Happy Endings by Margaret Atwood (Crit. Response)
This is a story for which the latter elements are entirely dependent upon self-analysis of the earlier elements. The structure resembles a plot list more so than an actual continuous narrative. Label ‘A’ is the stock “happy ending” where everything goes according to plan and John and Mary live happily ever after. As we move down the list the tales become grittier, more real, and more...human. It exposes the insecurities and indiscretions driven by base human nature coupled with societal constructs. Still, labels B-F only hold meaning as direct comparisons to the outcome of story ‘A.’
Story A is the ideal; the standard Disney fairy tale plot progression with no mention of any conflict whatsoever. Soon new characters are introduced such as Marge and Fred but we are still referred to the original happy-go-lucky tale of John and Mary for the outcomes of the later stories. It is meant to expose how fragile plots can be and how interchangeable the characters can become. After the last sub-story ‘F’ the tale breaks off and the reader is addressed directly if not by name but under the pretext of “you.” The message is that all endings are the same: John and Mary die. What matters (and where creative fiction writers are left to fill in the gaps) is the “stretch in-between.”
Plot progression is dependent upon one thing after another, and too often the plot is moving but the ‘how’ and the ‘why’ are left behind. This story teaches us to slow down and let the reasons catch up to the results and the cause catch up to the effects. As a literary exercise the story works because it isolates the plot from the narrative and thus exposes how fragile the former can b. In this sense the story is a novelty and rather interesting to read. However in terms of practical application this is something already known to me and thus of no further use stylistically.
Showing posts with label Zach Goldstein. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Zach Goldstein. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
A Tragic Accident... by Zachary Goldstein
I am eleven years old. I walk silently along the shoreline of the western coast of Mexico, my best friend Nick and my brother Zane at my side. The sun is just setting over the horizon and the waves break clear and crisp against the gray sand. My father is sitting a few hundred meters away, up a long flight of stone steps leading to an overhanging balcony built straight into the cliff side. He is listening to the radio.
“Go.” He had said to us. “Go exploring. Find what it is they left here, the people that came before us.” Only now as I grow older and wiser do I realize the true implications of such a challenge. I’ll always remember those words. What it is they left; the people that came before us; Find it. Find what? Naturally in the blissful naivety of youth we assume something specific. We had watched Indiana Jones the day before. We wanted to find the lost Ark of the Covenant. Just find it, mind you, never open it, because then our faces would melt off. So we walk along the beach, picking up every rock and piece of petrified wood we come across.
It is getting darker now. The world changes. Things look different now; things are not as they had appeared before. Still walking now, we see a jagged edge jutting up from beneath a small dune ridge up next to the cliff side. My brother being the younger and less cautious among us runs up to the object and pulls it from the sand. It is heavier than he expected, and he drops it abruptly. It is undeniably a strip of rubber bearing distinctive markings like those found on a common consumer automobile. Walking further north, we find more debris. In the darkness the moonlight is our only guide. Shards of metal litter the coastline as if strewn about by giant, careless hands. My best friend Nick runs ahead. He stops maybe fifty feet from where we are standing and beckons us to follow. We approach the frame of an automobile, burned out from the inside. A shadowy figure, charred black, windowless. An enigma, an unknown. The faint smell of burnt charcoal whips up into my nostrils. Find what it is they left behind; the people that came before us.
A child or even a young adolescent’s interpretation of the events that transpired in the past that led to the presence of these material remains may vary depending on upbringing and social proficiency, but the universal constant of curiosity will always remain. What happened here? I thought. Now, a native resident of the area would know, for instance, that there is a road at the top of the cliff. A local may even know that the previous year, a tragic accident had occurred resulting in the destruction of a highway rail and the deaths of three people. This we did not know. The organic remains removed, the matrix remains, a symbol of the rapid and violent deposition of the features of this site. I call it a site because, in context with our experience at the time, it for all extents and purposes was one. Viewed in secondary archaeological context, the removal of the human remains by Mexican authorities did not help our pre-adolescent minds in dreaming up hypotheses to explain the features of this area.
We nonetheless explore our surroundings, gathering bits of rusted metal that were small enough to carry. It was night now, and we walked back, leaving our site behind but fully intending to return tomorrow. Little did we know that by removing these “artifacts” from the sand, we were destroying the matrix and context of the ruin forever. We were akin to common looters, the sworn enemies of responsible archaeologists everywhere. On a realistic level, no professional archaeologist would be interested in the site we discovered that day. However, relative to our reality, if you will, the site signified a mystery of utmost importance and cultural relevance. The burnt-out car frame was as exciting to us at the time as the excavation of an Indian burial mound, or the finding of a lost Egyptian mummy. It is the same to us because the meaning is the same, proving that context is everything when examining and cataloguing the archaeological record.
We would never return to the car in the sand. We left Mexico for the border early the next morning. The next year, the beach house was seized by local officials and declared government property. But that is another story, not for this writing. Find what it is they left behind; those that came before us. To this day, I have no idea whether or not my father was referring to the burnt-out car and scattered debris discovered by three pre-adolescent youths on vacation in Mexico all those years ago. I do know, however, that whether he was speaking specifically or in general terms, my unwitting first experience as an amateur archaeologist permitted me to realize, years later, the importance of context. And the past, like the present, is all about context.
“Go.” He had said to us. “Go exploring. Find what it is they left here, the people that came before us.” Only now as I grow older and wiser do I realize the true implications of such a challenge. I’ll always remember those words. What it is they left; the people that came before us; Find it. Find what? Naturally in the blissful naivety of youth we assume something specific. We had watched Indiana Jones the day before. We wanted to find the lost Ark of the Covenant. Just find it, mind you, never open it, because then our faces would melt off. So we walk along the beach, picking up every rock and piece of petrified wood we come across.
It is getting darker now. The world changes. Things look different now; things are not as they had appeared before. Still walking now, we see a jagged edge jutting up from beneath a small dune ridge up next to the cliff side. My brother being the younger and less cautious among us runs up to the object and pulls it from the sand. It is heavier than he expected, and he drops it abruptly. It is undeniably a strip of rubber bearing distinctive markings like those found on a common consumer automobile. Walking further north, we find more debris. In the darkness the moonlight is our only guide. Shards of metal litter the coastline as if strewn about by giant, careless hands. My best friend Nick runs ahead. He stops maybe fifty feet from where we are standing and beckons us to follow. We approach the frame of an automobile, burned out from the inside. A shadowy figure, charred black, windowless. An enigma, an unknown. The faint smell of burnt charcoal whips up into my nostrils. Find what it is they left behind; the people that came before us.
A child or even a young adolescent’s interpretation of the events that transpired in the past that led to the presence of these material remains may vary depending on upbringing and social proficiency, but the universal constant of curiosity will always remain. What happened here? I thought. Now, a native resident of the area would know, for instance, that there is a road at the top of the cliff. A local may even know that the previous year, a tragic accident had occurred resulting in the destruction of a highway rail and the deaths of three people. This we did not know. The organic remains removed, the matrix remains, a symbol of the rapid and violent deposition of the features of this site. I call it a site because, in context with our experience at the time, it for all extents and purposes was one. Viewed in secondary archaeological context, the removal of the human remains by Mexican authorities did not help our pre-adolescent minds in dreaming up hypotheses to explain the features of this area.
We nonetheless explore our surroundings, gathering bits of rusted metal that were small enough to carry. It was night now, and we walked back, leaving our site behind but fully intending to return tomorrow. Little did we know that by removing these “artifacts” from the sand, we were destroying the matrix and context of the ruin forever. We were akin to common looters, the sworn enemies of responsible archaeologists everywhere. On a realistic level, no professional archaeologist would be interested in the site we discovered that day. However, relative to our reality, if you will, the site signified a mystery of utmost importance and cultural relevance. The burnt-out car frame was as exciting to us at the time as the excavation of an Indian burial mound, or the finding of a lost Egyptian mummy. It is the same to us because the meaning is the same, proving that context is everything when examining and cataloguing the archaeological record.
We would never return to the car in the sand. We left Mexico for the border early the next morning. The next year, the beach house was seized by local officials and declared government property. But that is another story, not for this writing. Find what it is they left behind; those that came before us. To this day, I have no idea whether or not my father was referring to the burnt-out car and scattered debris discovered by three pre-adolescent youths on vacation in Mexico all those years ago. I do know, however, that whether he was speaking specifically or in general terms, my unwitting first experience as an amateur archaeologist permitted me to realize, years later, the importance of context. And the past, like the present, is all about context.
Gabriel's Requiem by Zachary Goldstein
Gabriel’s Requiem
By
Zachary Louis Goldstein
And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.
-Revelation 13:1
I awakened to deafening silence. The land was cold beneath me. I could hear nothing living--neither creature nor human being, and a brisk morning dawn had just broken. I rose and saw before me a vast urban expanse, an endless cityscape of architects’ dreams entrenched within a symphony of crimson and lavender light. Structures of towering silver cascaded dark shadows upon me as I walked the surface of this strange new world. I promptly came to a particularly imposing construct closely resembling a large barn, though seemingly born of both metal and wood.
