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Old 09-21-05   #1
Nathan Charles
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Pornographic Suicide

(The Truth About Life and Death)

By Nathan Charles



I was struggling, climbing limbless through myriad wretched and decrepit faces swooping out of the surrounding darkness, some screaming, others laughing; all disclosing the universal countenance of decay. I could feel their bony, dry, flesh-shedding hands pawing at my torso as I continued to ascend. I was soon covered with the dust of them as their lips shed whispers across my face and the rest continued to scream and laugh, all voices babbling, dry and void of all articulation. Yet it seemed that there was meaning to this insane chorus and that was: Eternal Putrefaction. It was vertiginous in its fury of cacophonous inflections.

I screamed for the horror of it and as I did I felt their tongues oozing in and out of my mouth, exuding strange palpitating fluids spreading many smooth tendrils of their flesh down my throat, and quite verily I vomited rivulets of blood.

As it spattered these many corpses their otherwise soft and caved-in mouths became snouts displaying fangs, every face elongating, eyes sinking into blackness. Their screams became an opera of many strained and shuddering moans, these moans soon muffled as their mouths connected with each contour of my naked skin. The pain was immediate as I continued to rise and flesh was sucked away by these infernal, terrifying creatures of whatever hell it was in which I found myself. And as new blood was then exposed I felt the agony of flesh being torn and shredded in a blur of flailing claws and mouths and then quite suddenly the pain dispersed as did all creatures save myself, formless, penetrating darkness, all silent, all void; naught but consciousness of darkness in itself.

And then it seemed that I saw a pinpoint of white light and as I did it suddenly surrounded me as I descended through its many faceless forms, touching me in one continual caress, orgasm permeating all; and all was consciousness, all joined in one harmonious and dulcet chorus in a single inflection. And its meaning was: Perpetual Regeneration. As I plummeted in a quickening descent this boundless light began to fill me and my bliss continued to increase a thousand fold with each new heated draught of illumination. Then quite verily was I hurled into darkness and I exploded in a chaos of furiously burning life, the spiral force of which separated structure, flinging many colored lights beyond the scope of my perception. Still did I continue to burn and as the twirling slowed by gradual degrees each colored light began to pull back, then quite verily to pour back into me as I again accumulated bliss. And then all consciousness turned inward as I poured into myself in a separation of attention down many tubes of rippling blue light, some slow, some fast; others changing red, then green, yellow, all shimmering as consciousness reflected all, and then merged together in a vast whirling tube of multicolored light. As it quickened it became a blur of white, then straightened as I moved, flashing down its shaft, and I emerged in human form into darkness filled with thousands upon thousands of swirlings and roilings of many twinkling lights. I reached out my hand and cradled one of all the rest inside my palm. I then brought it close for further scrutiny and observed of its many variations of life as they changed in tiny, frenetic bursts within its predominant structure. I then pulled my gaze away and crushed it to the very smallest aggregation of its form; and as I let it go it flittered away and out into the unfathomable darkness beyond my breadth of vision.

Delighted, I then repeated such upon all others, crushing and watching as they flittered away in scintillating puffs of dust, until it was that I had ridded darkness of them all and nought was left but my own form and consciousness thereof. And a sense of longing began to accumulate until it was that the culmination of it surfaced in a catastrophic ecstasy and every form was created anew, and I again proceeded to crush them all and to watch as they disappeared into darkness.

Soon the aggregation of all became such that I could crush them all at once; the catastrophic ecstasy, this celestial orgasm of all form and consciousness, following immediately, until it was that it became but one, that one itself exploding out in all directions; and soon I knew. I knew as all perception of existence separated into infinite points of view and outlets of attention; I knew as infinite vantages of concentration and conscious observations were perceived in a single moment. I knew. I knew that all Existence was forever and that Life and Death are one.

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Old 09-30-05   #2
Nathan Charles
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Pornographic Suicide

Follow Me in My Way

By Nathan Charles



Father Jacob O’Malley remembered him. This man on the television set those years and years ago, when Jacob was not more than a toddler. This evangelist; how grotesque he seemed now, even as he had appeared monolithic and near godlike then. Veins and beads of sweat upon his face seemingly perpetual. He could hear the fanatical screaming even now as he sat staring at the pews from the steps before the alter of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, the religious frenzy of factitious ideals: “We deny ourselves for the sake of goodness and purity! We must beware the temptation of beastly pleasures and carnal delights lest we be damned to life of filth and shame! We must not question that which is so clearly presented before us! We must restrain our primitive urges to seek that which is better left unsought lest we damn ourselves to walk with the savage beasts! And HELL!”

As the memory ceased to flourish Father O’Malley found himself laughing, bitterly so, at what a sham this evangelist had played. At what a sham they were all playing. “Another slave to feed the fire, another victim of the cross, and nothing but a victim for the victims,” he said as he tipped a wink from the bottle. Rot-gut whiskey. Alcohol was great for philosophy. “Weakness searches for a method of convenience.” But what of these thoughts? He pondered the significance of this.

It was near midnight in St. Paul’s Cathedral, downtown Manhattan. A single white candle burned by his side as Father O’Malley drank and thought of all the things he’d done. Stained glass Saints stared dully out at him. Accusing him. He laughed again. twenty-five years he’d been preaching. He’d been at St. Paul’s for about seventeen. He thought about St. Leo’s where he’d started out, just a “kid” of thirty-five. He thought of that girl, his first confession on the other side of the booth. What had her name been? Katie Matheson, daughter of Bill and Audrey Matheson. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Forgive me father, for I have sinned. Lewd thoughts about her father (sin). Father O’Malley had asked for details, and as she elaborated on such incestuous intimacies as “doing it with Daddy in front of Mother,” he couldn’t help but get an erection. No chastity belts for the modern priest. He’d been ashamed of course (Filth and Shame!). He didn’t believe there was a priest in the world who didn’t feel ashamed at one time or another. Or constantly. At least in the beginning that was. Bitter cynicism and lack of faith came later.

He still remembered her voice, like a silver bell, whispering, weeping, telling him she never meant to have such thoughts, but it was as if they were put there by someone else, and the more she fought the more vivid they became. He had told her, hating himself all the while, that she must tell everything, omitting nothing, or else God would not carry out her clemency and that the Devil would be allowed to fester, bringing stronger evils still to come. And she’d lain it all out for him, and as he listened he masturbated through the black cloth of his pants. He’d tried to contain himself as best he could as he ejaculated, but a shuddering sigh had surfaced nonetheless. “Father?” He’d absolved her with three Hail Mary’s and one Our Father’s. There had been others. Many others, some far worse sinners than Katie, but none excited him as did she. For Father O’Malley she became a veritable obsession. While praying he’d find that her face continually intruded, and the more he tried to extricate these sinful thoughts the more insistent they became.

He eventually found himself driving the streets of downtown San Francisco, searching for a prostitute. And he’d eventually found the one he was looking for. One as similar to Katie as he could find. Soft curls of long brown hair, large brown eyes. And she was young. The only difference in their appearance was that, where Katie worn a long plaid skirt to below her knees (the good Catholic school girl she was) the prostitute had replaced it with a pair of leopard print hot pants. Where Katie had worn a white button-up shirt (such a good Catholic girl) the prostitute wore a brown suede coat with fur-lined cuffs to keep out the cold of the San Francisco night. When she’d gotten into his old and beaten Ford station wagon Father O’Malley saw that her only other garment besides her spike heeled sandals was a black bikini top. Another difference had been the heavy eye shadow and scarlet lipstick as opposed to a clear and unblemished complexion. He’d still been wearing his priest’s uniform under his khaki jacket. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” the young prostitute said, (like a silver bell) giggling, and Father O’Malley almost slammed into the car in front of him, his heart hammering madly in his chest. That voice. “Katie?” he’d asked, sure it had to be her. “Whoever you want, Padre. Just don’t get us killed before we have a chance to get off, okay.” He glanced over at her as he drove. The feeling of unreality began to taper. This girl was a little thinner in the cheeks and her breasts were larger. “So how do you want to do this?”

They’d ended up in an alley, where this young hooker had given him his first blowjob, her head bobbing madly up and down. He’d given up the idea of sex (or so he’d thought) in his senior year of high school when he knew he was destined for the priesthood. This had been after seeing a freshman beaten to death in the hallway of Kingwood High, Omaha, Nebraska. The kid had died on his way to the hospital. Jacob never found out what happened to the kids who did it. He and his father had moved a few weeks later to San Francisco, California, where his father had gotten a job making phones at Conway Corporation. Perhaps “moved” isn’t exactly the right word. “Escaped” might be a better one. He never saw his mother after that strange night when his father had taken him away from her malevolent influence for good. He never missed her. But she always haunted his dreams. Dreams of that night and the fleeting glimpse of something terribly wrong…

All the while in seminary school he’d had no problems at all conforming to the ascetic demands of the priesthood, not thought about sex at all, save in his dreams. The confession booth had been his downfall and he knew it.



After (Katie) the prostitute wiped what little come she hadn’t swallowed from her lips and redid her lipstick in his rear-view mirror he paid her the twenty dollars and dropped her off a block away from her usual beat, which hadn’t been far. Then he bought a pint of Old Crow and got smashed, passing out on the floor beneath the desk in his office just off the pulpit of Saint Leo’s. When he woke up to find an empty bottle cradled in his arms he’d gotten up, disposed of the empty pint, driven home, and wept at the kitchen table of his small, somewhat dilapidated apartment. He had failed. Not enough faith, not enough self-control. He had failed God. When the tears subsided, he’d gotten up, popped three aspirin with a glass of water at the kitchen sink, and went to his bedroom to pray to the wooden crucifix above his bed, thoughts of Katie (the prostitute) intruding inexorably all the while.

He’d done better for a while. Even managed to get through Katie’s (the prostitute’s) confessions without so much as a twitch or throb from his penis. And then the dreams had started. It was Katie. She was standing at the foot of his bed, illuminated by the light from the stove in his kitchen, wearing black suede hot pants and nothing else. The barrettes she normally wore were gone, her hair free and flowing. Her eyes were shaded a dark blue and her lips were scarlet. She whimpered down at her small breasts as she pinched and kneaded her little pink nipples. Then she looked up at Father O’Malley. “Bless me Father.” Her voice, a silver bell.

“Katie,” he said, and could say no more. She giggled, putting a hand to her mouth, as if to say, I know something you don’t know. Then she stopped, looking down on him solemnly from the foot of his bed. She reached down to the front of her hot pants and he could hear the slow progress of her zipper as she pulled it down. And then it was the soft rustle of suede rubbing skin as she pulled them down around her ankles and stepped out toward the side of his twin bed in all her naked, youthful beauty. He could see a thin sprinkling of pubic fuzz between her milky thighs. He moved to the left as she slid beneath the covers with him, his priest’s uniform still on. She pressed her body against his and rubbed his cock, which had been stiff from the moment she appeared at the foot of the bed. “Won’t you bless me, Father?” she’d whispered. And then the dream would jump ahead and he was on top of her, pants around his ankles, fucking her. “Fuck me Father, fuck me!” And then laughter, faces surrounding his bed, accusing him with laughter, nameless faces laughing, and then one of all the rest, the evangelist of his childhood, his face where Father O’Malley’s wooden crucifix should have been. “Filth and shame! Filth and shame! Filth and shame!” Soon all voices joined the chant, a veritable congregation of them. “Filth and shame! Filth and shame! Filth and shame!” “Rape me Father, rape me!” Katie would cry out beneath him, blood pouring from her eye-sockets. At that point he would roll off of her, beating at his face and weeping as their faces closed in, his pants still tangled around his ankles. “Filth and shame, filth and shame, filth and shame!” “Rape me father, rape me!” “Filth and shame filth and shame!” “Rape me father rape me!” “Filth and shame me father rape me! Filth and SHAME!” And the demon would close in, its jagged fangs sizzling foam, red eyes glowering beneath the breadth of its horns and Father O’Malley would wake up screaming in his bed, sweat matting his thick tufts of bright red chest hair, light glowing a dull yellow from the bulb above his kitchen stove, another dull yellow from the street to his window. No prostitute at the foot of his bed. No Katie. No demon. No one.

