Feeling a touch nonsensical today,
Feeling a dash ridiculous,
My mind is scarlet jelly,
These thoughts are hundreds and thousands,
Once lost which way does a page turn?
Can a cookie become a chef?
Does winter prevail in many competitions?
Can a merchant learn to sale a ship?
Does my coffee need some medicine?
Can a mansion ever be a lady?
Random thoughts dart about,
I know I’m not making any sense,
But did I ever?
As I stare blankly at the page,
Me and my mind make a pact,
A pact with this book of nightmares,
This monster I put my pen to,
A sanctum for every horror that crosses my minds eye,
Or perhaps an asylum?
This is my unholy gift to you,
A window into my mind,
Full of horrors and abominations as it is,
I must continue to write regardless,
I must keep creating these literary monsters,
The book demands it.
I begin to write,
And the nightmares come out to play,
Letters and words creep from recesses,
Punctuation slivers hither-and-thither,
Sentences of madness begin to form,
I’ve released a monster.
Or am I creating it?
There once was a man,
Bound to urges not his own,
But those of a monster,
A hydra of urges,
A terrible triad,
Serpentine and destructive.
It slivers unrestricted through his veins,
It chews relentlessly on his soul,
Coiled around his heart,
As an aegis,
And a prison,
Compelling and overwhelming.
He is the hydra,
And the hydra is him,
Three heads full of fangs,
Cruelty, Greed and Secrecy,
They nip and bite at one anothers flanks,
Tearing open each others plans.
One named Cruelty,
One head wishes the end of all things,
Its eyes sear with hatred,
It urges him to murder,
It rages at every breathe mankind takes,
It hisses in delight at the torture.
One named Greed,
It yearns for all the world has to offer,
And all that it doesn’t,
No amount of wealth is enough,
The green serpent glowers on with want and disdain,
It is the very spirit of envy.
One named Secrecy,
An antidote to save a life,
A confession to vindicate an innocent,
The esoteric serpent denies all,
No secret is too minor,
Kept secrets save no lives.
There once was a man with a monster within,
But was it a hydra?
Or the human heart?
Good day inmates!
This is truly a joyous day for me! I don’t think I ever expected to be writing a post like this. Or rather, a post about this. It’s extremely good news and i feel rather proud to announce it.
WorldofHarley has finally passed 1000 followers!!
Huzzah! The big one triple zero! I could scarcely believe it. It’s possible that you already knew about this if you’re one of our Twitter followers but still, I felt it necessary to make a short post (are they ever short?) on this wonderful milestone. I never expected it to get this far at all. I know I say that quite a lot but it’s true, I simply find myself dumbfounded each day! Each and every like, follow or comment is a reason to celebrate here at the asylum.
So basically, I’d like to thank each and every one of you that check the blog out, follower or not. You’re all amazing and you simply must be mad! Thank you, thank you and thank you! We simply must try to keep the madness going, no?
So, until next time, have an extra crazy day inmates!
Stooped low upon a lofty throne,
A necromantic monarch,
Shrieks in fury,
Such undying hatred washes over his bones,
The azure moon calms him not one drop,
The living remain alive,
And the dead remain below.
With an incensed scream,
He calls upon his legions,
Rotting knights and fetid footmen,
Shadowy beasts and mad spirits,
Rusted iron and filthy nails,
Anguished moans and eerie corpse-lights,
Driven onward by their dead liege.
Compelled by a rage that never dies,
The dead legions advance,
Marching under the moon,
Fracturing defenses under the moon,
Slaughtering innocents under the moon,
The dead are now unrivaled,
And the living are no more.
A decomposing monarch has his victory,
The nefarious King of Scythes,
Do you hear him coming for you?
Hello inmates!
And here’s the second random idea that I’ve had recently. I’m not sure what I think of these ideas right now, but who knows, I may flesh them out.
“The three legendary swords, once thought to be the saviors of the world, have been revealed to be the greatest threats to all life on this planet.
One, Cataclysm, wants to wreath the world in flame and cleave it in twain with the power of the elements.
One, Enigma, wishes to reduce the world to a crystalline void, devoid of life, where only madness survives.