The modest gray single door rattled harmoniously in an eerie rhythm as I knocked, and then there was silence once again. The only thing audible was my own breath and I was cold, shivering and inexplicably in the nude. I tried the crude lock-latch on the door and it clicked open with little effort. I entered into a resounding concave chamber, a space just as chilling to my senses as the post-dawn morning air had been. Lining the northernmost wall were five massive, phantom black structures resembling liquid storage cylinders. My footsteps echoed methodically up against the bare, smooth ceiling and then back down. I stood in the center of the room.
“Hello!...” My voice echoed violently back at me, rumbling the floor beneath my feet. As I turned I saw the door I had entered through disintegrate in a red haze. All my senses were awakened in an instant. One second...two seconds. A projectile resembling a rocket missile blazed through the open passageway. The environment before me turned into a blazing, eclectic inferno as it struck one of the dark cylinders and exploded. A piercing tone could be heard in my ears as a dark, foreboding concerto that would not subside. Metal burned like wood and a frothy red liquid coated everything. I could feel my flesh begin to sizzle and my organs cook as if trapped in a giant, horrific cauldron.
I looked back toward the entrance and perceived several robed figures emerging from the mangled maze of wire and metal where the threshold of a door had existed moments earlier. The flames seemed not to harm them, and they walked amongst the fire and blood as if it were sand and water. The thick crimson substance was rising above my waist now. I could no longer breathe. I felt the grip of cold hands on my body as I blacked out.
I woke up lying on a padded rise in a warm, well-lit room with walls of yellow and white. I sat up abruptly and looked around. No longer without garment, I was clothed in a silver luminescent robe with black trim. There was but a man, sitting on a modest stool in the northwest corner of the room, staring intently into my eyes. He was tall and dark-skinned, and on his fingers there were many precious rings.
“Hello, Sentient. I would call you brother, but we are not so certain.” said the unidentified man.
I hesitated. “Where am I?”
“A safe zone. For the clan.” he responded in monotone.
“What clan?”
“It’s not important now. How do you feel?”
I stood on my feet. I felt ordinary. No pain—the unpleasant sizzling sensation gone, no wounds or cuts or bruises of any kind—and my body displayed none of the fresh wounds and harrowing internal injuries which it ought to bear following my ordeal. My skin also looked younger and fresher and seemed to emit a bright, healthy glow complimenting the air and mood of the room.
“Do not be alarmed.” said the man. “You do not know. You cannot know—nobody does in the beginning, though some are more aware than others at first. You must be made to learn.”
“Learn what? Where am I?” I felt perturbed yet hopeless. Perhaps it was because the mysterious man was right. I did not understand anything around me.
“There are two ways in which one learns. The first is through education, which of course requires a teacher. The second is by experience, which is far more perilous. For you, I think, it will be both. My name is Evander. You must come with me now.”
“Why? Where are you taking me?”
“To our capital. You cannot know the location yet.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“Then we kill you, as a matter of absolute necessity.”
“We? I should be dead already! How then should the prospect of death frighten me?”
“Dear Sentient, I do not speak these words to instill fear—I speak as from the mouth of the Prophet, for his word is our law. As to your mortality, do not seek to defy the most fundamental truths of organic existence during the infancy of your stay here. Make no mistake: you can die. In fact, you nearly did. The Prophet has chosen to save you, in feeling that you are of some value to our cause.”
“What of the inferno, then? Why do I not cease to live when I feel my skin burn and my organs ignite from within me? How do I continue to breathe now when everything around me was decimated in an orgy of flame?”
“I am not the one to tell you such things. All shall be made clear by Xilian, for he is the Prophet of our clan.”
I was escorted by a group of nine, four males (including Evander) and five females all wearing robes identical to my own in design, yet they radiated a golden yellow rather than my crude silver, which by comparison seemed bland. I was not bound and did not resist in any way—I understood so little that I reasoned there was no point.
We exited the room on the right, moving through a long, dark corridor to which my eyes had not fully adjusted before emerging into an environment unlike any even the wildest of human imaginations could conceive of. Vast skyscrapers of impossible dimensions lined the streets as far as the eye could see. Light projected fiercely out of all windows, cascading amber and crimson on the streets below, which held a great multitude of like-dressed individuals so that the surface of the land appeared as a wash of rich shades of yellow interspersed with black and crimson illumination. Great metallic causeways carried people between adjacent buildings like broad celestial bridges in the sky, one stacked atop the next in serene, impeccable architectural harmony.
The sky alternated unnatural shades of burnt orange and teal. Strange circular objects dotted the skyway, darting low and dodging through the tangled urban mass at velocities too fast to estimate.
“Beautiful.” I mouthed the words but emitted no sound.
The tall man called Evander spoke to me: “This is the world you must come to know. Everything around you, everything you see here is ours. But to the north, and to the south, and in the east and in the west our enemies gather at our doorstep, seeking our destruction just as we endeavor to theirs. Look around and before you and you shall see our brethren, the Sentients of clan Jericho. The colors we wear are symbols of our affinity to the clan and loyalty to the Prophet of our kind.”
Despite the magnificence of the environment before me, I could not help but feel a sense of longing for the life I had lost—the memories were still there. All of them, flashing before my consciousness like a fleeting shadow. But everything was hazy, and I felt strongly that each passing moment erased another glimpse of my past, as if to make room for something else, something far more vital. I remembered Evander’s words about learning, about my education.
Evander, seemingly privy to my train of thought, spoke deliberately: “Whatever you feel, you must find it within yourself to dismiss all sentimental notions of your prior existence—lay both the loving and the damning memories of your past to rest for all time. It does not matter who you were or how you arrived here. Consider all that you know, and then forsake all of it. The only knowledge is acquired, the only instinct is survival.”
I was being led towards one of the strange spherical objects. On approach it opened like a cocoon and the black shell parted to reveal a spacious white interior which comfortably fitted all ten of us. Once inside, the cocoon reformed just as it had opened.
Evander took note of my bemusement at this development, and spoke plainly: “In time, you will become familiar with such devices. There are many technological acuities of the land to which you must become accustomed, affording you survive that long. We are going to a place called Xain, wherein dwells the Prophet Xilian, our leader. He is the reason your heart still beats.”
I had no idea how long it took to arrive at our destination or in which direction we were traveling, though the windowless capsule seemed to move of its own volition, or else the controller was nowhere to be seen. The pod came to an abrupt halt in midair before dropping altitude dramatically. My stomach lurched, but one of the females had a firm grasp on the robe sleeve covering my right arm and her touch was reassuring in the most sublime way I could fathom. The strange vehicle touched down. “You get used to that.” said Evander, referring to the sudden altitude drop which my stomach likened to an elevator effect multiplied a few thousand times over.
When I emerged I raised my eyes to reveal a grand structure of granite and marble, with royal yellow banners cascading from the rooftops to the silver staircase below.
Evander spoke to me: “Welcome to Xain, the capital city of the realm of Jericho. You shall not be harmed, so long as you agree to the terms of the Prophet. Follow me.”
The entire group ascended the marble staircase, taking care always to place me in the center of them all. After the ascension we were confronted at the top by great colossal gates of ivory and steel, which if nothing else certainly appeared an image of the celestial. Evander held up his left palm and the troop stopped a few meters from the gate. There was a moment’s pause, and then the gate opened quickly and inexplicably with no sound.
Moving briskly, we entered a long, lavishly-decorated oversized hallway of sorts. Lining the walls on either side were men and women, forgoing the modestly elegant robes I had become accustomed to seeing in favor of full body armor of some unknown make and design. The sharp reflective yellow of the battlesuits seemed to create a miniature aura around each of them which I sensed may have been kinetically generated or artificial in some way. These warriors were armed with strange weapons and blades of various shapes and sizes, each seemingly unique and no doubt suited to a deliberate, grisly purpose. The ceiling rose up fifty meters from the shimmering marble floor beneath our feet and our footsteps echoed in fashion spookily similar to the rhythmic rattle of the metallic barn prior to my near-death incineration.
Graphic, representational images covered the surrounding walls, depicting bizarre acts of violence and terror which struck me as symbolic, though to what ascription I knew not. Evander walked alongside me.
“Who are these people?” I asked, referring to the war-equipped individuals on either side of our party.
“They are not ‘people.’ They are Yuri-Zen— warrior elites, protectors of the realm and Guardians of the Mantle of Gabriel; the last remnants of Michael’s army.”
“Michael the arch-angel?
“When Gabriel fell, the Yuri-Zen made a final pact with Michael’s forces to carry on the Mantle of the last remaining arch-angel.”
“What is this mantle? Is it something physical?”
“You are not prepared for this knowledge, and even thus it would not be my place to tell you. I can only say that when the time comes, you will know what it means and what is required of you.”
The spacious, elongated corridor seemed to stretch into oblivion before Evander directed the party left down a path slightly smaller but no less ornate or populated than the main hall. We made a quick left again after passing a grand stone statue of a being with wings, sword and shield in hand, visage emblazoned permanently with a look of terrible ferocity. The shield-face bore the letter “J” carved in a cryptic bold font.
We finally came to approach a particularly guarded north-facing wall deep within the interior of the capitol building. A congregation of Yuri-Zen fighters bowed and parted into lines as Evander saluted, using a hand gesture which I did not recognize. I noticed that many of them were staring intently into my eyes. Built into the wall at their backs was what equated to a large elevator, plain and gray compared to everything around it. Evander stepped forward and beckoned me to follow him. None of the other escorts moved. A simple push of the adjacent button summoned the carriage, and the doors opened. Evander and I entered. I sensed many pairs of eyes upon me as the doors closed shut.