After a week of these dreams he’d try the bottle. But not even that sufficed, for after a while he had the dreams anyway. So he’d ended up back out on the streets of the San Francisco night, searching for (Katie) the prostitute to take her back to his apartment. After she became a regular on Sunday nights (Sunday being the day for confession) he’d eventually gotten enough courage to ask her to wear a plaid skirt and white button-up shirt, which she would wear for him while indulging his every fantasy. Also on demand was that she wear no makeup.

He’d found he had a predilection for fellatio and after indulging him in every other to the full, screaming all the while, “fuck me Father, fuck me!” she’d always finish him there. When she left he’d drink himself stupid and pass out.

That had eventually ended when the Bishop in charge of his parish wondered where all of the money from the Church plate kept going. He’d followed Father O’Malley one Sunday night and found out everything. But he hadn’t been ostracized. He had simply been moved to another parish on the other side of the continent. It had been hell from then on out. The dreams had returned and again he had tried the drink, but as before the dreams eventually came anyway. “Fuck me Father, rape me! Filth and shame!” Only the face of the demon had then become that of his mother, skin crinkled with age, gumming the words, “blesh me Fadder, come give mommy a kish.”



His mother. An ornery old woman who had treated him and his father like trash. Sinful trash. Between the two of them she didn’t much care who she slapped around. One day when Jacob had been about twelve she’d found him in front of the television watching a commercial advertising Budweiser beer. Girls in bikinis shaking their little bottoms and drinking cold bottles of Bud with their stud boyfriends. She’d grabbed young Jacob by the hair, thrown him on the ground and commenced to kick him in the stomach, screaming, “don’t you ever, EVER! don’t you ever, EVER!” over and over. And his father had left the room with that same old rueful, apologetic look Jacob had come to know so well in those early years. After that he had been forced to watch that show with the screaming evangelist every morning at 5 AM. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the name of the evangelist, in spite of the fact that he’d watched his show religiously (ha-ha) for years. To his dying day he still woke up every morning at 5 no matter how late he’d gone to bed the night before.

Finally, one sunny April day when Jacob was sixteen his father had finally had enough. Jacob had been walking home from school day with one of the only girls he’d actually had the guts to talk to (miracle of miracles, ha-ha) when his mother and father came driving up. His mother got out of the car and crowed, “is that your girlfriend Jakey? Not likely. Why don’t you leave my son alone, you little whore? He doesn’t need trash like you following him around.” The girl had hurried off without a word and Jacob had stood there trembling, tears rolling down his cheeks. And his mother had started to laugh. “Look at the little baby. Nothing but a girl just like your worthless father. I’m going to have to take care of you both for the rest of my life, tell you what.” His father sat still in the passenger seat of the Ford automobile (the automobile he’d bought himself as a matter of fact, ha-ha). Jacob still vividly remembered his downcast and sorrowful eyes. “Get in the car you baby-girl,” his mother sneered. And he did as he was told so as not to incur a few hundred slaps and back hands when he got home. But later that night his father had come into his room, turning on the light, telling Jacob that it was time to pack, and be quick about it. Jacob stared with turgid and terrified eyes. “Where’s mom,” he’d asked.

“Don’t you worry about her, son. I’m getting you out of here. You’ll never have to worry about her again.”

“Please Dad, don’t. She’ll be so mad.”

“Son!” he’d snapped, the only time he’d ever seen his dad snap at anyone or anything. Then his face softened. “Trust me, son. Everything’s going to be all right. Do you trust me?”

He’d looked at his father for a long moment, trying in his adolescent mind to grasp the ramifications of such an unexpected turn of events. His father had never been adamant about anything as long as Jacob had known him. Finally, tears streaming down his cheeks, he’d said, “yes.” Not much more than a whisper. But somehow that confirmed everything. He knew that she would not interfere, as much as that went against all that he had been taught from the very first of his intrinsic memories. She would not stop them this night. Not ever again.

He’d quickly packed his bags and all his possessions which held any sentimental value whatsoever. Then him and his father had gone out, and (this memory would continually elude him ever after, always coming to the fore in his continually insistent dreams) as they passed his mother and father’s room he’d seen his mother laying in the sleepy yellow glow of her reading lamp. Her head was turned away from him, but he could see that there was something wrong with her face. Something about her face. But it was nought more than a glimpse and they were out of the house and packing their suitcases and bags in the trunk of the car. His father told him to get in and sit tight for a minute. “I have to take care of something,” he’d said.

“Dad!”

“Son.” His father put a hand to his shoulder and opened the passenger side door, nudging him gently into the seat. “Trust me, son.” Jacob watched as his father ran up the steps to the front door and went inside. He’d been not more than fifteen minutes and then they were gone down the road, Jacob soon falling back to sleep, waking later to their new life as father and son…



Yes, it had been hell from the very first day Father O’Malley set foot in New York. He’d wept every night in a drunken stupor over Katie (the prostitute) and he knew that he’d fallen in love with her. He hated himself for being so weak. So wrong. Such a failure. An utter failure. A failure to God. He was destined to damnation. He knew that now.

And it suddenly occurred to him as he sat drinking and thinking that his father had killed his mother. It didn’t come as a shock, no revelatory flash of realization. Just something he’d really known all along, but never bothered to consider with a conscious eye. Had never even cared. He’d hated his mother, it was as simple as that. And she was gone. Just as his father was gone. Died years ago from a heart attack. Nothing spectacular. Just dead. Dead like the world. Dead like everything. No meaning to the endless tide of life.

Father O’Malley walked down the aisle, bottle in hand, feeling the eyes of the stained-glass saints burning into his flesh. He went into his office and sat in the chair behind his desk. He’d never gotten another prostitute after that first. He’d been too scared of being caught again. And so she had haunted his dreams every night thereafter. He honestly didn’t know how he’d survived as long as he had, save by brute force of will. He had his moments of weakness, oh of course. Masturbation in the confession booth was a frequent pastime on Sundays (although he was far too old and decrepit for such sinful pleasures now). Afterward he’d drink himself into his usual stupor and dream the dreams anyway (Filth and shame me father rape me!) After twenty-five years of this Father O’Malley looked to be more like ninety than 59. His face was a map of wrinkles and his liver-spotted hands looked more like claws than human appendages. When giving his sermons on Sunday his congregation had to strain to hear, as his voice was nothing but a husk of its former self. Gravelly, like sand paper rubbing against wood.

He sat down behind his desk and looked out into the New York night. The twin towers of the New York Trade Center were just visible to the left of his window. He opened a drawer to his right and pulled out a sheaf of paper. He scribbled a few words and put down his pen. He then took a key from his pocket and opened the top drawer to his left. In it lay a .45 caliber automatic. A box of shells lay to the left of this. He took them both out and lay them side by side on his relatively clean and tidy desk. He then took a long slow drink from the bottle and set it aside. Loading the gun slowly and methodically he stared out at the night sky which should have been filled with stars, but instead held that opaque and reddish glow common to all big cities. It looked like Hell. The Big Apple indeed. He wondered if anyone really grasped the biblical connotations of a nickname like that.

Father O’Malley then put the gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger, firing off a single sharp report and splattering his brains all over the back wall. Blood poured from his mouth and ears as he lay askew, staring out at nothing.





The screams of the maid the next day could be heard all throughout St. Paul’s cathedral. When the police arrived they found a single note, spattered with blood, on Father O’Malley’s desk. It read simply, “Oh, ye brothers of the cloth, follow me in my way.”

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Old 10-08-05   #3
Nathan Charles
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Pornographic Suicide

False Death
By Nathan Charles
Its mind was a tangle of ingrown misery as it walked the black, scorched earth. Smoke poured from every crevice, choking out the air it no longer cared to breath. Were it not already dead it may have died soon enough in such a world as that in which it dwelled. Nought but a skeleton, feeling of the misery of death in life in a place where all was dead, yet still continued to exist. And death as most would claim to know it is nought but misery. Real death is another matter, for another page…
Here, all the world was nought but smoke and coal and all was strangely cold as the skeleton walked, its mind a barrage of all manner of jaded miseries, reflections of a past not quite remembered…
Images of flesh distorted and pupilless eyes sunk far into the faces of these unknown beings fraught with agony…
Whispering inflections passing softly through the many streams of smoke and echoing between the many fissures of the earth…
And soon all light as there was beyond this world by which it was illuminated died as well, and there was nought but the sensation of the smoke itself. Dry, acrid, and continually pouring forth the stench of misery…
And all was death in the sense of the perpetually dying…
Existence as nought but dying and the putrefaction of this death…
Nought but false death and the skeleton whose misery would never end…

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Old 10-10-05   #4
Nathan Charles
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Pornographic Suicide

I
As Our Little Naked Love floated across the surface of this vast and gently waving red sea, enclosed by a bright orange sky, a great many things passed her by. Clocks of many shapes and sizes ticking, owls perched on branches looking bored. She was vaguely aware that her nipples had grown hard with the coolness of the red and gleaming expanse of sea in which she floated, drifting. Once a rowboat came along with an old, shriveled and naked man at the ores. He’d seen her floating, belly-up and smiling, and dropped his ores, stood up and cried, “girl! girl! Belly-up! Red hair! Mine! mine!” Then quite verily he’d flopped into the ruby-hued sea with a clapping splash, never to be seen again, or so she’d thought at the time. Turtles, green and looking cozily and smugly from their shells bobbed along here and there. Blue and finned serpents caressed her sides at regular intervals, bringing shivers through her body as she floated blissfully along, sometimes humming sweet and unarticulated music, sometimes simply breathing of the fragrant air. Drifts of many different colored flowers flooded all around her now and again. And also there were great, deep-chested and bearded men with fishes tails who surfaced here and there to lay sweet kisses to her smooth-skinned body bringing undulating fits of ecstasy; and always did she sigh, humming as they once again submerged into the sea. The cool, red and gently waving sea. Flocks of many birds of white sometimes covered over all the orange-reflecting sky, giving voice to an audience of feathers, soon then fading all away, leaving her to the gentle strokes of the undulating sea as clocks floated by, ticking, some chiming of the many different hours of this world of the ruby-hued sea. Once a man in a dark blue suit, top hat and twirling yellow umbrella had stopped on a stroll across the sea to ask her if she’d seen the latest at the cinematograph and then gently tweaked her nipples as she giggled her reply that no, she’d not yet seen the latest, and she was lately just fit to be tied that she’d forgotten how to lift herself from the sea, she knew not how long it had been since she’d taken a stroll against the sun, perhaps since she was but a girl and used to hear mother and her many aunts sing the siren songs to draw the men from beneath the sea, though sirens they were not, but nonetheless such kisses they’d received, as she herself nowadays received, thought not a whisper of the siren song she’d ever had to sing. The man then shuddered as of some ecstasy unknown, released her nipples, looked around distractedly and straightened up and walked along his way, wishing her luck with all of that, he did so hope that she would someday learn to walk again, the sun was really quite beautiful this time of year. She’d wished him good tidings and continued to float along as blue and finned serpents caressed her sides and green turtles bobbed along on either side of her as clocks of varying shapes and sizes drifted by, ticking, chiming off the many different hours of this world of the ruby-hued sea. But soon the owls who drifted by on branches looking bored began to sigh resignedly and to fly away and the branches sank. The turtles hid within their shells and drifted far and out of sight as did the clocks and soon the serpents left as well and the many contoured bearded men with fishes tails no longer laid upon her such delicious kisses as had always been before. Soon there was nought but her, the orange-reflected sky and the gently clapping waves of the ruby-hued sea… and she discovered what it was to weep.
II
At long last the man in the dark blue suit and top hat came strolling by again, now puffing on a pipe of gold. He stopped again to gently tweak her nipples, cheering her a little and spoke thus: “As you can see the sun works wonders, trading such a solar pipe of solar fumes and- say!” said he, “what happened to this world of yours?” She looked away, distraught, the tweaking of her nipples no longer bringing good cheer. Presently, the man in the dark blue suit stopped, removed his pipe and top hat, poured the contents of his pipe into the hat, the hat then turning to gold, the pipe dark blue. He commenced to smoke and leaned toward her, speaking thus: “thought about it a little to much did you?” She nodded, yes, she had been thinking about it far too much, but she longed, no, quite verily she yearned to see the sun again. “So stand, my little naked love,” said he, standing quite straight himself and puffing on his pipe. And she found, quite verily indeed, that she could easily do so. She cried out for joy and threw herself at the man, wrapping her lithe arms about his neck and kissing his infinitely lovely face. “There there now,” said he, patting her naked bottom, then pulling her away to stand on her own two feet, “that wasn’t so difficult, my little naked love. We’ll see the sun together. I’ll take you there.” And so they began their stroll along the gently waving sea to meet the sun… and she knew again what it was to walk.


