Posts Tagged ‘Harlequin’

I am not a glamourous man,
Not a Prince Charming,
More of a Grendel or Hyde,
Something akin to a blobfish in a shirt,
A weirdo,
An eccentric enemy of the state,

But when I place that crown upon my head,
That mad hatter headpiece,
Victorian fashion supreme,
I don’t care anymore,
I know that I’m finally me,
I’ll be able to grin,

With it comes the face paint,
A clown taking shape under its rim,
Madness coalescing with joy,
With this ensemble I can recover from normality,
But I fear it’d all be for naught,
If not for my top hat.

A friend once told me,
I may be eccentric,
A conflux of wasted potential,
A lunatic,
I’ll never get far this way,

I beg to differ,
I simply walk a wildly different path,
While your path holds domestic bliss and career goals,
Mine holds glamorous noise and dancing clowns,
A cane in my hand and a top hat atop,

You live your grey life,
Chastise me if you will,
I’ll still be jaunting,
I’ll still be grinning,
The crisp earth will welcome us both all the same.

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.

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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!

Continuation of ‘The Harlequin: Passage one’.


It is the 30th of October, 2014. It is a Tuesday. The week has begun, progressed and is beginning to come to an end, but many people are still unable to truly relax as they can at their most beloved weekends. I woke up as normal, with a heavy head. The night before had been laden with nightmare and voices. Used to it i may be, but it is regrettably no less terrifying. Ahh yes, my nightmares. I think they have blighted my mind the majority of the time since my parents split from one another.

The dreams always consist of myself sitting in a dark, dank room with grey concrete walls. I am always sitting on an old, yet ornate wooden chair. A paupers throne i suppose.  Opposite me, near the wall, there are my parents committing awful, repugnant acts of homicide upon each other. These acts are repeated over and over again, until my mind is spiraling and whining. Then i spring back to the real world. The world of the awakened. I almost always awake teary and sweaty. Damn these nightmares!

Each dream resided over by one abhorrent magpie.

After several minutes, I ascended from my grubby bed, groaning “Bugger…” as I went, as I often did. The night before had been an arduous one to be sure. I had been on the absinthe once again with my most cherished friends. I was most certainly regretting it now, my head and gut were spinning like a carousel. My body enjoys punishing me! It revels in my pain, as if it were a self destructive torturer.

As i gripped my loathsome head, I remember looking around my bedroom in a daze. Or as my brother called it my “den”. As I did, I remember thinking two distinct things. The first being how much of a dump my room was. A veritable hovel I say! As I peered around the room, I felt a feeling of belonging and homeliness. I adored my room, even if it was a tip. Perhaps it is a representation of myself, I’m a jester of the urban underworld after all. Hardly a high class denizen. Or so the choir of society would have you believe.

The second being a figure of a person i had met in my drunken daze the night before. Unsurprisingly i could not remember anything about this figure. I could not remember if it had been male or female, a stranger or someone familiar, Friend or foe. Least of all could I remember what this individual was doing with us, in our drunken revelry. I would have to convene with my friends later on…


Greetings inmates.

Only a short one this time I’m afraid, but rest assured I am working on a couple things. This post is sort of referring back to one of my previous posts called “The Oldschool Harlequin“. It was a piece about the supernatural being called the Oldschool Harlequin, as the name suggests. In that post I mentioned the Harlequins servants. The knife, the cane, the doll and the crystal ball. Tournefoux, Domnall, Pandora and Jack Frost. These supernatural beings are powerful in their own right, each with its own abilities and nuances. Tournefoux, for example, is obsessed with blood and relishes the spilling of it, but only if he finds the act amusing. Otherwise he regrets it utterly.

In this post, i simply wanted to show you a picture. The picture depicts the Oldschool Harlequin and three of his servants: Tournefoux, Domnall and Jack Frost. At the time i drew this, i hadn’t yet come up with Pandora’s design so she is missing for now. Now, as i have said before I’m not an artist. My drawing abilities are lackluster to say the least, but i feel some kind of visual depiction is helpful in bringing the reader/witness into my world.

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There you have it! You will see the Oldschool Harlequin himself in the centre, with Jack Frost on the left, Domnall on the right and Tournefoux at the top. Both Tournefoux and Jack Frost resemble jesters in a fashion. Tournefoux is puppet-like with a wooden mien, here he is with his trademark knife. Jack Frost with a fairly typical icy appearance. Domnall is diminutive, with a knight-like appearance. One of his arms is like a medieval lance. These are very basic descriptions of the servants for now, I will be writing a piece about each being in the future. You may also notice the bleeding hand of the Harlequin, I will tell you now that this was not caused by any other being. The Harlequin’s hand bleeds at will, but why and how?

There you go then. I wanted to post something today, but didn’t really have an actual piece of writing ready to post yet. I’ve been wanting to post this picture for a little while now anyway, so I thought now was as good a time as any. I hope you like it despite my lack of drawing ability.