There was a pause. Suddenly the elevator plummeted downward, and although I could feel the great speed at which we descended, the ride down felt smooth and completely unlike the unpleasant sensation of the strange cocoon’s abrupt descent earlier. The doors opened and a decorated interior of many magnificent hues was revealed.
“The Prophet awaits you.” said Evander. “Go. We have been so long in waiting.” The doors closed almost the instant I stepped into the room. Twenty feet in front of me a man sat complacently in a white satin chair trimmed with shades of yellow and gold, fingers together at the tips, head slightly cocked to the right with an curious blank expression on his face. The entirety of the chamber’s southern wall was made up of overlaying layers of window glass resembling tint, and it appeared that one could see out, but not in. The monumental window-wall looked out over the urban monstrosity below, towering over and above it as a city upon a hill. I thought perhaps the entire complex was built into a giant cliffside.
The man Evander had called ‘leader’ stood up to face me. He spoke clearly and with a reverent air of serenity: “Hello, my brother. It is fortunate that you still live. Knowing this, it is preferable that you were tested from the beginning. Many Sentients react more positively if exposed to the violence right away. I am Xilian, Prophet of the clan Jericho. Those you have seen thus far—the ones who saved you and escorted you here to me are my brothers and sisters. If you so choose, they shall be your brothers and your sisters as well. They will shelter you, protect you, teach you their ways and pass unto you all the knowledge necessary for survival. You must bee forewarned that there are others, a great many others who would seek to turn you to their cause or else pursue and destroy you with every fiber of their being, for you may be their gravest threat.” I stared astonished at him. He was wearing robes of silk colored dark yellow, trimmed with white collar and cuffs and a lavender crown upon his head. His skin was light brown and his voice musical and soothing. He must have stood nearly seven feet high and he wore golden jewels and rings upon his fingers and arms. Finally, I spoke to him. “Why am I a threat to anyone? I shouldn’t even be here! I am dead...I remember dying. This cannot be Heaven. So it must be...in Hell where I now reside.”
“As your teacher, I instruct you not to think in absolutes evermore.” Said the Prophet quaintly.
“You are not my teacher!”
“Human beings enjoy perceiving in absolutes, because there is always a resolution. But you cannot allow yourself to remiss into such primitive intellectual barbarism. You must from this point forward dismiss all concepts dealing in absolute terms. This is the most integral process in the initiation of your education. When you come to understand this lesson, you will comprehend also that power which you now possess: the innate abilities of your kind manifest in you which you did not have in your previous life.”
“You speak of absolutes. Heaven is an absolute. So is Hell.”
“Very good, Gabriel.”
“So neither have I risen unto Heaven, nor fallen unto Hell. So tell me—what is this tormented urban paradise which now claims me?”
“Heaven is but a whisper in a shadow that will never again be illuminated. The great Kingdom of God is gone from the land, forevermore. The Gates crumbled to dust long ago.”
“And what of the antithesis?”
“The Pillars of Hell no longer stand tall. This place you see before you, this is all that remains—so that all may share in the suffering and ecstasy of mortal whims and perversions.”
“But what of God in all this madness? How could He allow this?”
“Allow it? One could ask why he should have it any other way! What is He but a tyrant? The greatest of all the lords of hypocrisy, the master of the enslavement of the minds of men and women in body, will and purpose?” I began to sense that the serene tone in Xilian’s melodic voice did not betray the true emotion behind his words.
“How does it come to this?” I asked. “After all I’ve been taught...led to believe...”
“All that you believe is a function of what you have been taught, and all you have been taught is a lie.” said Xilian. His words echoed like a great hollow thunder of awakening inside my mind.
“But it is written in the Scriptures—.”
“The Scriptures were written by men, brother, not God. It is because of Man that all you see before you has come to pass. Long ago, so long that no accurate timeline can be referenced, the blood of Michael’s Angels became contaminate, mixed with the human Sentients and lesser breeds of men. The great Army of Heaven, once thought invincible and forever united, was broken, shattered and splintered into multitudes of tribes and factions all vying for the last Mantle of the Angels: that of the fallen Gabriel, which we of the clan Jericho now possess. Over countless ages, Heaven and Hell came to resemble the realm of Earth, and she brought all her greed and vice and decadent excesses along with her.”
“Why didn’t God intervene?”
“Your God is the master of puppets and illusions—by these devices He hath ruled over all life—but never again. You do not know the true God. You do not wish to know such things.”
“How many of these tribes exist?”
“We know it was once so many that the land could not claim them all.”
“And what happened then?”
“Purification and consolidation. Where once there was a multitude, seven now remain. But the cleansing is not complete. Only one will survive. If I could only offer you one thing, heed this: Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”
“Corinthians chapter five, verse three.” I replied.
“It was said that you would bear foreknowledge of the Scriptures.”
“I was raised to be a minister until the age of seventeen. Then I realized that God did not harbor the answers to the questions I sought. So I turned to literature and science and away from holy writ.”
“Did you forsake Him?”
“No. But many...a great many around me did so.” I answered. At this, Xilian actually laughed, though even in amusement his voice carried a surreal aura which my senses seemed to associate with tranquility.
“They abandon that which they cannot see with their eyes and feel with their flesh.” Xilian said. “This is the conflict that defines human sense of reality—between what is and what seems to be.”
“What is your meaning?” I inquired.
“Take this world—this place. You see, yet you do not comprehend. Not yet. You know things only as they appear, not as they actually are.”
“Like death?”
“Are you wondering why you still live?”
“I am wondering how I still live.”
“Hear me, Sentient—I speak with the force of such knowledge as to topple the mountains and empty the rivers and seas. You must understand, brother, we are in the middle of a war, one that has been going on for millennia, because time passes not here as it does on Earth. Your presence had been monitored by our enemies since your arrival. Many are aware of your coming.”
“What do they want with me?”
“They seek to destroy you. They almost succeeded.”
“But I have nothing to show of it, not even scars or remnants of torn tissue or loss of blood! Who is the true worker of miracles, then—if not God, then who? You?”
Xilian laughed calmly again, identical in tone and manner to his previous outburst. “Miracles are relative to whatever is considered to be miraculous. Perhaps you have noticed that your body is able to heal much faster than you once thought possible. Maybe you feel pain dull to your senses as your threshold increases with each passing moment. This is only the beginning, the first steps on a path paved long before you in blood and tribulation.”
“Why then? Why not let me burn...let me die if this is the afterlife I must face?”
“No, Gabriel. It is not your time to die. You are much too valuable. I am the sacred Keeper of my people. As Prophet I have seen that which would blind the Children of Men. I can see through the soldiers of our cause, into their very hearts and souls—and never, never before has there been one such as you.”
“What makes me so special?”
“You have become the focus of a situation of the most delicate nature. You must swear allegiance to clan Jericho—swear allegiance to me, the Prophet, and all my brothers and sisters.”
I paused for a few moments. “And what if I say no?”
“Then you shall die a true death, one you cannot come back from. There is no other option, for you are a grave threat to us all. Within you, Gabriel, lays an ancient power, one this world has not seen since the fall of the angels. Only you may choose: unity for the seven factions of Michael’s Army or death to all but one. Once it is done, the Mantle of the last arch-angel must be returned from whence it came.”
I sensed the powerful flow of events within me. It felt as if I was feeding on something in the air, or perhaps it was purely within me. I felt stronger than I had ever been.
“What am I?” I asked.
“You...are nothing. But you can become everything—the past, present, and future of your race. The path is clear now—join or die, make your choice.”
The choice was made, and it was not my own. It was like an obscene, unanimous force compelling me to stay in this strange land. I spoke to the Prophet once more: “If not Heaven, and if not Hell, what call you this land—this reality?”
Xilian walked with me to the south wall of layered glass, and together we looked out upon the beautiful, terrible horizon stretching off into surreal amber infinity. “Welcome...” he said...“to the Valley of Babylon.”
And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.
-Revelation 18:2
By
Zachary Louis Goldstein
And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.
-Revelation 13:1
I awakened to deafening silence. The land was cold beneath me. I could hear nothing living--neither creature nor human being, and a brisk morning dawn had just broken. I rose and saw before me a vast urban expanse, an endless cityscape of architects’ dreams entrenched within a symphony of crimson and lavender light. Structures of towering silver cascaded dark shadows upon me as I walked the surface of this strange new world. I promptly came to a particularly imposing construct closely resembling a large barn, though seemingly born of both metal and wood.
The modest gray single door rattled harmoniously in an eerie rhythm as I knocked, and then there was silence once again. The only thing audible was my own breath and I was cold, shivering and inexplicably in the nude. I tried the crude lock-latch on the door and it clicked open with little effort. I entered into a resounding concave chamber, a space just as chilling to my senses as the post-dawn morning air had been. Lining the northernmost wall were five massive, phantom black structures resembling liquid storage cylinders. My footsteps echoed methodically up against the bare, smooth ceiling and then back down. I stood in the center of the room.