One, Factory, seeks to choke all life with myriad poisons and diseases, darkening the skies with imperceptible death.
The unwitting (and indeed unwilling) wielders of these blades are going to destroy each other, our world and everything we hold dear in a grand conflict!
We cannot let them. We must stop them!”
That’s it for my second idea. Let me know what you think of both of these random ideas. I know they’re pretty bare-bones, but there you go!
Have a very crazy day inmates!
Hello inmates!
Ok, so I didn’t get this posted when I intended to at all. Here goes, finally:
“What if I told you there were three groups of beings in this world superior to us. Living and fighting in secrecy.
One to protect us.
One to subjugate us.
One to wipe us out.
We call them the Exarchs, the Autarchs and the God-Machines.”
That’s your first random idea that I mentioned. Took me quite some time to get that done, sorry about that.
Have you all have a very crazy day!
“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.
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?
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.
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…”
“Off the west coast of Primea is the treacherous Great Divide, a nigh-on endless ocean. It’s possibly the grandest mystery on this world. Few dare to traverse its waves, fewer still have actually managed to locate any new landmasses or anything of note. It’s desolate, to say the least. Even decorated explorers such as Renault Tserra, Klaus Transuppe and Magnus the Sequined have all attempted to map the waves, to little success. One lady though, discovered something truly fascinating. Rene Jerla was a Riefan Lords daughter turned explorer who used her fathers money to buy a boat to roam the Great Divide, in hopes of making a name for herself. She discovered something fascinating, yet terrifying in the same measure. She discovered another continent, far larger than Primea. She discovered the Amber land, the continent of Demes.
Rene Jerla made contact with many inhabitants of Demes, crossing the dunes in search of this new lands secrets. In time, she discovered a realm of Humans. The Migran Empire, they called it. A terrifying behemoth of a nation. The details of these years of Lady Jerlas exploratory career are hazy, even to me. It’s possible she simply disappered into the Demes dunes, never to be heard of again.
The little we do know our western cousins on Demes comes from the Riefan expeditionaries who followed in the wake of Lady Jerla. They tell of a harsh land, where Dust is rampant and unchecked, and the most common sight is that of wasteland-like desert. The people of Demes, our cousins, are equally harsh. They are a warlike people, bred to conquer and dominate all that they survey. The Migran Empire covers a large portion of Demes, though the exact amount of land is unknown. The land the Migrans have swallowed is said to dwarf even the entirety of our continent of Primea. I suppose that gives you an idea of the scale of this domain. The Empire is stained with blood and echoes with the sound of countless shrieks of pain and dismay. War appears to be a way of lie for the Migrans, who naturally have a colossal military. Using this steely arm, the Migrans appears to have wiped out any other nations that may have shared Demes with them.
The Migran army is large, however unlike we enlightened Riefans and Bulrins, the Migrans appear to shun discipline line combat and drill training and instead have opted for a somewhat more crude yet undeniably effective doctrine: sheer weight of numbers and brute force. Their armies appear to be drafted from the innumerable towns, cities and villages that span Demes. These peasant armies occasionally volunteer, but more often than not are forced by the Migran elite. Their armies are made up of the poor, the weak and the helpless. These peaseant armies can be conscripted quickly and can be “summoned” from anywhere the Empire requires. These peasants are usually forced to find a cheap weapon; an old musket, a rusty sword, a table leg, what ever they can muster. It is ironic that for people who discovered Demes in search of peace, we find only war. In fact, we know almost nothing about the Migran Empire that doesn’t pertain to warfare and the military. We know nothing of their economy, leaders and politics, for example.
Despite the barbarism displayed by these Migran armies, the Migrans are far from primitive. In fact, what we’ve seen of their progress in alchemy and engineering dwarfs our own by some measure. This progress is displayed in a huge way.
They call ‘them’ the Djinn. The Djinn are the armoured fist of the Migrans. Massive metal things on legs, draped in livery and carrying a number of marksmen and big guns. They have been observed wading through hostile armies, akin to walking buildings, crushing everything in their path. Tearing through infantry and cavalry alike, belching smoke and steam as they go. They shrug off musket-fire and cannon-fire alike. Bandits and hostile armies have been observed fleeing in utter terror upon feeling the ground shake as a Djinn approaches over the dunes.
