the growing demihuman.  The original persona, at the time being a singular entity of one body and one mind, was mutating into a being of multiple experiences, and the memories and understandings of those who were added soon became overwhelming.  The persona’s perceptions eventually consisted of numerous men and women from all around Agmora.  At one point in time, the persona who called itself Oshvail split its physical form so that it was no longer a singular unit, but a multitude of similar beings having one amalgamated, shared mind.  Deeming it useless in this new existence, the Oshvails decided to dismiss the unnecessary human sex between each pair of its legs.  The transformation had become complete; the persona had ascended into a new complex race of Oshvails of the Oshvail tribe, its humanity once providing the basic structure for the transcendent entity it had become as its perception and power became amplified.

     In a physical realm, this power could have easily fallen to lust and greed, potentially devastating to the human populace occupying Agmora.  However, even with an amalgamated mind of good-natured individuality, Oshvail still had to pay a price for its power.  The price that came along with the new life was separation; a separation from the reality of the known universe, to be confined in its own realm to build and change as it saw fit.  No matter how hard the Oshvails tried, they could not leave the heaven in which they’d been given.  Alone in its construct, Oshvail pondered on its old histories and, with its new abilities, it found a new compassion, a new sense of responsibility to the human race from whence it came.

     Conceiving much of the dangers and destructive capabilities behind the Granatium and how potentially dangerous it could be when touched by ill-natured hands, Oshvail the Oshvail felt liable to captivate it, obliterate it, or produce any other action that could at least stop the humans from abusing the accursed object.  But since Oshvail couldn’t leave its domain, Oshvail realized it would have to rely on humans to perform this task.

     That proved easier said than done.  Inviting people into Oshvail’s domain in order to communicate with them wasn’t as straightforward as sending an inked invitation with someone’s name on it, and to make matters worse, Oshvail--despite all its mystical clout--did not have the power to force anyone to enter into its domain.  Oshvail found that it could only present its domain to those of its choosing, without explanation and without hope that anyone would accept.

     The domain was always presented in the form of a terrible snow, replacing the invitee’s reality with a winterland nowhere.  All the invitee had to do after that moment was either enter, or choose not to enter, and the choice had been made.  But it was a choice for humans to make, and so Oshvail the Oshvail of the Oshvails had become quite powerless in a sense, even in all its subsistence.  But all it would take was for the invitee to travel through, and Oshvail would have--amongst other crucial opportunities--the power to strengthen, the power to inform, and most importantly, the power to change.

-----------------------------------------

Next Part: Chapter I: Blood Pact - Part Three

For other posts non-related to The Granatium, click here. 

You can find me on Twitter @Keatongwolfe

Until next time...

Art by Keaton G. Wolfe