“Hello!...” My voice echoed violently back at me, rumbling the floor beneath my feet. As I turned I saw the door I had entered through disintegrate in a red haze. All my senses were awakened in an instant. One second...two seconds. A projectile resembling a rocket missile blazed through the open passageway. The environment before me turned into a blazing, eclectic inferno as it struck one of the dark cylinders and exploded. A piercing tone could be heard in my ears as a dark, foreboding concerto that would not subside. Metal burned like wood and a frothy red liquid coated everything. I could feel my flesh begin to sizzle and my organs cook as if trapped in a giant, horrific cauldron.
I looked back toward the entrance and perceived several robed figures emerging from the mangled maze of wire and metal where the threshold of a door had existed moments earlier. The flames seemed not to harm them, and they walked amongst the fire and blood as if it were sand and water. The thick crimson substance was rising above my waist now. I could no longer breathe. I felt the grip of cold hands on my body as I blacked out.
I woke up lying on a padded rise in a warm, well-lit room with walls of yellow and white. I sat up abruptly and looked around. No longer without garment, I was clothed in a silver luminescent robe with black trim. There was but a man, sitting on a modest stool in the northwest corner of the room, staring intently into my eyes. He was tall and dark-skinned, and on his fingers there were many precious rings.
“Hello, Sentient. I would call you brother, but we are not so certain.” said the unidentified man.
I hesitated. “Where am I?”
“A safe zone. For the clan.” he responded in monotone.
“What clan?”
“It’s not important now. How do you feel?”
I stood on my feet. I felt ordinary. No pain—the unpleasant sizzling sensation gone, no wounds or cuts or bruises of any kind—and my body displayed none of the fresh wounds and harrowing internal injuries which it ought to bear following my ordeal. My skin also looked younger and fresher and seemed to emit a bright, healthy glow complimenting the air and mood of the room.
“Do not be alarmed.” said the man. “You do not know. You cannot know—nobody does in the beginning, though some are more aware than others at first. You must be made to learn.”
“Learn what? Where am I?” I felt perturbed yet hopeless. Perhaps it was because the mysterious man was right. I did not understand anything around me.
“There are two ways in which one learns. The first is through education, which of course requires a teacher. The second is by experience, which is far more perilous. For you, I think, it will be both. My name is Evander. You must come with me now.”
“Why? Where are you taking me?”
“To our capital. You cannot know the location yet.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“Then we kill you, as a matter of absolute necessity.”
“We? I should be dead already! How then should the prospect of death frighten me?”
“Dear Sentient, I do not speak these words to instill fear—I speak as from the mouth of the Prophet, for his word is our law. As to your mortality, do not seek to defy the most fundamental truths of organic existence during the infancy of your stay here. Make no mistake: you can die. In fact, you nearly did. The Prophet has chosen to save you, in feeling that you are of some value to our cause.”
“What of the inferno, then? Why do I not cease to live when I feel my skin burn and my organs ignite from within me? How do I continue to breathe now when everything around me was decimated in an orgy of flame?”
“I am not the one to tell you such things. All shall be made clear by Xilian, for he is the Prophet of our clan.”
I was escorted by a group of nine, four males (including Evander) and five females all wearing robes identical to my own in design, yet they radiated a golden yellow rather than my crude silver, which by comparison seemed bland. I was not bound and did not resist in any way—I understood so little that I reasoned there was no point.
We exited the room on the right, moving through a long, dark corridor to which my eyes had not fully adjusted before emerging into an environment unlike any even the wildest of human imaginations could conceive of. Vast skyscrapers of impossible dimensions lined the streets as far as the eye could see. Light projected fiercely out of all windows, cascading amber and crimson on the streets below, which held a great multitude of like-dressed individuals so that the surface of the land appeared as a wash of rich shades of yellow interspersed with black and crimson illumination. Great metallic causeways carried people between adjacent buildings like broad celestial bridges in the sky, one stacked atop the next in serene, impeccable architectural harmony.
The sky alternated unnatural shades of burnt orange and teal. Strange circular objects dotted the skyway, darting low and dodging through the tangled urban mass at velocities too fast to estimate.
“Beautiful.” I mouthed the words but emitted no sound.
The tall man called Evander spoke to me: “This is the world you must come to know. Everything around you, everything you see here is ours. But to the north, and to the south, and in the east and in the west our enemies gather at our doorstep, seeking our destruction just as we endeavor to theirs. Look around and before you and you shall see our brethren, the Sentients of clan Jericho. The colors we wear are symbols of our affinity to the clan and loyalty to the Prophet of our kind.”
Despite the magnificence of the environment before me, I could not help but feel a sense of longing for the life I had lost—the memories were still there. All of them, flashing before my consciousness like a fleeting shadow. But everything was hazy, and I felt strongly that each passing moment erased another glimpse of my past, as if to make room for something else, something far more vital. I remembered Evander’s words about learning, about my education.
Evander, seemingly privy to my train of thought, spoke deliberately: “Whatever you feel, you must find it within yourself to dismiss all sentimental notions of your prior existence—lay both the loving and the damning memories of your past to rest for all time. It does not matter who you were or how you arrived here. Consider all that you know, and then forsake all of it. The only knowledge is acquired, the only instinct is survival.”
I was being led towards one of the strange spherical objects. On approach it opened like a cocoon and the black shell parted to reveal a spacious white interior which comfortably fitted all ten of us. Once inside, the cocoon reformed just as it had opened.
Evander took note of my bemusement at this development, and spoke plainly: “In time, you will become familiar with such devices. There are many technological acuities of the land to which you must become accustomed, affording you survive that long. We are going to a place called Xain, wherein dwells the Prophet Xilian, our leader. He is the reason your heart still beats.”
I had no idea how long it took to arrive at our destination or in which direction we were traveling, though the windowless capsule seemed to move of its own volition, or else the controller was nowhere to be seen. The pod came to an abrupt halt in midair before dropping altitude dramatically. My stomach lurched, but one of the females had a firm grasp on the robe sleeve covering my right arm and her touch was reassuring in the most sublime way I could fathom. The strange vehicle touched down. “You get used to that.” said Evander, referring to the sudden altitude drop which my stomach likened to an elevator effect multiplied a few thousand times over.
When I emerged I raised my eyes to reveal a grand structure of granite and marble, with royal yellow banners cascading from the rooftops to the silver staircase below.
Evander spoke to me: “Welcome to Xain, the capital city of the realm of Jericho. You shall not be harmed, so long as you agree to the terms of the Prophet. Follow me.”
The entire group ascended the marble staircase, taking care always to place me in the center of them all. After the ascension we were confronted at the top by great colossal gates of ivory and steel, which if nothing else certainly appeared an image of the celestial. Evander held up his left palm and the troop stopped a few meters from the gate. There was a moment’s pause, and then the gate opened quickly and inexplicably with no sound.
Moving briskly, we entered a long, lavishly-decorated oversized hallway of sorts. Lining the walls on either side were men and women, forgoing the modestly elegant robes I had become accustomed to seeing in favor of full body armor of some unknown make and design. The sharp reflective yellow of the battlesuits seemed to create a miniature aura around each of them which I sensed may have been kinetically generated or artificial in some way. These warriors were armed with strange weapons and blades of various shapes and sizes, each seemingly unique and no doubt suited to a deliberate, grisly purpose. The ceiling rose up fifty meters from the shimmering marble floor beneath our feet and our footsteps echoed in fashion spookily similar to the rhythmic rattle of the metallic barn prior to my near-death incineration.
Graphic, representational images covered the surrounding walls, depicting bizarre acts of violence and terror which struck me as symbolic, though to what ascription I knew not. Evander walked alongside me.
“Who are these people?” I asked, referring to the war-equipped individuals on either side of our party.
“They are not ‘people.’ They are Yuri-Zen— warrior elites, protectors of the realm and Guardians of the Mantle of Gabriel; the last remnants of Michael’s army.”
“Michael the arch-angel?
“When Gabriel fell, the Yuri-Zen made a final pact with Michael’s forces to carry on the Mantle of the last remaining arch-angel.”
“What is this mantle? Is it something physical?”
“You are not prepared for this knowledge, and even thus it would not be my place to tell you. I can only say that when the time comes, you will know what it means and what is required of you.”
The spacious, elongated corridor seemed to stretch into oblivion before Evander directed the party left down a path slightly smaller but no less ornate or populated than the main hall. We made a quick left again after passing a grand stone statue of a being with wings, sword and shield in hand, visage emblazoned permanently with a look of terrible ferocity. The shield-face bore the letter “J” carved in a cryptic bold font.
We finally came to approach a particularly guarded north-facing wall deep within the interior of the capitol building. A congregation of Yuri-Zen fighters bowed and parted into lines as Evander saluted, using a hand gesture which I did not recognize. I noticed that many of them were staring intently into my eyes. Built into the wall at their backs was what equated to a large elevator, plain and gray compared to everything around it. Evander stepped forward and beckoned me to follow him. None of the other escorts moved. A simple push of the adjacent button summoned the carriage, and the doors opened. Evander and I entered. I sensed many pairs of eyes upon me as the doors closed shut.
There was a pause. Suddenly the elevator plummeted downward, and although I could feel the great speed at which we descended, the ride down felt smooth and completely unlike the unpleasant sensation of the strange cocoon’s abrupt descent earlier. The doors opened and a decorated interior of many magnificent hues was revealed.