III
At length the man in the dark blue suit spoke thus as he puffed upon his pipe: “We’re almost there, my little naked love.” She giggled for the joy of it and soon the ball of flame began to rise before her, seemingly from out the farther waves of the ruby-hued sea. Such waves as seemed to greet the incandescent orb or fire spilling, spurting glowing waves of flame from out its surface. And soon it rose above and before them, smiling down at them, and they stopped. “Why, hello again,” said the incandescent sun. “Hello,” said the man in the dark blue suit as he puffed upon his pipe. “And who is this?” asked the sun. “Why, my little naked love? Ah yes; she seeks to know you.” “Mm,” said the sun, “and what is it that I could give to you if you so wish, his little naked love?” “I want to love with you!” she cried for joy and so the incandescent sun proceeded to love with her… and it was bliss.
IV
And so our little naked love went back to lay half-submerged and supine in the ruby-hued sea; and soon the clocks began to pass her by, ticking, chiming off the many different hours in this world of the gently waving sea. And the owls came back to perch upon their many floating branches, looking bored as ever, and the green turtles came back to peek so smugly from their shells, and the blue and finned serpents once again caressed her sides, and she smiled. The mighty, bearded men with fishes tails came back to lay their kisses on her lovely smooth-skinned body bringing undulating fits of ecstasy as she floated on the stroking current of the sea, the ruby-hued and gently waving sea. And small boats of many different shapes now drifted by as well, containing many different passengers. A clown clad in shining silver armor from neck to toe singing incoherent opera as he swung his sword to chop the head from off a snake in sheep’s clothing whose head continued growing back with each fell swoop. Another carrying a girl as like in beauty to our little naked love, though blonde of hair with skin hued as honey, crawling on hand and knee about her little boat, stopping now and then to wiggle her round bottom at each passer-by and to lick her arms and throw back her hair. And one passed by disclosing many children on their knees and praying silently in their little uniforms as a nun looked on with her hands about her hips as she shook them side to side complacently displaying the fullness of them, hence signifying her authority. Another drifted by with many white birds shaking their heads defiantly to and fro and screaming, “auk! auk! auk! auk!” And soon the man in the dark blue suit came strolling by with his gold top hat, only now he bore a cane of dark blue and gold handle rather than a pipe. He bent to tweak her nipples and she giggled speaking thus: “It seems I’ve quite verily filled the bills, don’t you think?” The man in the dark blue suit looked up distractedly. “Hmm?” he said, “ah yes; so it would seem, my little naked love.” He shuddered in his ecstasy unknown and stood. “Well then, good day my dear.” And he strolled along, no doubt to meet the sun. “Good day,” said she. And blue and finned serpents continued to caress her sides; and suddenly a flock of satyrs playing pipes and baring large and gleaming phalluses came to dance around her and their songs filled her with joy; and they used their phalluses to penetrate her nether regions and the softness of her lips bringing further undulating ecstasy and spasms now as well, as the white and gleaming fluids of which these phalluses emitted spattered over her body and flowed, cascading deep inside of her. And when they’d gone she soon began ejecting from between her legs a flowing stream of giggling organic replicas of herself. And with each birthing beauty came delight as they floated on their merry way to partake of the joys of this world of the orange-reflected sky and ruby-hued sea. And the owls continued floating by perched upon their branches looking bored. The green turtles smirking smugly from their shells, and blue and finned serpents caressed her sides as mighty, deep-chested and bearded men with fishes tails emerged to lay kisses upon her beautiful, smooth-skinned body, giving of the same to all the rest of her that flowed from out her most precious of nether apertures. Boats continued floating by with many character creatures. A creature, white and bald and gleaming with bulging black and orbed eyes and many sharp fangs all interlaced with foam sizzling from out the miniscule interstices of their razor sharp symmetry. This creature thrashed about in an insane paroxysm in its black and clinging garments as its webbed hands and feet slapped the sides of its boat bringing wounds discharging sizzling foam. Yet another contained a gaunt and exceedingly tall man of white streaming hair and velvety black robe playing on a flute songs of passing melancholy. His glaring black eyes gleamed at her, our little naked love, as she smiled, and blue and finned serpents caressed her sides. And there was another boat containing a pretty young girl of dark brown hair closely cropped. Her white round buttocks quivered as the hips of the man behind slammed into her with brutal force and her moans rolled in ecstasy. The slapping sounds were clearly audible and soon the young lovers passed her by along with all the rest. Another boat passed by containing a fat old woman, naked, save the scarf about her head. Her face was a net of wrinkles as was her sagging body, oozing breasts fraught with varicose veins. She had a sack from with she dumped crying babies one by one and when she saw our little naked love staring at her she shrugged and spoke thus: “I don’t want them,” and continued to do her duty of dumping babies into the sea. But soon she looked puzzled at the gently waving sea and then reached down her hand into its red and gleaming surface. What came back with it was the naked old man who’d previously fallen into the sea. And once aboard he tossed the old woman headlong, flabby wrinkled body and all, into the ruby-hued sea. He then looked at our little naked love, put a bony hand to his mouth and giggled, “I done a bad thing.” Then he spied the sack of children, furrowed his brow and scratched his head and passed out of sight, out little naked love giggling all the while as the green turtles bobbed along smiling smugly from their shells, and owls perched on branches looking bored, and blue and finned serpents caressed her sides as clocks of varying shapes and sizes floated by, ticking, chiming off the many different hours of this world of the orange-reflected sky and ruby-hued sea. Then a giant peacock passed over her with feathers pointing down to make a veil of its strange and beautiful eyes to brush her body softly as it went to do the same to all the rest of her that flowed from out her most precious of nether apertures. And then the man with the white streaming hair and large black eyes came kneeling to stare into her face. His flute he held clasped tight within his left hand. Then quite verily the man in the dark blue suit came along tapping his cane on the surface of the water and spoke thus: “Here here now, melancholy fool, leave my little naked love to be.” And the man with the glaring black eyes and white streaming hair wrapped himself inside his black velvety cloak and went his way. “Good day!” cried our little naked love as he passed out of sight. “Good day indeed,” said the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat as he kneeled to tweak her nipples. And she giggle speaking thus: “Oh you trifling tease, you know I spoke not to you,” and she slapped his hands away. “Won’t you love me as the satyrs and the sun once did? No doubt one who sees the sun as much as thee must have quite a phallus indeed.” “Ah yes,” said he, “but you give birth in constant flow that ceases not to be.” And our little naked love then turned over on her stomach and spoke thus: “Then you shall have to put it in the aperture here; between by buttocks as the satyrs so enjoyed as well. And would you please do so hard and fast and long and buried deep? I do so love the sensation of being roughly stretched apart.” And so the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat pulled his pants around his ankles and commenced to doing so, and his phallus was large indeed and indubitably he did so hard and fast and long and buried deep, and our little naked love sighed with the warm visceral pleasure of it; the slapping sounds were clearly audible, and at long last he shuddered in his ecstasy as milky white and viscous fluids inundated deep… and he straightened up and went along his merry way.
V
And so our little naked love went back to lying on her back and smiled for the pleasure of it all. How wonderful it seemed that all should give so lovingly in this world of the orange-reflecting sky and ruby-hued sea. And suddenly there were birds, immense and plumed with giant feathers shining black and white, and they ran on legs which towered far above all perimeter horizons, their frayed black and white feathered necks bobbing in and out with each long stride, and our little naked love fancied she could hear their distant cries under the stroking of the gently waving sea and the clocks of many different shapes, ticking, chiming off the many different hours of this world of the ruby-hued sea. And there passed not far to her left an orchestra, propped on myriad haphazard and glittering stilts, playing sweet undulations of music like in mood to the ecstasy of orgasm; and she sighed for the pleasure of it as it passed away; as did all else, save for the recurrence of owls perched on branches looking bored, and many colored flowers rushing by, turtles smirking smugly from their shells, and the blue and finned serpents who caressed her sides as mighty bearded men with fishes tails laid kisses to her naked smooth-skinned body, bringing undulating fits of ecstasy. And still there flowed from out her most precious of nether apertures these giggling organic replicas of her, and then there came from out the surface of the red and gently waving sea the creature of the white bald and gleaming skin and black orbed eyes. Foam sizzled still from its many sharp and fanged mouth and it spoke thus: “sizzle, sizzle, bizzle BLAH!” and commenced to tweaking her nipples, burbling all the while like some strange human bee and shaking its head back and forth as she, our little naked love, giggled for the pleasure of it. Then quite verily the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat strolled up and commenced to batting at the creature with his dark blue and gold handled cane speaking thus: “Here here! those are my juicy nipples, and only I may tweak them.” The creature then burbled, flailed its arms, and dumped itself right back into the sea. And the man in the dark blue suit tweaked her nipples as she giggled all the while and spoke thus: “Oh, my stars, you do tweak my nipples so much better than all the rest.” He looked up distractedly, “all the rest?” said he, “ah yes, of course, my little naked love.” Then he shuddered in his ecstasy and went along his merry way. And there came another boat, passing as it did between owls perched on branches looking bored, and turtles smirking smugly from their shells, and clocks ticking, chiming off the many different hours in this world of the orange-reflected sky and the ruby-hued sea. The boat itself contained the fat and naked and wrinkled old woman with the scarf about her head, and she lay supine with her flabby legs spread as the old bony man who’d “done a bad thing” proceeded to make the silliest of love to her, swimming as he seemed to be, within a mass of wrinkled varicose vein infested blubber. “OOOH! OOOH! OOOH!” the old woman shrieked. “GE-AH! GE-AH! GE-AH!” the old man seemed to cackle as he thrust his bony shanks into the rippling mass of her again and again. And then it was that they too passed out of sight as our little naked love giggled for the pleasure of it all. Presently the man in the dark blue suit came strolling by, now smoking of his pipe as well as tapping of his cane. “My word,” said he, quite frankly astonished as it were, “my little naked love, did you see that?” “Quite verily I did indeed and I think it was beautiful, as silly as that may sound, and quite all right and well for them to do so.” “Quite right and well indeed if you do say so, my little naked love,” said he, winking, and he commenced to tweaking of her nipples as she giggled speaking thus: “oh, I do so love it when you tweak my nipples.” He looked up distractedly, “ah yes,” said he, “my little naked love, you do so love to talk.” And then he shuddered in his ecstasy, straightened up, and went along his merry way. “Good day, my little naked love,” said he. “Good day!” cried she as many colored flowers cascaded here and there, and blue and finned serpents caressed her sides, and green turtles smirked smugly from their shells, and owls perched on branches looking bored, and many clocks of different shapes and sizes ticked, chiming off the many different hours of this world of the orange-reflected sky and the ruby-hued sea… and she knew what it was to love.
VI
And so it was that the man in the dark blue suit strolled by and this time did not tweak her nipples, but bid her take his hand. And when she stood the blue and finned serpents commenced to the caressing of her feet. The man in the dark blue suit puffed upon his pipe and tapped his cane upon the red and gently waving sea. He patted her bottom and as they walked arm in arm he handed her the bright yellow umbrella of which he’d carried previously. “Oh how generous is the sun, I do say,” said he, “how so indubitably.” And that was all, and they walked. And soon all creatures of this world of the ruby-hued sea passed out of sight; last of all the blue and finned serpents who’d so loyally caressed her sides of all this time, sending shivers through her body as she’s sighed for the pleasure of it. And soon they came upon the sun, our little naked love and the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat. “Why, hello,” said the incandescent sun. “Hello,” said the man in the dark blue suit, “I’m going to show her of the underworld. I do so think she’s ready.” “Oh,” said the sun, dubiously, “well then you’ll of course need a boat and a player of melancholy melodies to keep credence as you journey under. And also a keeper of the ores.” “Take then my cane, dear sun old chap,” said the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat as he puffed upon his pipe. The sun delighted in the trade and laughed a laugh the like in beauty of which our little naked love had never before heard. So then there came a boat from shades of mist and at the ore in back, swaying to and fro with each stroke, was the white, bald and gleaming creature with foam still sizzling from out the miniscule interstices of its fangs as its black orbed eyes stared insanely and he burbled to himself, his head shaking back and forth. And at the front of the boat playing melancholy strains upon his silver flute was the tall and gaunt man of the black velvety cloak and white streaming hair. His eyes were now a livid indigo brown and he appeared dead in his utterly vacant expression. And so they climbed aboard, our little naked love with the bright yellow umbrella and the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat puffing on his pipe… and she knew what it was to fear.
VII
And so they said their farewells to the sun and journeyed out beyond its incandescent splendor, the creature at the ore burbling insanely as they made their way, and the gaunt man with the huge dark and vacant eyes played his melancholy strains as he stared unceasingly into the eyes of our little naked love. And soon she noticed that the ruby-hued sea became streaked with stains of black streaming wildly on the waves and the orange-reflected sky gave way at the far horizon to a swirling cloud of black. And it seemed that in the distance far within this swirling cloud of black there came the sound of many howling beasts and cries of rage, and the melancholy strains of the flute did indeed keep credence with this distant, festering and wretched opera that was the voice of the underworld. “Bear in mind,” said the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat as he puffed upon his pipe, “to keep a hold on your umbrella lest the darkness carry you away with it. We are to observe and not to be lost there permanently.” Our little naked love nodded her understanding and he patted her bottom with a gentle clap, bringing somewhat of comfort to her heart. She thought to ask of him to tweak her nipples and then thought better of it, for the clouds were closing in and all the water that had once been ruby-hued and gently waving was now black and stagnant and seemed to lick the sides of the boat in its squelchy mess of sea. And the creature at the ore continued burbling insanely as the gaunt man with the white streaming hair and huge dark eyes played his melancholy strains and stared unceasingly into the eyes of our little naked love. And soon this melancholy tune and the raging voices of the beasts of the cloud were the only sounds to be heard as all enclosed in utter darkness. She reached for the hand of the man in the dark blue suit and found it not, her fear and agitation growing far more certain as she gripped with both hands the bright yellow umbrella of which she could see but a pale reflection above her, appearing as it did to twirl slowly as they made their way into the furiously swirling madness. The screaming; the howling; the unarticulated babbling of those lost beyond escape; the wet ripping sound as of flesh torn to shreds; and it seemed that all she had to cling to, save the bright yellow umbrella, were the strains of melancholy music blown wistfully from out the flute of the gaunt man with the white streaming hair, who no doubt stared from out the darkness, and unceasingly so, into the eyes of our little naked love as she trembled for the cold and the fear of all of it. And suddenly a rolling crack exploded from the clouded sky around her, and the flash of light bared momentarily a world of white-eyed and seemingly wet corpses crawling toward her from out the black and stagnant mess of the surrounding sea. She’d seen their fangs protruding from lips cracked and bleeding and noticed that they trembled as of the mandibles of spiders. But most importantly she’d noticed that the boat was gone and she stood in the midst of this dark sea, not moving, abandoned, waiting for these horrid creatures to sink their trembling fangs like spiders’ mandibles into her smooth-skinned body and suck the very fluids of her life from her. She could hear them moaning stupidly as they slopped their way toward her and light flashed once again and she saw, now also did she feel, that white and nauseatingly slick worms slid sluggishly about her feet. Yet, behind the whole of all of this, as beasts howled and screamed and raged, our little naked love could hear the playing of the flute; and as she did the song grew louder, soon drowning out all outside sounds and the tune of it seemed almost ridiculous, and as she caught a glimpse of the twirling bright and yellow umbrella, which must have been there all along, all her fear was lifted from her and she along with it, up through the cloud, now silent as it poured around her. And she found herself at last within the boat, above the cloud and facing the sun as he smiled upon her, and the gaunt man had ceased to play his flute and his eyes were closed and seemed made of crumbling porcelain. The creature with the white gleaming skin and black orbed eyes continued burbling insanely as it shook its bulbous head back and forth, though no longer did sway the ore. And the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat stood puffing on his pipe beside her. She smiled as he patted her bottom with a gentle clap and soon they were moving forward, toward the smiling incandescent sun and away from the silence of the swirling cloud. And as they made their slow descent to the ruby-hued sea the cloud disappeared entirely and when they came upon its gently waving surface beneath the shining of the incandescent sun they disembarked and the boat then floated into the mist, the creature with the black orbed eyes burbling insanely all the while as it swung the ore, and as it was enshrouded in diaphany the gaunt man with the white streaming hair and black velvety cloak snapped open his huge black eyes and played upon his flute until all as such faded out entirely with the dispersing of the mist… and she knew what it was to be strong.
VIII
And so it was that our little naked love lay half-submerged and supine in the red and gently waving sea as blue and finned serpents caressed her sides bringing shivers through her body as she sighed for the pleasure of it; and owls perched on branches looking bored and many different birds came by in myriad forms; and green turtles smiled so cozily and smugly from their shells; and flowers of many different colors rushed by here and there; and mighty deep chested and bearded men with fishes tails laid kisses to her naked smooth-skinned body, bringing fits of undulating ecstasy; and satyrs made many different and simultaneous loves to her; and she soon again gave birth to a steady flow of giggling organic replicas of her; and small boats of many different shapes disclosed many character creatures; and the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat came puffing on his pipe to stop on his many trips to the incandescent sun to gently tweak her nipples as she giggled, always speaking thus: “Oh you trifling tease. Won’t you love me as before?” And always did he look up distractedly, speaking thus: “ah yes; but you give birth in constant flow that ceases not to be.” And always did our little naked love turn over on her stomach and speak thus: “Then you shall have to put your phallus here; between by buttocks as the satyrs so enjoyed as well. And would you please do so hard and fast and long and buried deep? I do so love the sensation of being roughly stretched apart.” And always did the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat then pull his pants around his ankles and commence to do as she so asked, and always did he do so hard and fast and long and buried deep as our little naked love sighed with the aching visceral pleasure of it; and the slapping sounds were clearly audible, until at long last the man in the dark blue suit and gold top hat shuddered in his ecstasy as the milky white and viscous fluid inundated deep; and always did he straighten up and go along his merry way; “Good day, my little naked love.” “Good day!” cried she for the joy of all of it. And clocks of many different shapes and sizes continued floating by, ticking, chiming off the many different hours of this world of the orange-reflected sky and ruby-hued sea.

