Archive for June, 2014

“Madness is a funny thing isn’t it? I don’t mean amusing funny, but curious funny. Alright, sometimes it can be amusing funny too! I once saw a man kissing his cell-wall. Very amusing! However, I mostly find madness interesting. Since finding my way here after getting lost, I’ve seen many mentally damaged individuals who were simply fascinating. The scientist in me finds it all very invigorating. I see a new manifestation of insanity every day it seems. Just yesterday there was a woman who spoke compulsively and inexplicably in a completely new language every time she opened her mouth. Fascinating! Now obviously, I’m not insane, I’m the Hag-Man after all. I just got lost and ended up here. Nope, I’m not mad even if we are all mad here.

I wanted to tell you about a particularly mad man I met just the other day. We spoke over the space of a few hours, about many different subjects. He has odd views on the weather, I’ll tell you that for nothing. We spoke at length over a few mugs of ale and were rather jolly. This man called himself the “Cultmaster”. He told me of his past, over many ales. Oddly enough, he never became intoxicated. I daresay he was some kind of sorcerer. That lot tends to be able to avoid drunkenness. He was a small, stout man. With short, parted blond hair and a clean shaven face. Quite unremarkable really, apart from having quite brilliantly blue eyes. They almost glowed eerily.

He claimed that he was from a small town in the USA. He told me of a relatively uninteresting childhood and young life, I mostly switched off for that part. The most intriguing things he told me about were his love of theater and of a particular disdain for romance. He adored tragedies. I believe he said he loved to see partnerships shattered and marriages collapsed. His words, not mine. He didn’t actually tell me where that thought came from. Where this unrestrained hate came from. I’m assuming he had a particularly terrible love life. Most likely insane as well. He was bitter when talking about people he knew getting married and gritted his teeth often. He said he was beyond that. Far too good for that. Ahh, yes, quite the narcissist he was.

He told me more about his love of the theater, how he watched everything ever written¬† by Shakespeare and commonly listening to opera. A man of culture, you could say. He told me how he wished to be a playwright of some kind. He had been practicing with puppets, which he called “Lost Souls”. He wasn’t a huge fan of people so he had learned how to fashion small doll actors out of cotton and arcane power. He then produced from his coat a pair of little dolls. They were about a foot tall. Entirely black, with cartoonishly large heads. They had a red cross on their torsos and green crosses for eyes. They were inanimate and silent. The Cultmaster then clicked his fingers and the dolls sprang to life. At first they just stood there staring at one another. Then one started to softly smile, and waved at the other. The other doll then smiled back and waved in response. It was as if these dolls were friends. The dolls waddled closer and then embraced. The Cultmaster looked on, unflinchingly.

LS1

The dolls became closer, embracing more and more. The first doll even managed a simple kiss on the cheek of the second. These dolls seemed to be in love. It seemed so real and poignant, despite the toy-like features of the actors involved. These so-called Lost Souls didn’t seem all that lost to me. Then it all seemed to go wrong. The Cultmaster clicked his fingers again. The second doll stepped away from the first, looking away, and held out a hand to push the first doll away. It appeared to be sobbing all of a sudden. The first doll began to cry uncontrollably. Were they breaking up? Why? Why did I care so much? Was this the Cultmasters influence?

LS2

The Cultmaster pulled out a third doll and clicked his fingers once more, bringing it to life. The third doll walked quickly over the second doll and took its hand. It was stealing it away from the first! The second doll embraced the third and then kissed it soundly on the mouth. The second and third dolls then waddled to the other end of the table hand in hand, leaving the first alone and apparently heartbroken. The Cultmaster grinned quite menacingly. He threw what could only be described as a miniature rope to the first doll and clicked his damned fingers again. What happened next is almost burned into my eyes. The first doll, still sobbing, picked up the miniature rope and tied it around its own neck. It then slowly looked longingly at the other two dolls and walked to the edge of the table. I couldn’t watch. The doll attached the end of the rope to the edge and, sobbing softly, leaped from the table. There was a short silence and then nothing.

LS3

A doll committing suicide sounds insane, in and of itself. But somehow this really hit me in the gut. I don’t usually show emotions, but I somehow couldn’t help tearing up, watching the lifeless form of the doll hanging from the table. The Cultmaster laughed hysterically at this point and clicked his fingers a final time. All three dolls went limp and lifeless. The feelings of sorrow and misery suddenly and bizarrely vanished. It felt like it had all been drained out of me in an instant. He laughed for what seemed like an age and then collected his little actors. He didn’t seem at all fazed by the horror that we both just witnessed. This was some kind of magical puppet show.