“The Prophet awaits you.” said Evander. “Go. We have been so long in waiting.” The doors closed almost the instant I stepped into the room. Twenty feet in front of me a man sat complacently in a white satin chair trimmed with shades of yellow and gold, fingers together at the tips, head slightly cocked to the right with an curious blank expression on his face. The entirety of the chamber’s southern wall was made up of overlaying layers of window glass resembling tint, and it appeared that one could see out, but not in. The monumental window-wall looked out over the urban monstrosity below, towering over and above it as a city upon a hill. I thought perhaps the entire complex was built into a giant cliffside.
The man Evander had called ‘leader’ stood up to face me. He spoke clearly and with a reverent air of serenity: “Hello, my brother. It is fortunate that you still live. Knowing this, it is preferable that you were tested from the beginning. Many Sentients react more positively if exposed to the violence right away. I am Xilian, Prophet of the clan Jericho. Those you have seen thus far—the ones who saved you and escorted you here to me are my brothers and sisters. If you so choose, they shall be your brothers and your sisters as well. They will shelter you, protect you, teach you their ways and pass unto you all the knowledge necessary for survival. You must bee forewarned that there are others, a great many others who would seek to turn you to their cause or else pursue and destroy you with every fiber of their being, for you may be their gravest threat.” I stared astonished at him. He was wearing robes of silk colored dark yellow, trimmed with white collar and cuffs and a lavender crown upon his head. His skin was light brown and his voice musical and soothing. He must have stood nearly seven feet high and he wore golden jewels and rings upon his fingers and arms. Finally, I spoke to him. “Why am I a threat to anyone? I shouldn’t even be here! I am dead...I remember dying. This cannot be Heaven. So it must be...in Hell where I now reside.”
“As your teacher, I instruct you not to think in absolutes evermore.” Said the Prophet quaintly.
“You are not my teacher!”
“Human beings enjoy perceiving in absolutes, because there is always a resolution. But you cannot allow yourself to remiss into such primitive intellectual barbarism. You must from this point forward dismiss all concepts dealing in absolute terms. This is the most integral process in the initiation of your education. When you come to understand this lesson, you will comprehend also that power which you now possess: the innate abilities of your kind manifest in you which you did not have in your previous life.”
“You speak of absolutes. Heaven is an absolute. So is Hell.”
“Very good, Gabriel.”
“So neither have I risen unto Heaven, nor fallen unto Hell. So tell me—what is this tormented urban paradise which now claims me?”
“Heaven is but a whisper in a shadow that will never again be illuminated. The great Kingdom of God is gone from the land, forevermore. The Gates crumbled to dust long ago.”
“And what of the antithesis?”
“The Pillars of Hell no longer stand tall. This place you see before you, this is all that remains—so that all may share in the suffering and ecstasy of mortal whims and perversions.”
“But what of God in all this madness? How could He allow this?”
“Allow it? One could ask why he should have it any other way! What is He but a tyrant? The greatest of all the lords of hypocrisy, the master of the enslavement of the minds of men and women in body, will and purpose?” I began to sense that the serene tone in Xilian’s melodic voice did not betray the true emotion behind his words.
“How does it come to this?” I asked. “After all I’ve been taught...led to believe...”
“All that you believe is a function of what you have been taught, and all you have been taught is a lie.” said Xilian. His words echoed like a great hollow thunder of awakening inside my mind.
“But it is written in the Scriptures—.”
“The Scriptures were written by men, brother, not God. It is because of Man that all you see before you has come to pass. Long ago, so long that no accurate timeline can be referenced, the blood of Michael’s Angels became contaminate, mixed with the human Sentients and lesser breeds of men. The great Army of Heaven, once thought invincible and forever united, was broken, shattered and splintered into multitudes of tribes and factions all vying for the last Mantle of the Angels: that of the fallen Gabriel, which we of the clan Jericho now possess. Over countless ages, Heaven and Hell came to resemble the realm of Earth, and she brought all her greed and vice and decadent excesses along with her.”
“Why didn’t God intervene?”
“Your God is the master of puppets and illusions—by these devices He hath ruled over all life—but never again. You do not know the true God. You do not wish to know such things.”
“How many of these tribes exist?”
“We know it was once so many that the land could not claim them all.”
“And what happened then?”
“Purification and consolidation. Where once there was a multitude, seven now remain. But the cleansing is not complete. Only one will survive. If I could only offer you one thing, heed this: Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”
“Corinthians chapter five, verse three.” I replied.
“It was said that you would bear foreknowledge of the Scriptures.”
“I was raised to be a minister until the age of seventeen. Then I realized that God did not harbor the answers to the questions I sought. So I turned to literature and science and away from holy writ.”
“Did you forsake Him?”
“No. But many...a great many around me did so.” I answered. At this, Xilian actually laughed, though even in amusement his voice carried a surreal aura which my senses seemed to associate with tranquility.
“They abandon that which they cannot see with their eyes and feel with their flesh.” Xilian said. “This is the conflict that defines human sense of reality—between what is and what seems to be.”
“What is your meaning?” I inquired.
“Take this world—this place. You see, yet you do not comprehend. Not yet. You know things only as they appear, not as they actually are.”
“Like death?”
“Are you wondering why you still live?”
“I am wondering how I still live.”
“Hear me, Sentient—I speak with the force of such knowledge as to topple the mountains and empty the rivers and seas. You must understand, brother, we are in the middle of a war, one that has been going on for millennia, because time passes not here as it does on Earth. Your presence had been monitored by our enemies since your arrival. Many are aware of your coming.”
“What do they want with me?”
“They seek to destroy you. They almost succeeded.”
“But I have nothing to show of it, not even scars or remnants of torn tissue or loss of blood! Who is the true worker of miracles, then—if not God, then who? You?”
Xilian laughed calmly again, identical in tone and manner to his previous outburst. “Miracles are relative to whatever is considered to be miraculous. Perhaps you have noticed that your body is able to heal much faster than you once thought possible. Maybe you feel pain dull to your senses as your threshold increases with each passing moment. This is only the beginning, the first steps on a path paved long before you in blood and tribulation.”
“Why then? Why not let me burn...let me die if this is the afterlife I must face?”
“No, Gabriel. It is not your time to die. You are much too valuable. I am the sacred Keeper of my people. As Prophet I have seen that which would blind the Children of Men. I can see through the soldiers of our cause, into their very hearts and souls—and never, never before has there been one such as you.”
“What makes me so special?”
“You have become the focus of a situation of the most delicate nature. You must swear allegiance to clan Jericho—swear allegiance to me, the Prophet, and all my brothers and sisters.”
I paused for a few moments. “And what if I say no?”
“Then you shall die a true death, one you cannot come back from. There is no other option, for you are a grave threat to us all. Within you, Gabriel, lays an ancient power, one this world has not seen since the fall of the angels. Only you may choose: unity for the seven factions of Michael’s Army or death to all but one. Once it is done, the Mantle of the last arch-angel must be returned from whence it came.”
I sensed the powerful flow of events within me. It felt as if I was feeding on something in the air, or perhaps it was purely within me. I felt stronger than I had ever been.
“What am I?” I asked.
“You...are nothing. But you can become everything—the past, present, and future of your race. The path is clear now—join or die, make your choice.”
The choice was made, and it was not my own. It was like an obscene, unanimous force compelling me to stay in this strange land. I spoke to the Prophet once more: “If not Heaven, and if not Hell, what call you this land—this reality?”
Xilian walked with me to the south wall of layered glass, and together we looked out upon the beautiful, terrible horizon stretching off into surreal amber infinity. “Welcome...” he said...“to the Valley of Babylon.”
And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.
-Revelation 18:2
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Critical Response: Marquez's One of These Days
Response to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One of These Days
This is a story where the reader is meant to be kept in the dark with regards to certain events and inter-personal relationships between the characters. It starts out droll and standard, like any number of stories we’ve become used to reading. We are given little indication that something is wrong (save for the symbolism of the buzzards if it can be interpreted as such) until the dentist refuses to see the mayor, telling his son to inform him “I’m not here.” So now we see that something is amiss based upon a previous pattern of events which is barely alluded to throughout the course of the story.
The mayor’s implicit threat (“He says if you don’t take out his tooth, he’ll shoot you”) gives us insight into the nature of the time and place; the setting becomes apparent only at this point. The dentist’s possession of a revolver speaks of an unknown animosity between himself and the mayor and perhaps sets the tale in the realm of the Old West, where cavalier justice was no different than vengeance and corruption and graft held free reign. This is brought to light with the dentist’s comments that “now you’ll pay for our twenty dead men” implying a specific instance of conflict and misery in the past which strains the relationship between them both.
The mayor is revealed through the dentist’s comments as a man of questionable morality and excessive power. The mayor’s comment that “It’s the same damn thing” with regards to the dentist’s bill shows that he considers himself and the town in singular terms: he is the town and the town cannot function without him.
I personally admire this style of writing and enjoy building a plot somewhat esoterically (in the vein of true intellectual science fiction). The difficulty is striking a balance between curious ignorance and knowing credulity, so as to keep the reader on edge, wanting more but not frustrated from lack of prior understanding. One of These Days is an apt title for this piece because it plays against what is otherwise a largely esoteric backdrop where more is unknown than is known. It is a delicate line to walk and I strive to improve every day on this one thing specifically, because it is the key to tapping into the sublime. In this respect this style of writing is useful to my creative approach.