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Last edited by Nathan Charles; 10-11-05 at 16:52.
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Old 10-10-05   #5
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Awesome! I started reading it but i'm going to print it out so I can read it tonight

edit: also.. if you don't mind can the color be changed to something less bright ?
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Old 10-11-05   #8
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Pornographic Suicide

This is the first "chapter" of the Dark Muse. If anyone likes it I will add more, as the whole thing is about fifty pages all together.

The Dark Muse
By Nathan Charles
I
As the ancient ship sailed across the sea broken souls and angry spirits swam within the fog. The fog of deceit as the weeping echoed through this darkness of our own creation. Out from this unseen womb, somewhere drifting and alone, Eros heard the fluttering of wings, distant as he strained to hear. Struggling for comprehension of this unknown presence Eros' consciousness lay naked, waiting for the awakening, the discovery of this thing… what was it? What did he search for on this expedition? It seemed he’d lost a cause. How was it that he found himself drowning in this darkness, this fog, this atmosphere of screaming and flashes of decay; images, unreal. Were these faces surfacing as he tried in vain to catch a glimpse? He searched for it; this thing driving him. Destiny? No. Destiny is action irremediable. We are destined to our will. Each incitement is an act of fate and all that he portray is that which we receive. What had driven Eros to delve so far into this wilderness of his own metaphorical insanity? How long at sea?
How had he forgotten all that was? Nameless faces, sleepless hours. He sailed through voices, whispers, hinting at his heart. What had he forgotten? What was lost? What had become? The fluttering of wings suddenly became a roar and he wondered, were these the wings of demons surfacing from out the fog of innocence? Darkness to all eyes which do not see…
Sailing, seeking what? Eros searched, struggling to escape the distortion of these screams, this fluttering of wings, these surfacing faces, taunting him in the shadow of his view; naught but a glimpse at that of which is tangible. These whispers, somehow louder than the screams. With what, he wondered, did they beckon him? Why? Such confusion, yet somehow he understood this lament. Such words that danced just out of reach, compromising comprehension. What was it, overall, that could induce such longing, such desire for this thing? It hinted secret beauty, surrounded as it was by this decay, this suffering, so familiar…
The fog surrounded him, remaining, as it was, the apotheosis of pure anguish. Human anguish, the suffering of souls made real before his hungry eyes. This hunger, this longing, was all that remained his life, of himself. Primitive, yet contained; this ancient instinct. And this moving fog, souls put on display. An esoteric music of all past pain that dwindled in his aged and callous heart. This hurt that seems to fade, only to surface once again at the slightest form of persuasion. Perhaps music, drifting from out of nowhere, tugging at the tissue of a hidden scar. An injury thought forgotten. Or a scent, perhaps, some perfume caught for an instant, reminding us of lovers dead and gone.
The music of this dome of fog began to quicken as these thoughts reached his mind. And suddenly a scent began to permeate, familiar, hinting. Seductions of the past.
He imagined himself rising up through this dome, this portrait of decay and vulgar renderings of agony. How long would it take to reach the light? How much suffering before the gratification of bliss?
Eros found himself consumed by this secret pondering when a memory began to surface. It was a dream he’d had long ago and it began to flood vividly from out his own private abyss…

