An Ominous Sunset
((or, “Eventide”) (Part one of II))
Chapter one
Eventide
“Fast falls the eventide—in the blood red twilight—the bleak night deepens, the demons creep closer—I go alone, no one to abide with me.”
—last spoken words of
Vargas the Seer
And so it was, this was the bleak weariness of the doomed man, bound for hopeless oblivion, in the underground continent called Amosodos—a land that come out of shrunken seas that had bound a forgotten race, for nearly ten-thousand years; the pre Adamic Race, that rebellious race that lived before and for a moment of time, alongside, that is: side by side with Adam’s Garden of Eden, so legend speculates, and in which it arises to this very day in select groups. And where time has little meaning, it is a land of nothingness, one of the 72-deaths, appointed to mankind, and the only one deemed for the sorcerer direct, where dishonor and abomination for him by the human race, is beyond understanding. Hence, this is the edge where the old man stood, and there after a short time, Amosodos appeared out of nowhere, and opened its crumbling gates for his departure, for eternal solitude, this was assigned him, this was the land of near total night, with only blood red twilights to entertain. A land of shadows and shapes, a land where just a few select went, a special group, the sorcerers, and necromancers. The most merciless and evil who practiced their art, which were incapable of not hurting mankind, obsessed, oppressed, with the art, addicted to its punishing whims. Vargas the Seer, devoted every God given minute to the practice of the art of magic, he had no peers, no equals. Here he could not hurt any human or earthly living thing—here he could use his art fully with no harness, his ebon wand could be used likened to loose cannons, here he would meet his equals, and those beings from before the advent of earthly time, the time.
These were not resurrected beings, nor quite demonic either, they had never died—death was not created until after the advent of Adam, and his expulsion from the Garden; nor were they ghosts, they were not of the same kind of soul of man; consequently, Vargas the Seer was assigned to a lawless land, a tomb in essence, a big tomb, that disappeared as mysteriously as it appeared, and there he stood on the edge of this platform, about to be pushed over onto this dark continent, with its ever swelling population. And then he used his magic wand…
Chapter two
Amosodos
As he took his first step onto the continent called Amosodos, his wand, turned into a snake that bit him, and he dropped it, then he looked at the pageant of faces, supposedly live captives like him, whom he had thought were dead emperors, and empresses, and war mongrels, and presidents and even holy men, did they survive their death to live among this immense judgment? The snake followed him like a pet dog.
The closer he got to these people, he could see their bodies looked more like plague-eaten corpses, evidently, their bodies dying, but they still had to live in them: their loose flesh, similar to rags piled one over the other, until another judgment of mankind came about; so he would soon discover. What little sun they had, it was pert near dead. Those who were fairest, were the newest, those most ravaged had lived here the longest, and perhaps overmuch necrophilia lust.
Chapter three
Vargas the Seer
By and large, it was a different kind of land; they all spoke one language, moved slow, ate and drank as in life, what they could find, even dirt, grass, and yes, insects and rats and all sorts of morbid looking creatures; it was that or starve to near death, endure the agonizing of hunger, but they could not die. They all looked water-drenched, sluggish, dreadfully so, from the rising and sinking of the continent, perhaps weekly. Everyone’s brain was enthralled with the possessiveness of magic, but it did them little good. What was evident, after a few days for Vargas the Seer, was that: people wished for eternal sleep, another of the 72-deaths assigned to mankind, or for their passion and desire and delight to be taken from them, their addiction, only to find out, no matter where you go after death, you carry with you your old habits and character, your nature. The other longing was to return to the wakening world, the earth mother, the surface. But Earth could no longer take them—deal with them, they were too destructive; nor could the human race, or the beastly species on her surface. Consequently, there was no other place for them.
He noticed among the spectators the spirits of: Updike, Monson, Van Gogh, C. Sibyl, and J. Smith. C.A. Smith, H.P.L., E.A. Poe., S. King, and Mrs. Oakes Smith, and Odin (among the others): somehow they had a window into this world, but where were they?