This is a story where the reader is meant to be kept in the dark with regards to certain events and inter-personal relationships between the characters. It starts out droll and standard, like any number of stories we’ve become used to reading. We are given little indication that something is wrong (save for the symbolism of the buzzards if it can be interpreted as such) until the dentist refuses to see the mayor, telling his son to inform him “I’m not here.” So now we see that something is amiss based upon a previous pattern of events which is barely alluded to throughout the course of the story.
The mayor’s implicit threat (“He says if you don’t take out his tooth, he’ll shoot you”) gives us insight into the nature of the time and place; the setting becomes apparent only at this point. The dentist’s possession of a revolver speaks of an unknown animosity between himself and the mayor and perhaps sets the tale in the realm of the Old West, where cavalier justice was no different than vengeance and corruption and graft held free reign. This is brought to light with the dentist’s comments that “now you’ll pay for our twenty dead men” implying a specific instance of conflict and misery in the past which strains the relationship between them both.
The mayor is revealed through the dentist’s comments as a man of questionable morality and excessive power. The mayor’s comment that “It’s the same damn thing” with regards to the dentist’s bill shows that he considers himself and the town in singular terms: he is the town and the town cannot function without him.
I personally admire this style of writing and enjoy building a plot somewhat esoterically (in the vein of true intellectual science fiction). The difficulty is striking a balance between curious ignorance and knowing credulity, so as to keep the reader on edge, wanting more but not frustrated from lack of prior understanding. One of These Days is an apt title for this piece because it plays against what is otherwise a largely esoteric backdrop where more is unknown than is known. It is a delicate line to walk and I strive to improve every day on this one thing specifically, because it is the key to tapping into the sublime. In this respect this style of writing is useful to my creative approach.
Wolves of God by Z. Goldstein
“On the day She died, people said that God died with Her. At the beginning of Time the Father gave us the Mother. When the seas rose, it was said that we drowned Her after we raped her. This was the sin that murdered God, the failure of the holy volition of Mankind. Some said that God took the land away from us. Others that She was angered at our abuse of Her treasures and the slaughter of Her kin, the flora and fauna driven to extinction by the ruthless excesses of unchecked consumerism. And then there were those men and women who believed that the cause of this great end, the true scapegoat of all this misery and desolation was the dark angel Satan himself. They argued that the Lord’s powers had become weakened by the sins of humanity, the will of the Mother world eroded through constant abuse and degradation. It was because of the children of men that the devil grew strong enough to destroy Her.” The Consular spoke with a despondent conviction denoting a passive acceptance of the prior sins of his race.
The newly accepted Disciple listened attentively and then paused in deep reflection of the holy man’s words. He thought his response through carefully, fully aware of the ramifications of speaking noise without purpose. “When I was seven years old my father told me the tale of how our ancestors drowned. He showed me their words preserved electronically within the buxom of Luna. I looked upon the writings of my father’s great-grandfather and I wept at first. He was a man torn by the breadth of the gap between his convictions and his experiences. In his time alive he watched the waves come over the mountains and into the cities and valleys. He was one of the last survivors to stand on Her soil. He loved God, though he had naught but anger in his heart. Most of all, he hated men. After the Son had died...he could not fathom how we could not have learned. We had to kill Her first. He hated men because they had killed her. This caused him to hate himself.”
The Consular paused, then spoke: “Do you believe She was angered?”
“No. She was helpless at the hands of our excesses. Lord Plato would have been ashamed.” answered the Disciple.
“At the excess, He [Plato] would. As for the deficiency, if He should have seen it, he would have regretted his profession in its entirety.” said the Consular. A sad, thin smile formed at the edges of his mouth.
“Master, it was not until years later that I realized why my ancestor chose to direct his anger towards himself. It was because of society. He hated himself for his participation in what he believed to be an unholy arrangement between inborn greed, the false free market and the perversion of Her religions. He reasoned that it all began with society.”
“But what formed society...in the beginning?”
“Religion.”
“Though he...loved God, as you say?”
“He loved God. He hated organized religion. He would have hated...what I am participating in now.”
“Would he have hated you for believing in the appointed servants of the God he loved?”
At this the Disciple hesitated, then thought quietly. After a few moments, he answered: “Who appointed them—Fusion barons, politicians, pirate kings or military hegemonies, pseudo-religious dictatorships like our own?”
“Once, long ago a group of forward-thinking intellectual men had a silly idea that they could separate the governments and the religions of mankind. They tried to create a government of the people...under God. They made a paradoxical distinction between holy and secular spirituality. For millennia, humanity had marched blind without comprehending the basic truth that spirituality is a deeply personal affair that may or may not involve communion with God in any variation. It was a magnificent theorem, though it did not survive long enough to be of much remembrance. It is something of the oral tales, this Land of the Free as it was called.”
The Disciple fathomed the Master’s chronicle of this lost nation of humanity. It was a free land...freedom unto excess. “In his worst moments, my ancestor decreed that the free market was the assemblage of Satanic ideology. He felt it to be a violation of God’s will. So, he strove to destroy it. Terrorist—that was what he was called by Her governments. He thought himself...a savior in his later, more deranged years. He thought he was...Her savior. He even writes of targeting the Antichrist, and becoming hopelessly frustrated because there were far too many candidates in his mind to choose from.”
The Consular studied his pupil, the calmness with which he spoke. He was under control. He had come to terms with the violence and the blood spilt in the name of the Lord. The Master spoke: “Do you approve of the jihads of your ancestors?”
“No. But I understand why he acted as he did. In the end, I can only imagine he faced the waters of his death with relief and jubilation.”
“This Land of the Free Market was called united under God.”
“How can we be free if we are bound by the shackles of the holy? A free world cannot be holy—a holy world surely cannot be free. This vision...was doomed to fail.”
“It failed because of men. It failed because men perverted the teachings of God unto the profit and power of their own design. This happened because men and women were free to worship as they saw fit. There was no holy control...guidance, if you will.”
Hearing these words, the first stir of agitation peaked in the Disciple’s throat: “Guidance, Master...unto enslavement to foolish dogmas and holy writ? Where does it end? The taint of slavery runs deep throughout the pages of the Bible—your censors cannot hide that from the youth, though you try.”
The Consular remained serene. He spoke deliberately: “The free men and women of this dead civilization once used the Bible to justify the taking of slaves from a foreign land. They ignored certain parts and focused on others. They used selective interpretation to validate their short-term goals, which could only be accomplished through a truly, brutally free market. You see, religion is a mold. Like...government. The two must always exist and one cannot subsist without the frame of the other. Everything depends on what we choose to shape those molds into—this is the essence of control...the crux of holy guidance.”
At this the Disciple laughed. The Consular frowned. He could not understand. Were his words somehow mistaken as jest? Nonetheless, he waited patiently until his pupil replied: “Forgive me, Master. Do you believe because your subjects are trained to see the holy and the spiritual on like terms that they have no spiritual lives independent of your sermons?”
“My son, anarchy and spirituality are not so far apart without faith to bind it all together. Without a hierarchy in religion you have no basis for dictating the proper behavior in any society. Without God, men would cut each other down without discretion or thought. There would be no moral law. And Lord Plato understood that religion was the basis for proper social conduct.”
The Disciple stared into his Master’s eyes. “Lord Plato did not believe in the same God that you do.”
“In his heart, he knew the pagan ways and false gods of his Greek temples were only methods of control until the population was ready for the fruition of the true faith.”
Even as the Master spoke these words something changed in the pupil. The Disciple knew he could never look upon the face of his teacher the same way again. Now it was the younger who was smiling. “Thank you Master. Finally, I understand the trials of my ancestor.”
The Consular was taken aback. He felt as if his student had gone, and another man was sitting before him—a different man. “My son, I have noticed patterns in your speech. Placements of certain words, tones and use of expressions—are you having any...doubts which you wish to share with me?”
“No Master, no doubts.” The Consular knew these words were true as he heard them. No doubt. The teacher was troubled by these revelations. The pupil continued: “My ancestor had a silly idea. He believed that the only way to save Her was to introduce...anarchy into the populace. The governments condemned him and the armies hunted him. In one of the last entries he wrote, he likened the grip of society to a ball of yarn rolling down a tilted table. The tilt is so slight that one cannot discern it—like a pebble falling into a vast, dark ocean. Eventually, the yarn will either unravel before it falls off the edge or fall off and...die, as he put it. He wanted to speed up the process of unraveling. He thought that society would end when the yarn ran out.”
“What happened instead?” queried the Consular.
“We fell off the edge.”
The Master looked confused. “My student, does the yarn not signify the decay of society?”
“No, Master. The yarn represents the ignorance of humanity.”
“Do you share the convictions of your ancient kin?”
“My ancestors were...misled. We were all misled—told an illusion as if it were truth before we were old enough to discern the difference.”
“What illusion, my son?”
The Disciple smiled again thoughtfully, his expression betraying sincerity with no arrogance. “Faith. I refuse to believe that spirituality and religion are one and the same.”
“Do you love God as your ancestor did?”