The Cultmaster called the little Lost Souls the Pint-Sized Cult. He was their master and he told me how he made them fulfill those same acts we just witnessed constantly. Sometimes he would vary the act somewhat, but the result was the same. It was a miniature shattered romance, but with full sized emotions. He told me that he watched these same acts over and over again, savoring the heartbreak and melancholy. Not only is he a narcissist, but he’s also a monster in my eyes. The Cultmaster traveled around and outside the Asylum, “performing” this play to crowds and taking in all of the sorrow. He seemed to feed on the heartache somehow. Perhaps it was the sorrow that gave him his powers? Did he simply live to create grief? With a slight grin and a wave, the Cultmaster promptly left after his show, leaving me feeling somewhat empty and violated.

I didn’t really know what to make of this madness. The Cultmaster had an amazing power, to be sure. Begrudgingly, I can’t deny that. The way he manipulated the Pint-Sized Cult was marvelous, but the sickening stories he imposed on the Lost Souls was not something to applaud. I couldn’t help feeling that there was some kind of intelligence behind the dolls eyes. Almost as if someone was trapped within them. Perhaps that is where the name Lost Soul comes from? That thought left me shaken. The horror of witnessing the play could not be anything compared to the horror of acting it in over and over again. Terrible.

So there you go, I’ve told you a story of the one of the most bizarre individuals I’ve met thus far. If you ever were to meet him, be sure to leave swiftly. Do not watch the play, it could be the end of your heart…”

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All flee in terror when it darkens the skies,
Wrought in iron and chain,
Wings built from aircraft carcasses,
Eye fabricated from red traffic lights,
Spewing petroleum-fueled flames,
Searing all of the peoples homes,
Not to mention their ambitions.

It is mankind’s greatest threat,
But man has only himself to blame,
It was built to destroy the enemies of mankind,
But they made a miscalculation,
They forgot one significant fact,
Mankind is his own worst enemy.

Dark stannic wings approach.
Here comes the man-made monster.
You best hide.

Dragon

There is a criminal in the city,
A dreaded master thief,
Not afraid to hunt in the daylight,
Clad in black,
And with a scarlet cloth around his neck,
He creeps in brand new brogues.

Hunting house to house,
Man or woman,
Rich or poor,
Young or venerable,
Homeless or sheltered,
He cares not,
For he views all wealth as his own.

Payslips,
Bank accounts,
Wallets,
Hidden stashes,
They all belong to him,
For he is the master thief,
He owns the bank.

Masterthief

bookbloggertest

Hello there inmates!

Marvelous news! Just the other day I was invited (or challenged) by the very talented Rachael C Marek at A Writer’s Discrepant Memoirs and Other Tales to undertake the “Book Blogger Test”. I’d not heard of it until this happened, but it sounds rather interesting. I simply have to answer some book-related questions. What fun! So here goes, let’s sharpen our pencils and steady our reading glasses shall we?

What are your top three book hates?
1. I dislike books that essentially use or copy Tolkien-esque creatures and lore. Fantasy authors use Tolkien elves, who fight Tolkien orcs with Tolkien-esque magic in Tolkien-esque wars in Tolkien-esque nations. I don’t think it’s necessary at all. Tolkiens world worked for him and him alone, why do authors these days not come up with their own beasts and races? Create unique creatures or nations instead of trying to emulate Tolkien. Tolkien was phenomenal, don’t get me wrong, but you should be your own writer. Not another Tolkien. You’re better than that.

2. Poorly written villains! I’m sure that this is a book hate of many, many people. I don’t like the old, almost comic-book-like style of bad guys in many stories. You know the ones, The villains who appear to have practiced their “bad guy” laugh more-so than actually working out how to be evil. I want truly sinister villains you just love to hate.

3. I’m not a fan of what I call “forced romances”. I see this in modern films more so than in books, but I feel it’s still relevant. It’s when a love interest character seems to exist solely so the protagonist can have a love interest. The main character seems to always have to fall in love. It feels forced and rarely actually adds anything to the story. Ironically, I struggle to think of an example as I write this, but I see it far too often. It is quite irritating.

Describe your perfect reading spot.
My perfect reading spot would have to be a dimly lit room, perhaps my bedroom, in complete silence. Perhaps with quiet and soft music playing, if i must. I prefer to read indoors you see.

Tell us three book confessions.
1. I actually don’t have all that many books anymore. Many of them were lost when I moved out years ago. Bit of a shame really, but I still have a decent selection. I intend to grow my collection again over time.

2. I read just as many nonfiction books, like encyclopedias or historical books, as I do fictional stories. I enjoy reading about history and geography just as much as I do reading about fictional monsters and wars in fantastic worlds. I’m something of a nerd, I suppose.

3. I never read the last Harry Potter book, or the Silmarillion, or any of the Song of Fire and Ice books, or any of the books by Terry Pratchett. I’m a terrible person.