Vargas took resentment for whomever allowed these spirits into his new realm, to observe him like a rat, he was demanding his rights, of all things. His so called irretrievable rights he left beyond. For, nonetheless, he still had his pride. And he started to create a revolt, a ghostly one if anything, and created resentment against the observers. It was something new for the horde of seers. Perhaps it was a way to avoid the pain of his new earth-shattering state of affairs, to bring about mockery of those who allowed the spectators into the hidden window.
Day by day he watched those shadows behind this large window that allowed the observer to see all corners of the continent, “It is crudity,” proclaimed Vargas the Seer. He stood by the big window, and could hear them drinking, their drunkenness and gluttony, as he stumbled in his formidable spells that raised no more attention than a whisper among his comrades, or an eyebrow lift.
Then after his so called fit of protest and anger—and a month’s time, he went unheard—forward, with no glaring eyes, or clotted blood, forward, not looking back, he turned about into a tranquil silence, with no further need of words to his doom—he knew it, he went wearily to see the blood red sunset, it was the only entertainment left in this night labyrinth continent, except for its untarnished rising and sinking.
No 704 (10-31-2010)
The Virulent Vault
((or, “Zeedmev of Venus”) (Part II, to “An Ominous Sunset”))
Zeedmev of Venus, a great sorcerer who had been at Amosodos since the first Century A.D., who had claimed to have been abandoned on earth eons ago, had learned—remembered more like it, the foretold forbidden knowledge of the Old Ones, the angelic beings who were cast down from the clouds, in the time of Enoch, he learned of the 72-deaths, in particular, the 71st; he was now living in the seventy-second—Amosodos. The seventy-first, was that of eternal sleep. He had forgotten, but now remembered its formula, and that it had to be chanted during the orbital flight of Sedona, a comet—that circled two solar systems—while over Earth’s surface, adjoining the spell; it passed every twenty-years.
“Do not despair Vargas the Seer,” said Zeedmev, having seen him now for several months mopping about this hidden and ambiguous continent called Amosodos, “There is a way out for you.” Vargas’ eye-lids opened-up wide, stopped blinking, “With the aid of an old astrologer—friend of mine, Amanas of Glastonbury, I can estimate when the comet Sedona flight over the Earth and the Drake, where our submerged landmass resides, I will then promulgate my powers, to the 71st Death, with a spell so powerful, your body will release its soul, and it will go into eternal hibernation: an eternal sleep, it is called the Red Spell, although there is some ambiguities with my science, knowledge and spell enchantments that I may not be able to resolve, it is a chance for you, to have a new death—I prefer it here, but I know you don’t. And for this reason I give you the chance of death, I will request of you something although.”
“And what might that be?” asked Vargas.
“To be a devoted slave, servant to me, to use your magical art as I tell you to; in essence, I will be your ruler for twenty-years, when Sedona is upon us, I will release you and bestow my gift onto you.”
The deal was made, in the dark-ash colored oblong, Virulent Vault where all the poisonous snakes gathered, and where those who had secrets to tell, met, a meeting place of sorts.
It was with a sad heart Vargas accepted, and was quickly branded with Zeedmev’s initials on his forehead, to show one and all, he was purchased. And thus, he worked and waited anxiously those twenty-years: watching newly arriving seers and sorcerers making their homes into this realm-less, and sorrowful kingdom, of terrestrial lost souls. Too sorrowful for tears and constant mocking from the demonic beings, those idiotic wide nostril beasts from a time long lost to man’s memory.
Now the comet had set over Amosodos, over its submersion grave, in the deepwater’s of Antarctica— and as Zeedmev was midway into his chanting, and Vargas the Seer, was there spellbound awaiting his death to be, midway through the chanting, the essence, the soul of Zeedmev seeped slowly out of his fleshly frame, and what was left of his body, its corpse like body, had fallen like a rug on the ground, withered into a coil like form, and evaporated into nothingness. Who died? With mouth wide open Vargas was dumbfounded. Zeedmev had the last hurrah. And then slowly Vargas went on his way—knowing again, he was helpless.