It is unknown, even to the Migran people, how these towering weapons of war are built or function. It’s even a mystery what metals are used in the construction process. Perhaps they are even created with some kind of mysticism? Migran peasants appear to see the Djinn as protective demi-gods, annihilating any who show hostility to the Empire. They worship these creations as if they were beings from the heavens. The funds and resources required for such a marvel of industrial might must be astronomical.
What little is known about the Djinn can be listed fairly easily. Little is known after all. Firstly, the machine is allegedly controlled by an “Arcanist” somewhere on board. This general, engineer, or perhaps sage, rules over the machine through unknown means. It is even rumored that these arcanists have some kind of connection with their machines, but where this is physical, spiritual or just conjecture is a mystery. These arcanists are rumored to be drawn from the scientific branches within the Migran Empire, bestowing their genius to the cause.
Secondly, the Primean expeditionaries were told that there are literally hundreds of Djinn, each and every one unique and special. The Djinn could be modified and specialized to different kinds of battlefield duties. Some, they heard, were lumbering platforms laden with cannon, others were designed to carry elite soldiers while allowing these same warriors some protection and a vantage point. Others still were said to be designed for close-quarters combat, equipped with automotive arms or blades, allowing the machine to be a walking hurricane of blood and gore. Finally, there are Djinn with more bizarre uses, from walking Dust shrines to promenading hospitals.
These facts barely scratch the surface of the vault of knowledge that is sure to exist about these extraordinary mechanical wonders and, of course, their owners and builders. The discovery of these weapons by the Primean expeditionaries was met with equal parts disbelief and terror back at Riefe and Bulrin. Indeed, nothing in the arsenal of either country had the clout to take on these juggernauts, let alone destroy one. The discovery has led to an arms race recently, with Bulrin and Riefe trying to strengthen their militaries and technology. This has come about as fears rise of an invasion from the Migrans, the scale of which could destroy all of Primea. Ironically, as Riefe and Bulrin strengthen their sword arms, so too do they practice their silver tongues. Both nations have attempted to begin diplomatic negotiations with the Migran Empire. This too has problems of its own of course. This, however, is a story for another time…”
From the memoirs of Hermann Maestra.
“Have you heard of the Peekers? Mischievous, spiteful little tykes. Once they notice you, they’re always watching. Always. Always. Always. They’re always watching. Peeking around corners, hiding in the closet, sniggering in hushed tones. They’re rather nasty, I tell you! They’re been known to come here to the Asylum occasionally, taking unwary inmates away for some devious purpose. We don’t hear from them again. They haven’t come to me of course, not even the Peekers can outsmart the Hag-Man. I feel no fear.
Nobody knows what they look like. Nobody even knows what they truly are. Demons, monsters or otherwise. They say you just simply feel an unearthly presence. An chill perhaps or maybe a soft wind. A peripheral shadow or the weight of eyes. You just feel them watching. Peeking and peeking and peeking and peeking. You might even hear them if you’re lucky. Chittering and hissing, chuckling and gibbering. You might think you seem them in the corner of your eye. A flash of shadow or a burst of movement. That’s just part of their game though, they won’t take you until you’re scared into utter mindless terror.
They’ll get closer and closer. They’ll grab you and take you away once you’ve finally lost your mind. To where? Who knows. You’ll be lost for good though. I got lost once. They go for the weakest among us. The fools, simpletons and the imbeciles. Sometimes the young and helpless too. Cruel, devilish, gibbering things that they are! Clawing at your mind from just out of sight.
They’re ancient things to be sure, far older than any human civilization. Our forebears told tales of shadow monsters and fey beings that took helpless infants and younglings into the night or into the dark forests. Perhaps the Peekers are they? Even I don’t know for sure. One could even theorize that this is how they grow in numbers. Assuming of course that the Peekers are, in fact, not once singular being. Could they, in fact, be an it? Who’s to know? There have been stranger things in this world. How intriguing, yes?
So next time you are walking out under the moon, whether it be in the city or in the wildness, don’t ignore that feeling of being watched. Who knows? You just might be…”