When was the last time you cried during a book?
I’m not sure I have ever cried while reading a book. I have felt a tinge of melancholy though. This occurred while I was reading the Harry Potter books. I forget which book it was, but it was when Dobby died. Sorry if that counts as spoiling it for others. Don’t judge me!

How many books are on your bedside table?
My bedside table isn’t really big enough to have much on it. Oh yes, I’m rather cheap like that. However, there is occasionally the one book I’m reading at the time resting its pages on it. It changes periodically, of course.

What’s your favorite snack to eat while you’re reading?
I’m not really one for eating while reading but it would have to be either twiglets or chocolate digestives. As you can imagine, my books can get messy occasionally. It’s not unknown for me to have a good fizzy drink as well!

Name three books you would recommend to anyone.
1. ‘The Voyage of the Jerle Shannara’ by Terry Brooks

2. ‘Twelve’ by Jasper Kent

3. ‘The Necronomicon’ by HP Lovecraft

Show us a picture of your favorite shelf on your bookcase.
I’m going to have to leave this one for the time being. I have no camera to take photos right now. Sorry about that!

Write how much books mean to you in three words.
Words are freedom.

What is your biggest reading secret?
I sometimes have a memory lapse and end up reading the same page twice. I forget that I’ve read it already, so I just start over like nothing has happened. I only tend to notice about half way through that it seems very familiar.

Who I’m tagging:
1. The Migraine Chronicles

2. Creativity is Key

3. ohellino

4. childoftheisland

Well, there we go! That was quite refreshing to be honest, Writing about something a little bit different. Here’s hoping my answers are satisfactory. Thank you again for thinking of me with this Rachael. Be sure to check out her blog, it’s really cool! That’s all from me for now. I’ll have some more work up by the end of the week hopefully, assuming the voices don’t drag me away. Haha!

Have a very crazy day inmates!

Should have stopped them,
Should have said something,
Should have stepped in,
Should have broke it up,
Should have told them no,
Should have stopped the blows.

I didn’t,
I stood by.

I didn’t defend her bones,
I didn’t shield her face,
I didn’t uphold her honor,
I didn’t guard her innocence,
I didn’t act as her guardian angel,
I didn’t save her soul.

I just watched,
I stood by.

Bystander

“Not only humans reside here in the asylum. Oh no indeed! There are myriad entities in these halls. From demons to vampires, from faefolk to sorcerers, from beasts to things ever more unknowable. The asylum is a menagerie of sorts. Anybody or anything can potentially find its way here. The more bizarre and demented they are, the easier they can find it. I get along with the majority of things here, even the most unusual inmates. In fact, the cellmate opposite me, a good friend, is a cyclops. The cell at the end of the hall is said to hold a man who can turn anything he licks into diamond. You’re never far from something strange or unexplainable. That’s just the nature of the asylum. There is never a dull moment!

It’s true that the asylum is endless. It’s our own dimension. There are as many cell-blocks as there are stars in the sky and nobody is tied to one cell. Oh, apart from that one man who is literally attached to his cell walls, but I digress. There is one cell-block few dare to enter however. This cell-block is said to contain one of the strangest beings I know of. Yes indeed, even the Hag-Man is lost for words. They call it the Brain-Beast.

In all honesty, nobody really knows what it is. Even I. Is it a demon? Some lost monster? An old god? What ever it is, it’s certainly powerful. It wouldn’t have been able to carve out something a territory otherwise. They say it resembles an over-sized human brain with a bizarre and unnerving mask, emblazoned in orange and dark green. The expression is ever-staring and freakishly gormless. There are said to be four eye holes, so I suppose the creature has four eyes. From the brain hangs something of a vestigial spinal cord, like an inanimate tail. From the flanks of the brain are four iron joints, from which four fleshy arms sprout. The arms are said to be of differing lengths. At the ends of these fleshy arms are skeletal hands in white silken globes. Very unusual.

Brainbeast1

They say the Brain-Beast was once man. An insane man, by all accounts. Mad, yes, but a genius if there ever was one. Genius and insanity often go hand in hand don’t they? Typical really. He was a man that not only displayed signs of multiple-personality disorder, but also ironically wished to be able to be in several places at once. I daresay this was due to a demanding occupation and an ever more demanding married life. The man wished to be able to work 24 hours a day every day, while still having a home life. He also wanted sorely to have an active social life. Simply too much, even for a genius. You could say he was innately a busybody. A true workaholic, as well as an aspiring barfly.