Note: 10-31-2010 (No: 705)
((or, “Eventide”) (Part one of II))
Chapter one
Eventide
“Fast falls the eventide—in the blood red twilight—the bleak night deepens, the demons creep closer—I go alone, no one to abide with me.”
—last spoken words of
Vargas the Seer
And so it was, this was the bleak weariness of the doomed man, bound for hopeless oblivion, in the underground continent called Amosodos—a land that come out of shrunken seas that had bound a forgotten race, for nearly ten-thousand years; the pre Adamic Race, that rebellious race that lived before and for a moment of time, alongside, that is: side by side with Adam’s Garden of Eden, so legend speculates, and in which it arises to this very day in select groups. And where time has little meaning, it is a land of nothingness, one of the 72-deaths, appointed to mankind, and the only one deemed for the sorcerer direct, where dishonor and abomination for him by the human race, is beyond understanding. Hence, this is the edge where the old man stood, and there after a short time, Amosodos appeared out of nowhere, and opened its crumbling gates for his departure, for eternal solitude, this was assigned him, this was the land of near total night, with only blood red twilights to entertain. A land of shadows and shapes, a land where just a few select went, a special group, the sorcerers, and necromancers. The most merciless and evil who practiced their art, which were incapable of not hurting mankind, obsessed, oppressed, with the art, addicted to its punishing whims. Vargas the Seer, devoted every God given minute to the practice of the art of magic, he had no peers, no equals. Here he could not hurt any human or earthly living thing—here he could use his art fully with no harness, his ebon wand could be used likened to loose cannons, here he would meet his equals, and those beings from before the advent of earthly time, the time.
These were not resurrected beings, nor quite demonic either, they had never died—death was not created until after the advent of Adam, and his expulsion from the Garden; nor were they ghosts, they were not of the same kind of soul of man; consequently, Vargas the Seer was assigned to a lawless land, a tomb in essence, a big tomb, that disappeared as mysteriously as it appeared, and there he stood on the edge of this platform, about to be pushed over onto this dark continent, with its ever swelling population. And then he used his magic wand…
Chapter two
Amosodos
As he took his first step onto the continent called Amosodos, his wand, turned into a snake that bit him, and he dropped it, then he looked at the pageant of faces, supposedly live captives like him, whom he had thought were dead emperors, and empresses, and war mongrels, and presidents and even holy men, did they survive their death to live among this immense judgment? The snake followed him like a pet dog.
The closer he got to these people, he could see their bodies looked more like plague-eaten corpses, evidently, their bodies dying, but they still had to live in them: their loose flesh, similar to rags piled one over the other, until another judgment of mankind came about; so he would soon discover. What little sun they had, it was pert near dead. Those who were fairest, were the newest, those most ravaged had lived here the longest, and perhaps overmuch necrophilia lust.
Chapter three
Vargas the Seer
By and large, it was a different kind of land; they all spoke one language, moved slow, ate and drank as in life, what they could find, even dirt, grass, and yes, insects and rats and all sorts of morbid looking creatures; it was that or starve to near death, endure the agonizing of hunger, but they could not die. They all looked water-drenched, sluggish, dreadfully so, from the rising and sinking of the continent, perhaps weekly. Everyone’s brain was enthralled with the possessiveness of magic, but it did them little good. What was evident, after a few days for Vargas the Seer, was that: people wished for eternal sleep, another of the 72-deaths assigned to mankind, or for their passion and desire and delight to be taken from them, their addiction, only to find out, no matter where you go after death, you carry with you your old habits and character, your nature. The other longing was to return to the wakening world, the earth mother, the surface. But Earth could no longer take them—deal with them, they were too destructive; nor could the human race, or the beastly species on her surface. Consequently, there was no other place for them.
He noticed among the spectators the spirits of: Updike, Monson, Van Gogh, C. Sibyl, and J. Smith. C.A. Smith, H.P.L., E.A. Poe., S. King, and Mrs. Oakes Smith, and Odin (among the others): somehow they had a window into this world, but where were they?