From the balcony of a castle he viewed, from dizzying heights, a play. A silent play, as naught was heard save that of the muted murmurs of consciousness. There were gestures seen here and there, bodies draped in an era of renaissance. The play was vacant and meaningless, the actors lost and afraid. Gesticulations of confusion beckoned him and he found himself leaping from the balcony and as he fell he began a spiral. Eros could see a thousand faces from a thousand balconies as he plummeted toward the stage, which was really a courtyard made from cold white marble. The balconies surrounded the stage and all were filled with these staring faces, beautiful in their shocked and fearful silence.
At last he reached the foot, touching softly to the ground. The actors quickly surrounded him in their desperation. They begged him to write a play for them. He was pulled this way and that by this group of pitiful strangers. All faces were animated with the same desperate look. He loved, as he laughed, being the at the heart of such desperate need. Of course he would write a play for them; and from out of this throng of uninflected emptiness came a tablet and a feather pen. He began to write, rapidly creating scene after scene, part after part, until the wall in front of him began to open up, revealing the darkest abyss he had ever laid eyes upon. It was immense and foreboding. The actors fled from this darkness and Eros was left to face it, alone. He felt himself floating out of this strange and silent castle, or rather the castle began to float around and away from him, and he was suddenly surrounded by this darkness as the castle was quickly swept away. And from out of this endless black he heard a million voices, ethereal and in perpetual soprano. It was unreal in its angelic beauty, so mellifluous Eros nearly wept. It was the sound of innocence, untouched by pain or anguish or despair. It was love made sound.
Then, from out of nowhere it became sight. And such a beautiful sight it was, holding as it did an incandescent brilliance. It was a ship, immense and floating toward him as he awaited the embrace of its singing passengers with staring eyes and open arms.
Angels, so lovely, so incredibly wondrous in their resplendent yet somehow gentle glow. There were millions of them, yet they seemed as one, moving in a pattern of caressing and affection… of love.
Eros looked down at his hands, realizing that he still held in them the tablet and feather pen, and as he did there suddenly came a voice, or rather a presence animated with a message… one of danger. Not for him, but for these angels he so loved. Where does this danger come from, he demanded. Laughter emanated from the presence, and Eros realized with an abrupt and astonished horror that the danger came from the presence itself.
Would you save them? the presence taunted him. If so, than how are you to continue to create? What action could possibly be taken if you continue to hide behind the barrier of tablet and pen and quiver and bow?
Again, he laid eyes upon his hands pondering the significance of this. What poet was it that had had this same revelation? This terrible discovery that his mind could not possibly carry a balance between receiving inspiration and becoming inspiration. Impossible to be his own muse. Inspiring others was his muse. His only source of comfort, tearing him away from the inner suffering… wait. Slipping away.
Eros watched as the tablet and pen slipped from his hands, ripping out of him like the soul of a lover who never really cared. But there was no time to try and mend a broken heart, for the soprano of his beloved angels became a million horrid cries of pain. And, all at once these cries molded into one massive blur of pure anguish. He saw them falling, his angels, falling into the dark, the despair, the empty. Nothingness is clarity. These words came flashing, momentarily, meaningless.
His hands, filling with this light, angelic, animate, struggling to gather these deities to himself. Eros' own soul as a sanctuary for these lost beings, betrayed by a faith in something unseen. They had journeyed on a ship of faith through nothingness, meaninglessness. The eventuality of such a journey had led to the inevitable outcome of all blind faith: unseen death. This presence, this “faith,” had turned its back on them. And Eros tried to save them, but they were too numerous, their light too vivid and immense. The inner sufferings of his heart made it impossible to harbor outside light; outside beauty.
This hidden darkness held an arrogance, an unconscious selfishness where Eros found himself consumed by the notion that all things lovely were made for him, for his benefit…

The familiarity in these remembrances of the self was a comfort, if nothing else. But as he relished in this state of introspection Eros found himself wandering away, or rather the memory wandered away like a glimmer of hope shattered by an inevitable despair. He struggled to retain this glimpse of himself as he returned to the fog. To the fluttering of wings and perpetual cries of torment. But soon the glimpse began to dissipate and to fade. The manner in which it fell away gave the impression of the dead decaying in an instantaneous crumbling of the molecular structure. Of flowers curling into a dry darkness within moments, ever after portraying the likeness of the dead.
As the gaze of consciousness returned to its outward state Eros became aware that a change had taken place aboard his ship. He could not remember a single moment on this expedition when his eyes had met with those of his men. Strange. Had communication been entirely mechanical? As he returned from his inward reflection he’d found himself surrounded by their faces. Their blank and staring eyes were fixed upon his being, gazing through him as it were, and Eros wondered what it was that lay behind this vacant stare.
Perhaps, in their monotonous wallowing through this esoteric fog they had reached a state of primitive interaction with the symbolic wilderness surrounding them. Sensation without perception. Perhaps, his sudden leap into actual thought, into actual perception of that which he received, had stirred something in them that could not have otherwise been felt. Had Eros not fully reached that primeval state of pure instinctual awareness? As he gazed upon this crowd of staring eyes he realized that there was no possible way of knowing, for memory is the essence of conscious thought. And memory of instinctual experience is not a memory of any actual event, but a memory of that which dictate the nature of our impulses. There was simply no way of knowing whether or not he had reached this state of blankness.
As he pondered this Eros noticed something in his men quicken. And as he became aware of this they backed away, slightly.
Who were these men? These primitive creatures who were apparently affected by each vibration of his mind. He had been pondering things as far back on this journey as he could remember and they hadn’t stirred before. What caused this change? It seemed they rose from their mechanical stupor after the memory of his life before the fog had taken shape. After the recollection of a dream. What was it that captured them in the feeling of this dream, this memory, that had done nothing before? What was the nature of the trance in which they moved? Was it a trance? Or was it simply the world as it always had been and always would be?
No. He had to fight this notion. A memory had surfaced and Eros would not be forced to let it go.
But what of the fog? How would Eros begin to penetrate this thing surrounding them so closely, yet moving with them just out of reach?
He would find a way. He would break the dome of fog to reach the Sun-soaked shores of bliss. Eros would find answers to these cries of anguish, the fluttering of wings his own. These faces dancing just out of reach would be unveiled to reveal their hidden beauty.
But what of this veil? What of this beclouded blanket hinting at unseen suffering? Was this covering of numinous fog meant as a womb to protect seeing eyes from the truths that lay waiting? Truth is to be feared is it not?
No. This was wrong. These were not his words, Eros realized with a sudden, yet stymied wave of fear. Not only were these thoughts alien to him, but not his at all. Someone, or some thing, some presence, was manipulating his thoughts, attempting to crush his undying optimism under the fallacy of unmitigated misery. It promised comfort in this endless gloom and despair, this wallowing in purgatory. A weak and pathetic coward’s paradise. An ignorance of those who have never conquered, never overcome.
Never will I fall into this, he thought, and as he did his petty fear became pure and seething rage.
Let the fog take hold. Let it consume you. Give in to the utter hopelessness of your own private agony. You will die if you try to fight.
Suddenly a cry erupted from the inner-most regions of his being, and Eros felt his head fall back with the overpowering fury of this cry. Strange that it could rise from him before he had even become aware of it. Strange that he saw these hands moving out in front of his body to attack the members of his crew as he realized that the presence, the voice, was them, or perhaps speaking through them. He felt his thumbs pushing the flesh of shielding eyelids, popping through and leaving two gaping founts of gushing blood. He felt the grip of his hand upon the knife as organs spilled and fluids spattered and his scream became all the more frenzied until it was more cerberusian than god…

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Old 10-12-05   #9
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Old 10-12-05   #10
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Old 10-13-05   #11
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The Mother