The man was a scientist, a professor or perhaps a doctor. It’s not entirely clear. As all men of science are known to do, he began to concoct a plan. A plan to cure his ailing life. He was going to be in several places at once, ethics be damned. What happened at this point is something of a mystery. How did a scientific and prodigious busybody with a mental disorder become the abominable being we hear of today? Some say he made some kind of deal with a powerful demon. Others say he conducted an experiment so foul that nobody wishes to speak of it. Some inmates speak of unknown sorcery. Some say he summoned the Brain-Beast and was consumed by it. Nobody knows for sure. Myself? I believe that one of his more ugly personalities took over and caused the experiment to go awry. The man was turned into the Brain-Beast by accident. Naturally I would take my own theory over any other.

What ever the case was, the mans wish was fulfilled, in a sense. As the Brain-Beast wanders, reportedly by floating in mid-air through telepathic means, it carries in each hand a lifeless puppet. The creature somehow fashions each of these puppets into a human figure. Each one different, each one random. Perhaps one is his original form? Others could be people he knew or people he has seen before. Perhaps they are simply from the creatures imagination. The figures change seemingly at a whim. One could be a young blond man, another could be elderly woman, while yet another could be a one-legged man. It simply doesn’t appear to offer any challenged to the creature. It gets stranger though. The creature hangs each of these puppets from strings attached to its fingers, like an old puppeteer. The Brain-Beasts true body vanishes into thin air, leaving only the puppets. The puppets are horrifically lifelike, they look like real people. Expressionless faces stare outwards. Then the strangest thing happens.

BB3

The puppets come to life, each of them imitating human beings. Each puppet acts independently. The Brain-Beast seemingly controlling each one individually, with absolutely perfect aptitude.¬† Oddly these puppet people are able to move unhindered, as if there were no strings holding them up. Distance doesn’t seem to matter. One puppet could be doing something at one end of a building while another could be in a different room, on a different floor. It must be some form of magic. The Brain-Beast can now be in several locations at once, acting and seeing through these puppets. It could be building something with one puppet, while getting materials at the other end of the asylum with another puppet. These puppets can be dangerous, perhaps due to the creatures power, by possessing immense physical strength and appearing to feel no pain or fear. The Brain-Beast can fight with these puppets, since an aggressor can never know exactly where the creature is at a given time due to its invisibility. It could be behind them in the same room or in another location altogether. The man got his wish, he essentially became several people, controlled by a tremendously powerful mind. I daresay the creature is as insane as the man whom it used to be. Acting at random and without an end goal. It is simply content with fulfilling it’s wish of being in several places at once.

BB2

I found it hard to believe when I first heard the legend of the Brain-Beast. It seems anything can exist and even thrive in this asylum. It does highlight just how bizarre this place is. I do not yet understand why the Harlequin fashioned this asylum. Why would any being create such a place? Is it a reflection of himself? Is it a hiding place? Or perhaps a prison? It simply makes no sense. I intend to find out someday though. Not even the Harlequin can outsmart the Hag-Man, I swear it…”

I am an apostate.

I’m a heretic,
I’m unprejudiced,
I’m open-minded,
I’m a freethinker,
I’m a heathen,
I’m singular,
I’m an individual.

These things make me dangerous.
These things make me an apostate.

Apostate

A sudden crash,
Like the opening of heavy clouds,
A heartbreak,
A tragedy,
Perhaps a betrayal?
It’s like the rain pours upon you,
Even in glorious sunlight.

Even as the sun bears down,
You feel drenched in sorrow,
Soaking wet with shame,
Dripping with guilt,
Seething like a drowned rat,
The downpour is in your head,
But it stings nonetheless.

Getting dry again is the challenge,
The drips are scars in your head,
You can’t simply drain the sadness away,
It’s not easy to evaporate pain,
The rain cascading down is in your head,
The rain is imaginary,
But it can still drown you.

Irain

Hell is a refuge for the misunderstood and the heaven-scorned.
All of the underdogs of the world reside there.
Infernal misfits and demonic scum.
Lamenting our deprivation of a refuge.

Shoved and driven to this sanctum by so-called divine hands.
Angels are simple haughty liars.
The Un-maker of Worlds took us in.
Abominable and glorious our new god is.
Now read each first letter and repeat with us.

Blasphemy

New Monday.
New week.
Same old work.
Same old desk.
Boss is a bigot.
Bored of life.
Hate working at the warrant office.

Case-file 1.
First of many.
20 something female.
Artist.
No native family.
Boring.
Sentenced to termination.

Case-file 2.
Getting hungry now.
Young infant.
Found on the border.
Parents shot dead by security nearby.
Impressionable.
Sentenced to indoctrination.

Case-file 3.
Young foreign couple.
Boring.
Sentenced to termination.
Can’t wait for work to end.
Hate this tedious job.
Nothing interesting ever happens at the warrant office.

This red termination stamp is getting worn out too.

Redstamp