“Faith is control. Control depends upon the illusion that faith is reality. I have often heard you speak of guidance and control as if they were the same, Master. You control the cast but the mold is only there because people believe in it—in essence, all your powers exist as puppets and shadows do. You have no real authority, your decrees ring as hollow out across the universe now as they did when She was still living and nurturing us. No, I understand why my ancestor loved God. He did not have a choice—he clung to the deception, feeding off it, defining his whole reality by its demented sway. His mind was a bastion, and the wolves were already inside the keep. There was no hope for him, like so many to this day. But my perspective is different. I do not love God. I reserve my affections for the living and the real.”
“You speak blasphemy, child.”
“That word no longer holds any meaning in my heart.”
“If you persist in this heresy, you must leave us.”
“Yes Master, I will leave. God is not longer my shepherd—God...is the wolf. We are the castle. I must find my own way through the valley of darkness. Farewell, milord. If I see you in Hell, I’ll know we were both mistaken.”
The newly accepted Disciple listened attentively and then paused in deep reflection of the holy man’s words. He thought his response through carefully, fully aware of the ramifications of speaking noise without purpose. “When I was seven years old my father told me the tale of how our ancestors drowned. He showed me their words preserved electronically within the buxom of Luna. I looked upon the writings of my father’s great-grandfather and I wept at first. He was a man torn by the breadth of the gap between his convictions and his experiences. In his time alive he watched the waves come over the mountains and into the cities and valleys. He was one of the last survivors to stand on Her soil. He loved God, though he had naught but anger in his heart. Most of all, he hated men. After the Son had died...he could not fathom how we could not have learned. We had to kill Her first. He hated men because they had killed her. This caused him to hate himself.”
The Consular paused, then spoke: “Do you believe She was angered?”
“No. She was helpless at the hands of our excesses. Lord Plato would have been ashamed.” answered the Disciple.
“At the excess, He [Plato] would. As for the deficiency, if He should have seen it, he would have regretted his profession in its entirety.” said the Consular. A sad, thin smile formed at the edges of his mouth.
“Master, it was not until years later that I realized why my ancestor chose to direct his anger towards himself. It was because of society. He hated himself for his participation in what he believed to be an unholy arrangement between inborn greed, the false free market and the perversion of Her religions. He reasoned that it all began with society.”
“But what formed society...in the beginning?”
“Religion.”
“Though he...loved God, as you say?”
“He loved God. He hated organized religion. He would have hated...what I am participating in now.”
“Would he have hated you for believing in the appointed servants of the God he loved?”
At this the Disciple hesitated, then thought quietly. After a few moments, he answered: “Who appointed them—Fusion barons, politicians, pirate kings or military hegemonies, pseudo-religious dictatorships like our own?”
“Once, long ago a group of forward-thinking intellectual men had a silly idea that they could separate the governments and the religions of mankind. They tried to create a government of the people...under God. They made a paradoxical distinction between holy and secular spirituality. For millennia, humanity had marched blind without comprehending the basic truth that spirituality is a deeply personal affair that may or may not involve communion with God in any variation. It was a magnificent theorem, though it did not survive long enough to be of much remembrance. It is something of the oral tales, this Land of the Free as it was called.”
The Disciple fathomed the Master’s chronicle of this lost nation of humanity. It was a free land...freedom unto excess. “In his worst moments, my ancestor decreed that the free market was the assemblage of Satanic ideology. He felt it to be a violation of God’s will. So, he strove to destroy it. Terrorist—that was what he was called by Her governments. He thought himself...a savior in his later, more deranged years. He thought he was...Her savior. He even writes of targeting the Antichrist, and becoming hopelessly frustrated because there were far too many candidates in his mind to choose from.”
The Consular studied his pupil, the calmness with which he spoke. He was under control. He had come to terms with the violence and the blood spilt in the name of the Lord. The Master spoke: “Do you approve of the jihads of your ancestors?”
“No. But I understand why he acted as he did. In the end, I can only imagine he faced the waters of his death with relief and jubilation.”
“This Land of the Free Market was called united under God.”
“How can we be free if we are bound by the shackles of the holy? A free world cannot be holy—a holy world surely cannot be free. This vision...was doomed to fail.”
“It failed because of men. It failed because men perverted the teachings of God unto the profit and power of their own design. This happened because men and women were free to worship as they saw fit. There was no holy control...guidance, if you will.”
Hearing these words, the first stir of agitation peaked in the Disciple’s throat: “Guidance, Master...unto enslavement to foolish dogmas and holy writ? Where does it end? The taint of slavery runs deep throughout the pages of the Bible—your censors cannot hide that from the youth, though you try.”
The Consular remained serene. He spoke deliberately: “The free men and women of this dead civilization once used the Bible to justify the taking of slaves from a foreign land. They ignored certain parts and focused on others. They used selective interpretation to validate their short-term goals, which could only be accomplished through a truly, brutally free market. You see, religion is a mold. Like...government. The two must always exist and one cannot subsist without the frame of the other. Everything depends on what we choose to shape those molds into—this is the essence of control...the crux of holy guidance.”
At this the Disciple laughed. The Consular frowned. He could not understand. Were his words somehow mistaken as jest? Nonetheless, he waited patiently until his pupil replied: “Forgive me, Master. Do you believe because your subjects are trained to see the holy and the spiritual on like terms that they have no spiritual lives independent of your sermons?”
“My son, anarchy and spirituality are not so far apart without faith to bind it all together. Without a hierarchy in religion you have no basis for dictating the proper behavior in any society. Without God, men would cut each other down without discretion or thought. There would be no moral law. And Lord Plato understood that religion was the basis for proper social conduct.”
The Disciple stared into his Master’s eyes. “Lord Plato did not believe in the same God that you do.”
“In his heart, he knew the pagan ways and false gods of his Greek temples were only methods of control until the population was ready for the fruition of the true faith.”
Even as the Master spoke these words something changed in the pupil. The Disciple knew he could never look upon the face of his teacher the same way again. Now it was the younger who was smiling. “Thank you Master. Finally, I understand the trials of my ancestor.”
The Consular was taken aback. He felt as if his student had gone, and another man was sitting before him—a different man. “My son, I have noticed patterns in your speech. Placements of certain words, tones and use of expressions—are you having any...doubts which you wish to share with me?”
“No Master, no doubts.” The Consular knew these words were true as he heard them. No doubt. The teacher was troubled by these revelations. The pupil continued: “My ancestor had a silly idea. He believed that the only way to save Her was to introduce...anarchy into the populace. The governments condemned him and the armies hunted him. In one of the last entries he wrote, he likened the grip of society to a ball of yarn rolling down a tilted table. The tilt is so slight that one cannot discern it—like a pebble falling into a vast, dark ocean. Eventually, the yarn will either unravel before it falls off the edge or fall off and...die, as he put it. He wanted to speed up the process of unraveling. He thought that society would end when the yarn ran out.”
“What happened instead?” queried the Consular.
“We fell off the edge.”
The Master looked confused. “My student, does the yarn not signify the decay of society?”
“No, Master. The yarn represents the ignorance of humanity.”
“Do you share the convictions of your ancient kin?”
“My ancestors were...misled. We were all misled—told an illusion as if it were truth before we were old enough to discern the difference.”
“What illusion, my son?”
The Disciple smiled again thoughtfully, his expression betraying sincerity with no arrogance. “Faith. I refuse to believe that spirituality and religion are one and the same.”
“Do you love God as your ancestor did?”
“Faith is control. Control depends upon the illusion that faith is reality. I have often heard you speak of guidance and control as if they were the same, Master. You control the cast but the mold is only there because people believe in it—in essence, all your powers exist as puppets and shadows do. You have no real authority, your decrees ring as hollow out across the universe now as they did when She was still living and nurturing us. No, I understand why my ancestor loved God. He did not have a choice—he clung to the deception, feeding off it, defining his whole reality by its demented sway. His mind was a bastion, and the wolves were already inside the keep. There was no hope for him, like so many to this day. But my perspective is different. I do not love God. I reserve my affections for the living and the real.”
“You speak blasphemy, child.”
“That word no longer holds any meaning in my heart.”
“If you persist in this heresy, you must leave us.”
“Yes Master, I will leave. God is not longer my shepherd—God...is the wolf. We are the castle. I must find my own way through the valley of darkness. Farewell, milord. If I see you in Hell, I’ll know we were both mistaken.”