The Mother
By Nathan Charles



I
The world was all smooth, liquid stillness; each movement of the body met with a pliable caress and proliferation of space…
She was blind; somewhere heated, hushed and cradling. The only known sensation was that of comfort and gentle little bursts within the body, warm and soft. Physically poignant, the silence somehow mellifluous, speaking its own dulcet tones as she hummed along with it, feeding it, each vibration of the voice melting back in an immediate reverberation to the body. And such reverberation caused sighs to break free from this liquid stillness, creating myriad crawling growths, separating the body from the pliable touch surrounding it. From the caress, the cradling proliferation of space. She became the proliferation as this liquid stillness, no longer still, pervaded a core once snug; the dormant seedling of that which was to take in, now taking in what was once placid, now spilling into her. It was a reversal of the state which was. Incubation in disease as the incubated became the incubator, inundated as the sheathe dispersed and liquid was no longer that which encompassed, but that of which invaded all corridors of flesh. All made vulnerable by the first epithelial encounter with that which was not pure energy.
And as the struggling became more frantic and extreme the liquid stillness pulled itself away and a surface more akin to that which was herself began to palpitate, then quite verily to compress itself upon her to the point of asphyxiation, letting up only to press seemingly a thousand times more…
And then it was that she began to slide, slowly making way as this moist epithelial sheathe came closing to a point behind her; of where she knew not whence it led, nor from where she came beyond that point, only that it closed itself upon her, pushing her away… pushing out.
And then there was a rush of light, though she remained blind for the brilliance of it, and her asphyxiation laid to waste as she choked an inward breath. There was pain in her eyes and cold upon her skin, but as her breath began to calm itself she found that she could see. There were clouds upon the firmament and strips of lightning ripped gales of thunder as she lay naked, waiting for the rain.
II
Presently, Persephone arose upon staggering feet and gazed upon what ground it was that birthed her childish form: an endless field of tall grasses swaying with the shifting current of the breeze. At her feet a black and palpitating egg closing in upon itself, and as the sky began to pour its rains the egg dispersed with no further ado, forever lost to her… the first of all known bliss forever gone.
Persephone knelt amongst the blades of grass, hands groping at the black earth, searching for a remnant of the egg, only to find slick mud pouring through her fingers as the culmination of the storm continued to increase. At last she commenced to covering herself with this mud, laying down between the grass and gathering the wet earth upon herself, only to have it washed away by the driving rain. And she wept, cold and alone…
She knew not how long she lay this way as the water continued to rise, but soon enough she drifted off into a state akin to that which was before. Before such birth as was her own, akin yet very much a shadow of its former. More escape than that which was only to be known. “That” being the comfort of innocence.
III
She awoke with a thrashing of the body, hurling stagnant waters to and fro with the flailing of her limbs, and found the scenery unchanged save for the blinding glare of sun upon the water of a seemingly endless stretch of grassland. The clouds had departed with the dreamless sleep from which she found herself awaking. Persephone looked down upon her body, half-submerged in water, and saw the early budding of pubescent breasts which had apparently grown in the night. They ached dully. Strands of curling red hair fell around her nipples, which were hard with the coldness of the water and with the growing warmth of the sun as it rose slowly to further and further heights across the sky. A shudder ran through her body as she arose and water poured through curvatures of skin, giving light to the passing imagery of flowers of multitudinous colours folding into themselves, only to bloom doubly fierce from the bud in which they hid…
As this mild passion passed away she looked around to see what she could see. All around was an endless stretch of grass broken here and there by the sparkling of the sun between blades upon the water. And at the farthest reaches the land appeared to curve with the sprawling vastness of the horizon.
And suddenly a flurry of birds burst forth, immense, white and roaring with an audience of feathers, making wind around her head and drowning out all previous silence. Persephone cried out in longing and delight, giving chase, reaching for their webbed and scaly feet, courting rescue. Her mother was undoubtedly among them, and she would find her place of bliss in knowing nought but budding liquid stillness once again…
But she could find no grip amongst the multitude as they continued rising with the current of their wings, and as they drifted further out of sight Persephone at last gave up, sinking slowly to her knees in the muddied water, and wept.
No sooner had she lost all hope when she was then lifted from her place of woe and tumbled down to darkness with a splash and saw high above her the closing of an enormous yellow beak. She knew that she was to be taken home, and so she slept, vaguely musing over the sweet coppery aroma surrounding her.
She awoke to dim shadows and the placid sighing of the wind. Looking around she saw that she lay upon a tangling of yielding branches of which also surrounded her. She wondered where it was her mother had gone. A shiver ran through her and she found herself caressing the smooth compositions of her flesh, sighing deep, musing vaguely over the deepening her curvatures had taken. The slight widening of hips and lengthening of limbs. Her breasts had grown as well and her breath quickened as she touched them, gently kneading her nipples as she did so, and a small moan escaped her lips. There was an ache between her thighs and her hands immediately went to work, running over a newfound tuft of soft fur, her middle finger pressing gently between labial folds, finding moisture, sliding up and gently kneading her little nub, which must, she thought, have been there all along, unbeknownst to her. Persephone sighed to further heights of joy and ecstasy, staring at the beauty of the bright blue sky… she cried out as the undulating passion flushed from her loins, primitive and unrefined, to the tips of her fingers and toes to the very nerve endings of her face. Her body writhed and thrashed about, and when she saw her mother, in whose hollow beak she’d slept, her delight repeated with an aggressive need kept just out of reach by the necessary tenderness of such an act. Her mother, whose shadow fell across her body, bent her beak to rest upon her feathered breast and stabbed a vicious hole, pouring blood upon Persephone’s body as it writhed and shuddered. And there was no longer a centre from which the pleasure radiated forth. Persephone was pleasure as blood continued to spill, inundating and drowning out all focused thought, body shuddering, lips trembling, moans stymied for the impossibility of expressing such a degree of ecstasy, of joy…
Slowly, Persephone became more conscious of her body. Still it pulsed and ached with the pleasure of it, and her breath came in frantic sighs accentuated by the quiet, uninflected moans of a girl who knew not pain nor fear of pretence. Her mother was gone, though her body remained bathed in blood, which was Life.
IV
Her body began to calm itself with the steady pulsing of her heart. She lapped at the blood with lazy strokes, nought but a shadowed semblance of predecessor ecstasy, but welcome in its sense of rest and nourishment. Her thirst was light, as all intensity had passed away. Such inebriating pleasure as had been was near to traumatizing in its high degree of passion uncontained. But the taste of it remained with each flapping stroke of her tongue, and all was sweet and fragrant.
As the last of the blood was fully swept away Persephone grew tired and slept. And dreamt of birds beneath vast expanses of bright blue sky, flying over an endless sea of blood. The whiteness of them was blinding as they glimmered in the sun, their myriad cries an animal expression of the happiness she felt as she danced upon the sea, the calm and gently lapping current of it. And as she danced she began to spiral, musing vaguely as she felt the weight of her breasts pulling outward, her toes upon the surface of the sea, her fingers pointed toward the sky of feathers of which itself began to swirl. And soon the sea of blood began to swirl as well, until it was that Persephone spun in the very centre of this double whirlpool of sky and sea, a veritable titanic and double cone of blood and feathers, herself the nucleus of its velocity. And quite suddenly the blood and feathers were no longer blood and feathers, but simply red and white, and she could see and exchange of colour at the perimeter as red became white and white became red, and then no longer such but milk and honey. Honey of which crowded out the firmament with its transparent hue of gold.
And then it was that these whirlpools began to swirl in upon themselves, creating yet two more cones of precious fluid pointing inward, milk at her toes and honey at her fingertips. And at the very moment of contact the milk and honey immediately ensconced her naked body in a twirling of white and golden light…
Persephone awoke to the cool light of millions upon millions of stars in various clusters and outcroppings about the deep blue of the night-time sky. She was wrapped in a warm blanket of feathers against her mother’s soft and downy breast. The stirrings of her waking woke her mother and she commenced to lulling Persephone to sleep with a flowing of sweet blood from her beak to her daughter’s lips and into her with all the narcotic ecstasy of liquid nourishment.
V
When again she awoke the sky was blue and the sun shone full upon the nest in which she lay. Her body tingled still with the aftertaste of what pleasures yester she had found. Her breasts had grown somewhat larger to where her palms could not contain the bulk of them and her hips were somewhat rounder.
Her mother was nowhere to be seen and she arose to see what she could see beyond the boundaries of this nest whose perimeter branches’ height ascended twice above her own. As she climbed she hummed a simple song. And as she did she realized with a light nostalgic ache that it was the song of which she’d learned in the placid silence of the egg whose life it was that first had founded her to grow. It was the first of her to know and the first of conscious memories that goes not further back…
As she peaked her head up and over the rim of thick yet flimsy branches nought could she see but a vast expanse of multicoloured leaves shimmering in the bright noonlight. Gold sentinel branches stood guard at regular intervals. Such multifarious beauty Persephone had never before seen.
She climbed to stand upon the rim of the nest itself and saw upon looking down that the outer limits of the nest descended a far greater distance than the inner depths in which she’d slumbered. She walked round the rim to see more that she could see from further vantages. Beyond all points of the circumference the view was the same: a veritable sea of bright and shining colours with golden branches jutting here and there.
She dropped to her hands and knees, thick tresses of red falling over her shoulders, and lowered herself over the precipice, blind feet groping for a foothold, finding it and climbing to reach the bottom, her mother temporarily forgotten. As she made her slow descent she hummed again the only song she knew, though now without a trace of memory nor hint of longing. It was once again a source of pure joy, almost unconscious in its utter nakedness of feeling…
When she reached the bottom Persephone looked up once, naught but a fleeting glimpse, to see the top of the nest towering above and wondered vaguely if her mother was there. And then she was forgotten as Persephone gazed upon what ground she’d reached. The leaves were larger than they’d been from view so far above, far greater than the widest circumference of her body. Their veins spread, glowing white, each one as thick as any one finger of her hands.
The nearest leaf was bright blue and pulsing with whatever life it was that pumped from out its veins and into it. She reached down and as her palm made contact with its blue and glowing surface the colour of it seemed to fill her skin and she sighed with the pleasure of it, centered as it was in the outer-most surface of her palm, just as it had been centered in her loins when she had done its work upon herself.
It was naught but a faint impression, as her touch was light. As she took her hand away and the pleasure trickled with it Persephone realized that the leaves had sighed along with her in her state of mild ecstasy and tender ache. She gazed upon her palm and watched as the bright blue light slowly died away. She lusted after more and returned her palm to its proper place, all the while lost in the scintillating surface. She pressed with more force than previously and the pleasure was such that she lost her hold upon the nest and fell willingly to the outer surface of this strange forest whose bright and coloured leaves were utter ecstasy. And she moved along with the writhing of these leaves with each grinding spasm of her body and all was naught but colour, multifarious, its pleasure permeating mind and body. She could not so much as hear them sigh as it was simply felt as a part of the variation in colour. All else was blotted out completely and soon she felt herself a natural component of this wilderness of bliss-
Suddenly her memories came back to focus as a searing pain whipped across her sides. She was being pulled away and as stark and stultifying consciousness regained its hold Persephone heard the forest moan in pain, longing and dismay. It was her mother, roughly gripping her between webbed feet, all claws and clutching scales as she was lifted from her heaven, ripped away from all that was good. She knew not why her mother hurt her so, only that she hurt, and she wept in fear and pain. She felt the pleasure melting all away, yet still the world swam with colours, now transparent, giving all that she beheld a multifarious hue. Her tears added further dichotomies to the variegation.
She was dropped into the nest, branches lashing at her skin as she slammed home. She looked down at her body and was able to see the flow of blood in that the colour flooded faster in areas where skin had broken. But the world around no longer swam with colour and the severity of such utter desolation of hue frightened her.
Her mother moved in upon her with wings spread, and she could feel her blind and seething rage. Her hate. Persephone sobbed and shrank away from her, not knowing who her mother was or why she hurt. She reached out in supplication, showing her remorse for she knew not what, showing her mother that it could again be as it had once been and that she loved her so. Her mother glared black upon the swirling colour of her skin and began to peck, tearing gobs of flesh away until the colour was entirely drained and she swooned in and out with the pain of it. The pain of being nearly torn apart, the pain of love made strange and frightening. And all at once the world came slicing into sharp and agonizing focus, a clarity that seemed to scream its presence. Her mother had taken a leg into her beak and bitten down with such force that it was bitten off entirely. Persephone screamed as the pain consumed all else and blood squirted in a fountain to her mother’s beak. And just before all consciousness was blotted out in darkness she vomited another fountain of blood upon herself and watched as her mother seemed to dance, jumping from foot to foot, flapping her wings and screaming. When her mother took her other leg into her beak she no longer felt it. And then it was that all conscious observation fell away.
VI
She awoke in an amnesiac daze to a dark world of cold and twinkling stars, each bright pinpoint of light caring not for what pain it was she felt. She looked down at the source of this pain and, as memory reasserted itself, wept. As she did she was swept up by her mother’s wing and pressed against her bosom. Cold comfort. Still she loved her, yet also was she afraid of her. Persephone trembled at her mother’s touch and was pressed tighter to her breast until it seemed that surely she would suffocate, though she could indeed breathe freely. It was an inner suffocation which so asphyxiated her. She hated her mother. She loved her. She hated herself for whatever she had done.
As she wept her mother cooed. She placed her beak upon her daughter’s lips and fed her of her blood. Was this a pleasure so different from that of the forest? Perhaps, in that the blood was inebriating and the pleasure of the forest of the coloured leaves had been invigorating. Or what she had found. The blood was pleasure, but things could no longer be as they had been. She thought of the egg. Such a loss, despite the pain, seemed more a natural occurrence. But this… it was somehow different…
Her mother took her beak away, as Persephone was fully sated. She began to drift, but quite suddenly a thought occurred to her and she snapped back. Would her mother now punish her for the pleasure she had just given? But she merely cooed and nestled her more firmly to her breast, and at last Persephone slept.
VII
When she awoke she was again alone and the sun shone gold across the perimeter of the nest in which she lay. She herself was still ensconced in shadow, legless, white and ragged scars torn across her body. There was no longer any physical pain, save the chafing of scar tissue, but her heart was ever torn by such betrayal as could never have been dreamed and she wept. Such confusion. She knew not what was to come nor what she was to do. She thought of the forest and the leaves and her body shuddered still more violently with weeping. Such pleasures she had found, only to find that such pleasure was wrong as she was ripped away and fed of a more soporific, more narcotic, form of pleasure. And such pleasure was no longer nourishment but a mere prison holding her to a life no longer wanted…
An idea struck her then that seemed to scream its truth at her. Were she to find her way to the forest once again would she then be healed? She remembered what state it was in which she’d found herself upon submerging in that sea of ecstasy and colour. It was somehow formless as it carried her along. As she carried herself along with it. If she could find her way again, become a part of the forest, she could perhaps escape her mother entirely. She could be free. One with pleasure. Pleasure itself. It was nought but a glimmer of hope, but enough to set her going and she turned upon her stomach, which had once been smooth and beautiful but was now scarred and hideous, and dragged herself across the nest. The sun now sliced a gentle warmth across her body, bringing further shades of hope as Persephone anticipated what colour was to come.
But it was slow in coming. Her arms grew tired at regular intervals and she was forced to stop repeatedly. The sun grew hot upon her tattered flesh and the branches of the nest tore her scars and once again her blood began to flow. She wondered where her mother was and if perhaps the scent of blood would call her from her flight. She quickened her pace, dragging her body behind her, caring not for pain, as she wanted only pleasure, and the freedom of such pleasure. The salvation.
Persephone’s eyes squeezed shut and her lips pulled back as she pulled herself along, tearing further and further cuts across her body, caring not, until at last she made it to the wall of the nest.
She turned over, resting upon her back and letting sunshine dry her ragged wounds. She would lay for nought but a moment to gather what little strength she still possessed. When she reached the top she would simply let herself fall to the many coloured leaves of the forest below…
She snapped back. The sun had gone, she realized in a flurry of panic. She somehow managed to thrash herself into a sitting position, searching frantically with eyes that weren’t enough to see. At last she calmed. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, though that she had been there recently was not to be doubted, for her cuts had once again been healed, scars now more twisted and hideous than before. Suddenly she felt a twinge of guilt. Was this not love, to heal your child so dutifully upon discovery of hurt? Then Persephone thought of the pecking, the screaming and the dancing from webbed and scaly foot to webbed and scaly foot. But most of all she thought of being ripped away from all that was good…
Hatred and fear overshadowed yet again and she turned away, toward the wall of the nest, and began her slow ascent to freedom. The coolness of the night was welcome, as was darkness ‘luminated only by the dim light of cold impassive stars.
When she reached the top Persephone collapsed again upon her back, for exhaustion was simply too much to bear. She lost herself momentarily in the twinkling of the stars and when she came to it was better. She turned over and pulled herself to the edge of the nest, the stumps that were her legs wiggling behind her, and gazed upon the leaves. Their light continued to glow even after dark, though the scintillating quality was gone, leaving nought but a burning of colour from within, as of many coloured fires flickering below. The gold sentinel branches sparkled gently, and the light of all illuminated what surface features of her face periphery of sight allowed. She felt a visceral warmth as anticipation flooded forth. She sighed. She wept at the joy that she would finally be free…
Her cry erupted from behind and Persephone screamed, turning over in her state of sudden fright, not thinking to simply fall as she had planned. She felt her mother’s beak as it stabbed her battered body, ripping, tearing, mangling. When she tried to bat her off her mother caught her hand and tore white hot agony all throughout her arm and on into her skull as she was jerked forward. She could but not quite see the stump of her freshly amputated arm spurting blood across the starry night. And as her mother began to peck and tear the flesh from her face Persephone no longer felt of pain nor saw of light. Yet, still she knew. She knew that she was being eaten. Eaten by her mother. As her ingurgitated body began to dissolve, still she knew. She was being digested by her mother in a premature return from whence she came…
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Old 10-14-05   #12
Nathan Charles
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The Marquis and the Mistress