Vargas took resentment for whomever allowed these spirits into his new realm, to observe him like a rat, he was demanding his rights, of all things. His so called irretrievable rights he left beyond. For, nonetheless, he still had his pride. And he started to create a revolt, a ghostly one if anything, and created resentment against the observers. It was something new for the horde of seers. Perhaps it was a way to avoid the pain of his new earth-shattering state of affairs, to bring about mockery of those who allowed the spectators into the hidden window.
Day by day he watched those shadows behind this large window that allowed the observer to see all corners of the continent, “It is crudity,” proclaimed Vargas the Seer. He stood by the big window, and could hear them drinking, their drunkenness and gluttony, as he stumbled in his formidable spells that raised no more attention than a whisper among his comrades, or an eyebrow lift.
Then after his so called fit of protest and anger—and a month’s time, he went unheard—forward, with no glaring eyes, or clotted blood, forward, not looking back, he turned about into a tranquil silence, with no further need of words to his doom—he knew it, he went wearily to see the blood red sunset, it was the only entertainment left in this night labyrinth continent, except for its untarnished rising and sinking.
No 704 (10-31-2010)
The Virulent Vault
((or, “Zeedmev of Venus”) (Part II, to “An Ominous Sunset”))
Zeedmev of Venus, a great sorcerer who had been at Amosodos since the first Century A.D., who had claimed to have been abandoned on earth eons ago, had learned—remembered more like it, the foretold forbidden knowledge of the Old Ones, the angelic beings who were cast down from the clouds, in the time of Enoch, he learned of the 72-deaths, in particular, the 71st; he was now living in the seventy-second—Amosodos. The seventy-first, was that of eternal sleep. He had forgotten, but now remembered its formula, and that it had to be chanted during the orbital flight of Sedona, a comet—that circled two solar systems—while over Earth’s surface, adjoining the spell; it passed every twenty-years.
“Do not despair Vargas the Seer,” said Zeedmev, having seen him now for several months mopping about this hidden and ambiguous continent called Amosodos, “There is a way out for you.” Vargas’ eye-lids opened-up wide, stopped blinking, “With the aid of an old astrologer—friend of mine, Amanas of Glastonbury, I can estimate when the comet Sedona flight over the Earth and the Drake, where our submerged landmass resides, I will then promulgate my powers, to the 71st Death, with a spell so powerful, your body will release its soul, and it will go into eternal hibernation: an eternal sleep, it is called the Red Spell, although there is some ambiguities with my science, knowledge and spell enchantments that I may not be able to resolve, it is a chance for you, to have a new death—I prefer it here, but I know you don’t. And for this reason I give you the chance of death, I will request of you something although.”
“And what might that be?” asked Vargas.
“To be a devoted slave, servant to me, to use your magical art as I tell you to; in essence, I will be your ruler for twenty-years, when Sedona is upon us, I will release you and bestow my gift onto you.”
The deal was made, in the dark-ash colored oblong, Virulent Vault where all the poisonous snakes gathered, and where those who had secrets to tell, met, a meeting place of sorts.
It was with a sad heart Vargas accepted, and was quickly branded with Zeedmev’s initials on his forehead, to show one and all, he was purchased. And thus, he worked and waited anxiously those twenty-years: watching newly arriving seers and sorcerers making their homes into this realm-less, and sorrowful kingdom, of terrestrial lost souls. Too sorrowful for tears and constant mocking from the demonic beings, those idiotic wide nostril beasts from a time long lost to man’s memory.
Now the comet had set over Amosodos, over its submersion grave, in the deepwater’s of Antarctica— and as Zeedmev was midway into his chanting, and Vargas the Seer, was there spellbound awaiting his death to be, midway through the chanting, the essence, the soul of Zeedmev seeped slowly out of his fleshly frame, and what was left of his body, its corpse like body, had fallen like a rug on the ground, withered into a coil like form, and evaporated into nothingness. Who died? With mouth wide open Vargas was dumbfounded. Zeedmev had the last hurrah. And then slowly Vargas went on his way—knowing again, he was helpless.
Note: 10-31-2010 (No: 705)
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 7:50 PM
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