Until next time, have a crazy day!

So, I’ve been writing this for the last few days. It’s meant to be, quite simply, a piece about the Oldschool Harlequin. The supernatural being I imagined up, not me myself. I didn’t want to give too much about him away, while still explaining some things about him.


“So, who or what is the Harlequin i hear you say.
Have you not seen him?
The regal man in a top hat and emblazoned with outlandish face paint.
A madman or visionary?
A vagrant or pilgrim?
Criminal or revolutionary?
Good or wicked?
In truth, nobody really knows.

He came to these shores from out of the distant mists.
A chaotic phantom.
An outsider.
A force of nature.
A demigod.
Appearing in one place, then another almost instantaneously.
He has shown himself to be both benevolent and malevolent.
Unnaturally brutal and kindly all at once.
Occasionally appearing to act simply on a whim or out of boredom.
To understand his ways is to understand chaos itself.

Why is he here?
To know that would be to know the universe.
He preaches about insanity, Armageddon and anarchy.
But also of individuality and freedom.
He rejects government, while also shunning leadership himself.
He seems to prefer to influence and instigate, rather than direct.

His servants are equally unknowable.
The cane, Domnall.
The knife, Tournefoux.
The doll, Pandora.
And the crystal ball, Jack Frost.
These bizarre machinations carry out his will, their actions just as alien.
Heartless, or perhaps soulless?

He’s drawn to the mentally ill and the impressionable.
To the Harlequin, an asylum is a chapel.
The inmates, his flock.
The amassed corpses of the staff, his altar.
He likens himself to a priest of sorts.
A priest of madness.
A cleric of the apocalypse.
Anarchy and insanity, his sermons.
Self belief and self-indulgence, his hymns.
Apocalypse and the end of the world, his prayers.

For all his doom saying, the Harlequin just as often acts with charity.
Helping the weak and strong alike.
He is, no doubt, a freak.
But he is no monster.
He saved my family.
We had no food and were beset by bandits.
With a flick of his hand, he cut them asunder.
We owe him our lives, for what they’re worth.
We’ll follow the Harlequin from now on.
To whatever hell or heaven he leads…”


Everyone has something to say.
Not everyone will listen.
Not at first at least.
You must persevere.

Eventually you will hit a note everyone can hear.
The perfect tone,
The right pitch,
Just on key.
A supreme message.

My advice to you?
Keep it up.
Continue spreading your message,
Whatever it is.
Take the world!


I killed him. I think you should know. My knife was Excalibur and his gut was a scabbard. The knife wanted a home, who am i to ignore it? A monster? Of course not! However it wasn’t as simple as that, ’twas not an act of mere ire. Much is involved in this drama, myself and him merely held centre stage. And quite a show it was! Much of the script was followed as i intended and the blood effects were highly convincing. Above all, as many plays intend, i enjoyed myself. The same cannot be said for him, dare i mention. I do trust that you wish to know the story yes? In that case, i predict an introduction is in order.

You can call me the Harlequin. In fact, call me Harley. Such a name is uncommon, i daresay.  However i do not call myself as such just to be different. No, the name stems from a love of the professions of the vivacious; the carnivals and the jesters, the clowns and the puppeteers. My adoration of these heroes has accompanied me through the several decades of my life. Their exploits have lended their entertainment to my mind during these seemingly long years. I am a Harlequin, i reside in the realms of the audiences mind. Rarely understood yet also rarely forgotten.  However i am a little voice, my opinions rarely heard. Many call me shy and quiet but these many are ignorant to the true Harley that resides in his own little world, doing and saying as he wishes.

In the terms of the ‘normal’ folk, i reside in the great city of Ebonton. Under the eyes of my dear brother Nick. Much to my own credit, i left the dreadful home of my mother, when she had parted ways with her husband, my father. I do not regret my actions, gaining by various means as much money as possible and traveling to Ebonton to stay with my brother who had moved there several years prior. I have lived here with him for just over a year, a time i have adored thus far.

The day i traveled here, thankfully i saw two magpies.

My brother is a great man, twenty years my elder. Yet another actor in this grand tale. He is a bald, muscly monster of a man with a certain love of modern heavy metal music. I certainly can’t fault him for that. He, like myself, also has a great adoration for the energetic dancer that is fire. Yes fire, that most terrific of mans creations! Also the most vengeful to the touch. Revenge, ’tis a sweet thing. I’ve tasted it a number of times and yet i cannot get enough of it. My dearly departed enemy suffered from my acts of vengeance. Sweet, sugary acts i couldn’t possibly regret.

How do you say it these days? It was a case of ‘he had it coming’. He crossed me and paid for it. A very heavy price indeed. The knife was the paymaster. But i cannot merely throw all of this at you without some form of explanation.

A story, i say! Like the bards of old, i will tell the tale. The previously mentioned drama.

The setting is my very own home city. Among the countless houses our story, my story, begins…