The Marquis and the Mistress
By Nathan Charles
I awoke, finding myself in darkness, the smell of dust permeating blindness. It was warm and muggy, the air still, and the wooded floor digging at my back suggested a room. Perhaps an attic, or some guest-room for the storing of guests not meant to leave.
I thrust myself into a sitting position, nearly vomiting with the sudden and vertiginous pounding in my skull. My breath came in ragged gasps and whoops until at last the dizziness dispersed and disorientation took its place. Had there been a party? No. Dinner for two, it seemed. Myself and a woman, the Duchess of B-, reputed to be a procurer of young girls from various countries. But I was not interested in her reputed hobby. It was her. Her long black tresses and pale green eyes. A body nearly tall as of my own and lush, so lush; mine for the taking it seemed. Or so I'd thought. Had I been drugged? Last I remembered innuendo had brought talk of her own love life aside from her reputed passing of the time. There had been lewd pictures on the walls, clarity the view of which continually eluded me, as there was nought but a single candle upon the table.
"Do you not have more light?" I'd asked. She'd had young girls as servants; prostitutes kept for daily chores it seemed. One in particular caught my fancy, blonde and blue-eyed with a perpetual innocence to her rounded features.
"Do you like her?" asked the mistress of the house.
"Perhaps you could show me one as like as not from she who sits across from me," I said. She threw back her head of glorious black hair, revealing a length of soft white neck, and laughed. Her voice was rich, mellifluous and inciting lust as I smiled a knowing smile.
The young blonde whore proceeded to pour my wine and left us to our own devices. I drank my fill and thought how sweet it would be to cup both her huge white breasts in my hands and brazenly caress them.

Presently, I rummaged about on hand and knees, my right hand pawing at the air in search of walls or, at best, a door. Had I indeed been drugged? It seemed that it was quite veritably so. The whore. I would ruin her upon escape. Solicitation of prostitution was a crime (there was, of course, no need to let anyone know of my present predicament, especially not my wife!). I would see her put behind bars, after, of course, beating her within an inch of her life. To treat the Marquis de Rousseau in such an unsavory manner was to court the swift decapitation of the guillotine itself. I cared not one whit that I was as far away as London. I would bring war upon the heads of these dirty Brits were they to deny me justice!
At last I found a wall and I began to paw my way along its wooden surface. Ah ha! a door. I could feel it in the dividing of surface features. But where was the knob? I searched, my agitation growing as my hands caressed each and every possible point twice over, until I found myself clawing at the cracks, trying desperately to gain a finger-hold. But it was in vain and I began to pound and to scream for the blood of the whore of the house. She would live (or die, yes die!) to regret her dealings with the likes of me. I would beat her. I would rape her. I would disembowel the filthy stinking whore.
I heard voice, tinkling sweetly like a tiny silver bell. "The Mistress will be here soon, dear Sir. She will show you such delights beyond all life."
"Whore!" said I, "let me out of here! What is this you speak of? Such cryptic words! '-delights beyond all life,' indeed. I'll rip your stinking filthy whore's head off! whore!"
Naught but giggles from behind the door. Then the pattering of footfalls, fading as they drew swiftly away. I sighed, resigning to wait it out and save my strength. Sitting against the door I thought what I would do to her when it opened. I would tear her loins apart with my bare hands and rip her organs into a thousand pieces. I would pound her face into nought but a bloody pulp. I would-
The door began to open and I leapt to my feet, ready to pounce upon this dirty, drugging, 'napping whore. Candle light poured in and I was about to attack when my cry of rage caught inside my throat. It was not the bewitching face of my seductive captor, but the old and sagging face of my long dead mother.
"Louis!" she squealed, her one and only eye staring wide in accusation as her palsied head shook back and forth. One hand pawed at the air, trembling as did her voice, "Oooooh, Louis! You've been naughty Louis. Very naughty. Oooooh, Louis. OOOOH!" She lumbered toward me, her hunched back towering above her warped and bending shoulders.
"No mother, I've been good. Honest to God I have. See?" I put out my hands to show that they were indeed clean.
"OOOOH!," she said, "OOOH! I know one wittle boy who's going to get a spanking. Ooooh!" She shuffled toward me, her legs wobbling at a mad, broken angle. "OOOH!" she said, "OOOH!"
"No Mommy!" I said, backing away from her as she stared with her one and only eye. "I've been good. Please don't spank me. I'm a grown boy now."
She lumbered toward me in the flickering light of the candle. "OOOH!" she said, "OOOH!" And suddenly the tiny flame wavered and went out.
"MOMMY NO!" I screamed. But for the moment nothing happened. And then there was a swift hiss and flicker of a lighting match and the candle was lit anew. No longer did my mother stand in front of me but the Mistress, white and gloriously naked from head to toe. I sighed with relief and took in the sight of her voluptuous body. Desire took the place of fear and I wanted her.
"Come to me," she whispered.
"Oh yes," said I, everything forgotten; the drugging of my person, the captivity, the horror of my dead mother. All entirely forgotten in my want of her. It was strangely hypnotic. How could I have ever thought my mother was ever there? Surely it had been a dream.
It mattered not. What mattered now was the Mistress's breasts, huge and white, her nipples hard and waiting for my mouth to cover them over. What mattered was the curving of her hips and the thin dark tuft of fur between her legs. The utter smoothness of her gorgeous body.
I went to her, hardly noticing that she had somehow grown taller than me, and sucked at her breasts. She sighed with pleasure, then pulled my head back, "Now I will show you what ecstasy I've learned these many passing ages." Suddenly her face grew long, cheeks hollow, two black patches below the empty sockets of her eyes. "My Love," she whispered. I screamed. She pulled my face into hers, and as I began to suffocate I flailed my limbs at her limp and sagging body, oddly boneless, but to no avail.

And then it was that I awoke, screaming into darkness. When a smooth palm touched my cheek I nearly fell out of bed- "Dearest?" Her voice was sweet and womanish, but marked slightly with an early share of suffering, mostly caused by myself. My wife, of course. I sighed a ragged sigh, calming by slow degrees until at last my heart regained a measure of its usual composure. "A nightmare?" she asked.
"Yes," said I.
"Oh you poor dear," she said, "let me fetch you a glass of water. Here- oh... would you? The lamp is on your side-"
"Of course, Dear," said I, and went to light a match. The lamp lit, I turned to give my wife a parting kiss and my mother lay before me, her naked body riddled in a sea of varicose veins, flesh lumped and sagging. I screamed. There were flies crawling sluggishly across the whole of her loins. I could hear them buzzing. Her one and only eye stared in its bleary cataract of accusation. She wrapped her arms around my neck with a squelchy yielding of her flesh. I could smell a horrid smell like rotten eggs and curdled milk. "You've been bad, Louis," she screeched. I could only scream with growing horror. I knew now that it had not been a dream. "OOOOH!" she said, and I knew as she straddled me, her skin sagging over my belly and thighs; I knew. I knew as I screamed for the terror of it. As she rocked back and forth with sickening ease. As her tongue lolled out at me, crawling with a squirming of myriad maggots, I knew. As she proceeded to asphyxiate me with a mouth the soft texture of rotten apples, I knew. I knew that I was in Hell.
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Old 10-18-05   #13
Nathan Charles
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The River