The Sovereign and the Damned by Z. Goldstein
You know they used to say that armies would never go fully mercenary. Said they were always going to be loyal to some sovereign or another. Thing is, people can’t see ahead of the curve, they can’t think why what with all our political triumphs and social progressions we need war. Since the beginning of time men (and a few women) have been looking for ways to justify killing each other. So society evolves. Now we are no longer killing each other over mating rights or food or infantile disputes of manhood. No, now we are killing because of religion. Because of God. The Muslims preach jihad on the infidels and the Christians condemn the Jews to hell. But you know the thing about gods? They are flexible. They mold to whatever you need them to be. Whatever your genocidal goals, there is a god to back you up. See, men need hope. Even if something is totally irrational, they will believe it so long as it sustains them in whatever struggle they face. It’s like...sovereignty. Somewhere down the timeline they got it into people’s heads this idea of nationalism. This is not a natural result; it was a propelled event in history. A drop in the pond, but still so significant. Just think, all the men who died in service of an idea—a country...what a concept. But you see that’s just an excuse. In the original societies, it was only tribes. Small bands of fifty and sixty men fighting over territory. Like city street gangs. I always said the gang culture was most in tune with the natural instincts and inclinations of men. Now, here’s the poetic part, see. As society evolves and consequently the power of the sovereign entity (which is all puppets and shadows) multiplies, it becomes harder and harder to kill. More importantly, it’s the justification for the kill. But that doesn’t stop us. So we come up with more and more ingenious and diabolical ways of reaping one another; poison the fruit you feed to the children, play deity and burn people’s eyes out of their skulls, feed a needled toxin into the flesh and listen to the lungs drown. It’s...creativity, really. But the main point is that it doesn’t matter how we kill one another. What matters is that it gets done. And since it is after all wholly inevitable, why shouldn’t it be profitable like every other damn thing in the universe? Do you think me...cold? Callous? We’d all like to believe that we are unique and special little petals of the rose. In actuality, we are the thorns. We just try to clean up nice now and again. Mostly for the women. I was always fascinated by women; the power that they can wield, and the limitations on that power by particular spheres of influence. I have an interesting theory. See, I think that if women had all the power, there would be lasting peace in all the realms of mankind. They’re just more protective of life. Remember history. The earliest prize of conquest for the all-male invading army was pillage and rape. In my experience I have found these sadistic urges to be largely foreign in the minds of women. This, my mentor explained, was the reason for the mainstream religious demonization of the female form and spirit. In the original tale of Genesis, haven’t you ever wondered why it was Eve who was tempted? When foolishly visionary men forged manuscripts of the Old Testament, they knew they wanted a male-dominated controlling institution. Thus the temptation of Eve represents the failure of women to follow and act unto the word of God. This way, war can still continue, and men could continue to profit from it. This profit was not always monetary, but it was always in the form of power. Fast forward...now, we are here. We control the foreign policy of nations and shape the fates of men. And yes, this too is all about progression. Evolution. We’re the future, see. The future of power. And we were here before any of them could even tell the difference.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Demons of the Border by Z. Goldstein
Demons of the Border
by
Zachary L. Goldstein
Nihilism:
1.
Total rejection of established laws and institutions.
2.
Anarchy, terrorism, or other revolutionary activity.
3.
Total and absolute destructiveness toward oneself and the world at large.
4.
Annihilation of the self or the individual consciousness.
“I was born a Texas boy, Terrell James to them that know me, and nobody’s business to them that don’t. I suppose I lived a pretty regular life up until I was about 19 years of age. I’d gotten into some trouble with the law now and again, been to jail a few times but then, I ain’t never had too much respect for authority figures, seemed all one and the same to me—ignorant bastards just itchin’ to break the teeth of any man, woman or child who won’t stand in line behind ‘em. It was ‘bout that time I reckon in the summer of ’71 that I fixed to leave sorry little Odessa an’ make my own way. My father always said I should go to school, get a degree in somethin’ or other, said it was the way of the future, everyone’s doin’ it, but I never saw no real cause behind it. I don’t need to give my bank to some soppy tenured professor up north just to get a damned piece of paper that says I know how to live now.
“So I went down to talk to the wise man of the town, ask him where I ought to set off to. He says to me head west: follow the border right along into California. He called it the golden land, said it was where all races and cultures were welcome. He said it’s where your dreams come true. He called it the land of stars and angels. Hell, what was I s’posed to say to somethin’ like that? I didn’t know no better. Either way, neither me nor that bald old wise man had any idea what I was in for.
“It wasn’t two days on the road ‘fore I met Grace. I never really knew her name was Grace until I saw it on her death bill, and that’s a helluva way to find out someone’s real name. She said she never liked her real name, said she let people pick a name. I chose one, though it don’t matter much now for the telling. We was at a gas station, I remember, right up parallel to the Arizona-Mexico line. First thing you noticed ‘bout Grace was that she always carried a handgun, strapped right up ‘round her waist like she was some kinda... outlaw vixen or somethin’. Like she didn’t need no man. Hell, I think she proved that fair enough.
“’Course, Grace herself was a disturbed individual. Not 16, when I first met her. Now when I say disturbed, now gather round, it’s important that you recognize the implications of the word. She’d tell me she was a nihilist, said she didn’t believe in nothing. Her father had beat n’ raped her from the time she was about 12, or so she said. It took her not two years to pump his heart full of lead and set his body all aflame. She said she just watched it burn, said it made her happy to watch him just burn.
“Wasn’t the handgun, though, that did her daddy in. She always had more than one gun. Said daddy had taught her to use the shotgun, even showed her how to saw it, make it into a killing machine. She said that’s what her daddy called it. Killing machine. She said it did its job, said it was his own damn fault, not for raping her, mind you, but for teaching her how to use that god damn shotgun. She said she was lost, said her soul was cursed. She said if there’s such a thing as a God, he’d send her to Hell, but since there ain’t, all’s left is to burn or go beneath the ground. She said she could be as much the devil as she wanted to be, said she fucked demons in her sleep. Hell, I ain’t never heard no other gal talk like that.
“She always said she was gonna commit suicide. I suppose it’s not so much that I didn’t believe her, as that I didn’t want to. One morning October 1973 I walk into the kitchen to find her with a handgun in her right hand. Then she says to me: “I’m going to do it, and you’re going to watch me do it.” She put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. When the law came, I’s afraid they wasn’t gonna believe me, think I was just one of them psychos runnin’ amok, killing pretty innocent young girls. But they knew who she was, said she had a history. Lawman told me she was first arrested at 7, for beatin’ on a young girl with a folding chair, and the like. Said the girl had insulted her name. Said that was the only reason.
“Hell, folks today still ask me what it’s like to watch somebody die, don’t even realize that I’ve been a killer myself. Six men in the ground ‘cause of me. Four of ‘em deserved it. The other two? Well, the time was just up, nothin’ we can do about that. Last boy I killed I just watched him bleed. Just watched. My daddy once said you’ll never get through life without killin’ or getting’ killed. Guess we know which ticket I pulled.”
Ghoul by Z. Goldstein
Ghoul
by
Zachary L. Goldstein
“Okay, Mr. Livingston. We’d like you to tell us what you saw when you came out to the fields this morning to file in our report.” The deputy stared gravely at the farmer, who still appeared a little shaken. The law man waited patiently for him to begin.
The farmer opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, starting again: “It was just before sunrise. First thing I do every morning is feed the hens. I go outside and I remember thinking it was strange, not hearing my rooster sing. In fact there was absolutely no noise at all, couldn’t even here the wind blowing between my ears.”
“When you got to the pen, what did you find?” asked the lawman.
“They were all lying down on their sides. The beaks were open and the eyes were...barren, cold.”
“Was there anything still alive inside there?”
“No. Just...silence. The hay bed wasn’t even ruffled. It was like whatever got them had no legs.”
“Any signs of struggle? Where did you see blood?”
“No...there was no blood. It was like something had drained them. The throats had all been cut into—I couldn’t understand why there wasn’t any blood.”
“You said the throats had been opened.”
“Yes, each wound was exactly the same. So precise—like someone was practicing a grisly surgery.”
“And the door of the barn housing the foul was deadbolt-locked, you say?”
“Yeah, I woke up in the morning and the lock was still there, good as before.”
“Could anything have gotten inside from the roof or high up along the sides?”
“It would have to be something small. The only access is an open-air window at the rear, some thirty feet up. The space isn’t more than a foot across, each way.”
“Okay. Tell me about the goats and the mares. You often leave them free to graze overnight?”
“Well yes, the property’s fenced off in all directions and I personally think it’s healthier that way.”
“For them or for you?” inquired the deputy.
“Both.” responded Mr. Livingston acutely.
“When you got to the grazing grounds, what did you find?”
“I saw rows of goats and cows lying in the soft green grass. They were all in a line: four going that way, five laying the other way. The angle was almost perpendicular—like some middle school kid’s art project.”
“Were the throats cut here, as well?”
“No, the throats were intact. But the necks were snapped—all of them. And not just snapped, mind you, but bent at damn near ninety degrees. The rows were so neat, and yet it was like whatever killed them was so fast that they just dropped where they had been standing. It was all very eerie, deputy. I can’t even describe how it felt. My livelihood was destroyed and for all I know a ghoul could be the culprit.”
“You said it looked as if they just dropped where they were standing. Like they didn’t even have a chance to react?
“Listen, I know animals. The sense of danger is an instinct. Call it God, evolution, witchcraft or whatever you please—it’s there, ingrained in them. It’s all they know. Fight or flight. But this—it was automatic. One moment they were all living and the next they were dead. Instinct didn’t even come into play on this one.”
“I’m having trouble believing it was some sort of animal. What creature do you know of that kills just...to kill? It doesn’t make sense that it would just leave the bodies. It’s against all—.”
“Instinct, deputy?”
“It does seem rather unnatural. Mr. Livingston, do you have any enemies? Any who would want to destroy what you have made for yourself and your family?”
“After this day, I’m certain that I do.”
The deputy thanked the farmer and sent him on his way. He decided not to tell him. He would find out soon enough anyways. Everyone would.
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