The River
By Nathan Charles
I
The night was endless as I walked the desert sand in search of any and all that I could find. I’d left the ocean far behind me as my journeys there within had ended long ago. I knew not how long I’d walked the desert night in mindless pursuit, until it was that anticipation took its proper place on the seat of consciousness and I knew that discovery would soon play its natural part in the forthcoming of all that I would soon become. All that would become a part of me.
And in the consciousness of apprehension, recollection made its presence known, and I remembered the ocean. Its vast expanse of multitudinous life and many caverns breeding creatures, and the singing of its elusive phantoms, their voices hinting at the passing of their shadows in the outer expanse of the deep dark sea. There was foreboding in the voices of these faraway creatures and woe it seemed as well.
I remembered twirling of many rounded lights floating out from unknown depths and all directions so it seemed. Faces did I see in them, a thousand staring features breeding myriad expressions, all producing feelings of many different natures, all unknown and learned of then and there in essence, though not in meaning. It was an amalgam of haphazard emotions, and soon these rounded lights and faces surrounded me, caressed me as they moved, whispering in meaningless articulation, until it was that I echoed all intruding sounds and sights in uncontrolled reflection.
And then it was that a serpent, black and fathomless of form, began to crawl across the surface of my being, coiling all around and binding me in the perpetuation of the essence of these rounded lights and faces as the last of them was swallowed into darkness. And the snake became a part of me, absorbed completely as it was by the warm and pulsing mass of light that was myself, the light and darkness of It and I becoming one.
II
As I pondered the significance of this, the first of strange transitions of the ocean, I noticed a change to the monotony of rolling desert sand, some distant shadow on the far horizon to my left. I made a beeline for it, pausing not to wonder of its nature, for I knew what I would find upon eventual approach. And so I walked, indifferently, or so it seemed, as was before, until it was that I came upon it. An immense snake’s head of black and shining marble rising from the desert sand; each enormous fang of its gaping maw like at the widest of circumference to that of my own dark and scaly body.
I thought again of the snake of the sea, breeding in me, as it did, consciousness of body, human so it seemed, with scales and fins, until it was that my strange series of transitions brought me to the discovery of surface features at the sandy floor of shallow waters. And the sky, disclosing millions of stars, fiery explosions self-contained and varying in color. And flying stars, spitting infinitesimal replicas behind them, strewn by thousands across the firmament between strange and myriad satellites of varying description. There were blues and reds and yellows and multicolored rings and satellites surrounding satellites; there were greens and purples and all manner of spherical moving colors placed at regular orbits amongst the distant sea of black. But the farthest of all sights were indeed the miniscule swirling of intermingling stars surrounding one of size to dwarf out all the rest.
The configuration of these myriad celestial entities had changed it seemed a thousand times in my wanderings of unabated monotony. And their activity continued strong as I now stared at the head of this enormous snake, its eyes fathomless and blacker than the surface of its gleaming body. And there was nought but silence from within.
As I stared at the face of the snake my own countenance then changed to replicate its form and I proceeded to make my slow descent into the deepest reaches of its immense body.
And then it was that silence burst into a fury of screams and frantic incoherent petitions to any all consoling powers. As I moved formlessly in darkness, knowing only my descent and the frantic agony of those surrounding me. It seemed that I absorbed all only to reflect it back; and the multiplicity of reverberation thereof became an utter roar, then quite verily a pinpoint of sound until it was that it was light, concentrated in the very pith of my being, only then to pull apart in a pinpoint of light swirling downward into darkness. And such darkness as gave way to light, and light only to be fully then perceived in utter darkness.
And the voices began immediately the pinpoint of light that was myself began to thicken and dull with the growing of surrounding illumination. Many were the accents of these voices, some whispering, some shouting, and all conveying some particular articulation. And then it was that I realized my descent had ended and I now ascended into some forthcoming unknown. There were now myriad bodies of light, all giving form to various creatures of varying intelligence and character. They danced about me as I rose to greater heights, and my ecstasy increased as they continued to press about in welcome; to lift me higher still, and still more swiftly than before. Then quite verily their voices broke apart as did their forms, and the intermingling of them became an harmonious whole and their voice a song of joy and life, and it seemed right then that it was all my own. And I loved.
And as all consciousness merged into one harmonious unity I found myself emerging into sunlight as a creature of light extending out into the open, and then it was that I regained a solid form, one of smooth unblemished skin, a member between my legs the nature of which the light I’d found in darkness was condensed in a tangible reality of form. And breasts I had as well, and a labial aperture beneath my member. All of which promised renewal of that which was before in the act of the perpetuation of species.
I stood and turned to look behind me to see that I’d emerged into the light of day from out another snake; this one of gleaming white marble and an immense jewel for each eye, one of red and one of green. It was then that I noticed a single tube of light pulling back into the mouth of the snake; and as its visibility ceased entirely the back of the snake’s mouth enclosed in white stone, barring passage back the way I came.
I could see my form in its reflecting surface and went to see what I could see upon closer inspection. I had indeed shed scales for a finer interweaving of molecular structure. And I noticed that my eyes, though white of perimeter within their lids of white skin, were indeed of sparkling green and red as of the snake. The pulsation of gleaming black with these eyes disclosed all vision. I placed my hands upon the inner surface of this yawning mouth and nought was to be felt but the most tangible nature of its structure. It seemed that all such wonders residing therein were not to be felt in the world of which I now lived.
I thought again of the ocean and the myriad creatures with whom I’d dwelt. I remembered the many throngs of fish of glittering silver and gold and other fleeting colors within. At times there had been nought but myself and the dark, fathomless scope of the ocean; the utter monotony of such had been like to cause the fleeing of all memory; all consciousness becoming nought but the ocean itself. Even my own form was blotted out from conscious observation at these times. And so it was that every break from darkness had been accompanied by the flooding back of memories and always with a sense of wonder.
It had been the same with the endless night of the desert and rolling celestial bodies of the firmament. My train of thought had become them and they had become my train of thought. And all such creatures as I had found dictated the nature of my surface features and form of expression; and many indeed had I found in my ceaseless wanderings through the ever-changing scene of existence. And nought was ever forgotten. Even within the trance of monotony the memories remained, for always did they return upon discovery of something new. Hence, the concatenation of all and the unity implied therein. The oneness of all existing things…
I turned away from the snake whose surface features bore my own and walked beneath the sun and out into the desert sand.
III
The sky held still a pale reflection of what celestial bodies I’d encountered in the night, though none but the most prominent of manifestations made their presence known. And I walked in search of any and all things as always I had done before.
After wandering for I know not how long the horizon soon disclosed a scintillating band of light. Upon closer inspection I discovered it to be a river flowing far and wide in endless pursuit and retreat of each enclosing horizon. And as I approached the fine and sandy shoreline I saw that there were human bodies floating therein, immaculate and seeming to be made of pure white stone. Each passing form seemed a separation of my own. Some displayed nought but members, the absence of which in others disclosed breasts and the enclosed labial folds of the nether aperture. Those of whom possessed members stared red from out the beauty of their faces. And those of whom possessed apertures and breasts stared green, and theirs was beauty far more delicate and refined to utter and absolute preciousness. I had yet to be divided thus and as I pondered the significance of this they all then joined together; members penetrating apertures and arms and legs surrounding each to each as eyes held fast, green to red and red to green, and kiss meeting kiss as each caress and snake-like movement through the river brought further multiplication and ever increasing unity. And the river widened with the unceasing culmination of such love and as it did it seemed my form turned in upon itself and I was once again submerged in liquid darkness, only to be pushed again into the light. And as I was I found myself flowing fast within the river between these myriad lovers, the pain of my division poignant, soon transcending to a sense of longing for my other half. I was male it seemed and I knew my eyes were red, yet also was my consciousness submerged in her whose eyes were green and I searched for us to join in the multiplication of unity surrounding us to become an Us as One. And soon we found each other and joined in the pure and naked ecstasy that was the flowing of the river.
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Old 10-21-05   #14
Nathan Charles
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The Child


I
The shadows of the trees lay long in the brilliance of the newly waxing moon. We walked hand in hand, her and I, naked, wedded in innocence, and knowing nought but the precious company of each other, and also that of the deities of Night, shades and passing glimmers, dulcet whispers singing sweet songs void of all articulation, carrying meaning nonetheless as her and I made love in every cherished comfort of the wilderness; passion passing culmination down into the dewy tenderness of dawn. And as the singing of the deities passed from silence into daylight birdsong took its place, morning zephyr bringing amaranthine perfumes to mingle gently with emitted fragrances of skin. And we lay upon the greenery, bride and groom of the Wood, wedded from the moment of birth.
I still remembered our first night together, our first culmination of wantonness as Mother and Father passed away among the deities of Night. The satyrs of the forest had come with flutes and songs of joy to guide Mother and Father to the orgiastic psychosis of the afterlife. And such tenderness as Mother and Father were wont to show their children had, at that moment, been bestowed upon us, I and my beloved sister, and no longer were we children as we copulated to the fading flutes and songs of joy joined then by the voices of Mother and Father; as they passed away among the deities of Night, leaving us to share our newfound bliss in unimpeded union. And so it had been thereafter, attention guarded by the simplicity of innocence.
But upon this morning a change had taken place, I knew, as the sun shone full upon our naked bodies. This I knew as did she, my lover, bride, and sister of the Wood. There was a child in her, one among the two of us, of us, and speaking silent yearnings as it made its presence known. And the birds, whose multifarious colors had been known to us from days long passed of Mother’s breast, came to hop and chirp about our place of rest, giving voice to songs of welcome. And then quite verily they all took flight, covering the sky for but a moment with a shimmering of color, and then it was nought but bright blue sky and a mellow stirring of the wind as we made love in celebration of the child. Made love well into the night, and when we finished, the singing, whispering deities of the forest presented a cup of quartz, its bowl inlaid with a yellow topaz depiction of a child capering below a pearl moon. We had never seen such cups before, but knew their purpose nonetheless, and my lover, sister, bride and mother of my child held this cup below her loins to gather the trickling of my seed. And then the deities saw fit to cut below her left breast with an invisible blade for the collection of her heart’s blood. Immediately the cup was filled, her wound dispersed without a trace and the cup turned a sky-blue turquoise and we knew it was to be a girl born. The deities of Night drew an inward breath and the cup was taken into the dusky shadows of the forest. We kissed, making love thereafter, bringing consummation to the ritual, now wedded in the afterlife as well as on the green face of the earth. And then it was that we slept and dreamt dreams of rivers of milk, honey, semen, blood, oil, roses, all flowing into clouds beyond which undulated a vast expanse of sea…

II
We awoke to all manner of creatures come to share the daylight hours with us. Long-eared hopping and furry creatures; immense creatures with lustrous golden manes and claws not bared save in times of jest; hoofed creatures of myriad shapes, sizes, and colors, some with stripes, others brown and spotted white, still others white and woolly, some horned, some not. There were slithering creatures, scurrying creatures; and birds of course, alighting here, there and anywhere allowing foothold.
We arose, my lover, sister, bride and I, and walked hand in hand through this crowd of curious creatures, big and small, pausing now and then to gently pat and scratch a furry head or two along the way. At last, after making way through flowered meadows filled with all manner of frolicking and dozing life we came upon the River. Its calm and gently flowing breadth glittered with the scattered gatherings of many-colored fish. As we stepped into the cool flow of water these shimmering schools of fish came together, greeting us with swift kisses about our ankles, calves and thighs, then parted to a vast circle as my bride and I proceeded to make love, sitting up, submerged within the gentle current of water, enwrapped in each other’s warm embrace. We made love slow, kissing deep and gently building in orgasmic vigor, slowly making way for something deeper, eyes closed and not so much as seeing but feeling the many variations of color as the whirlpool grew, the river no longer disclosing swimming fish but pure colors surrounded by black. And soon the black was covered over by this incandescent shimmering and swiftly twisting color, all physical reverberation burst in a fury of pleasure, lovers now forgotten, all being spreading through a tunnel of furiously moving color and the ecstasy of pure orgasm…
And then it was over. We were two again in body, savoring the unity that always would remain, though never wholly, as it was while making love in the River, for the vision of this river was naught but orgasm in itself, not so much as making love but love made. The two of us remained embraced for a moment of time, our sexes still connected, and as always it seemed as though our eyes were looking into our own from out the other’s, our lips touching gently as we breathed each other in, mingling secret intimacies that bound us all the more unto each other.

Presently, we regained consciousness of the surrounding world. The fish swam, seemingly unconcerned with what they had just helped to create, save that every passing one lay a swift kiss to various curves of skin. The rest of the animals had gathered about the two shores of the River, looking on with naked and friendly curiosity, the children of their species playing freely and indiscriminately upon the green and amongst the amaranth. I felt a strange sense of pity at that moment for these unarticulated creatures, for I knew of course that they would never be allowed to truly taste the pleasures of the afterlife that awaited my sister, bride, lover and I. And I wondered also in my sense of pity and love if a one of them had ever been allowed to glimpse even but a fleeting vision of this sacred river, save that gleaned palely from out the minds of us, my lover, bride and I.
But there was too much joy in this world alone for pity to survive but a moment’s tender reflection. I glimpsed a stray lion cub batting at the surface of the water, shaking its head as each passing fish threw kisses to its little pug nose. My lover followed my gaze and we laughed, rising from the placid water and crossing over to the farther shore.
We made our way into the deeper stretch of forest and the animals did not follow. There were to be no witnesses as we made the transition from wedded Brother and Sister to wedded Mother and Father. Familial unity was to be experienced by us alone. And of course the Veiled Midwife, nought but a shade and deity herself, the deliverer of newborn life.
As we found our way into the deeper shadows the green grass gave way to a black and softened stretch of earth leading through a shaded tunnel of bending trees. And, though this darkened length of trees portrayed a semblance of lifelessness, the deep pooling energies could be felt and deeper so the further in we went.
Presently, we reached a point at which darkness permeated all and as it did we heard a faint but clearly audible soprano. Its memory was intrinsic, for it was the song of birth, archetypal, consciously impossible for newborn life to later discern, save when it was next heard in the throes of paternal and maternal love. And then there was the faint glimmering of light as it passed about the shapes of the trees, growing brighter, its beauty gently glowing, warm and ever-increasing in it splendiferous illumination. And then it was that the voice of the Child was heard, articulating naught but that of which was new and then we saw her, wrapped in a veil of white light, her shape not quite discernable in the midst of this light, her singing, her baring the child of our loins before us, placing it, wriggling, in our arms, giving of its energy to root in us and slipping back into the deep of the deepest reaches of the forest in this world. The veiled woman of the forest had been but barely there and gone again; for all her beauty nought but a fleeting glimpse, and then no one but us, Mother, Father, Child, walking back to the light of day, born together from the womb of the earth where the veiled woman was the eternal mother of all.

III
The animals parted for us as before, gathered, grazing, on either side of the green path leading back to the River and the fish. We walked, savoring the plush grass of every step, and our child looked on in wonder at the myriad creatures gazing likewise back at her, our daughter, born from out the dark wood as were my sister, bride and I.
We crossed the River, pausing not for sacred visions, as now was the time for Mother, Father, Child, and the love created therein. At last we reached the bed of green where the previous night had shared with us the knowledge of our coming child. And the animals brought various fruits and berries for the tasting and my lover fed our child of the milk of her breasts and all was well in this world.

Then came a night when flutes echoed softly behind the sighing and singing of the deities of Night. Such unexpected music brought pause to our familial rejoicing. Such music brought disconcerting thoughts, for our child was not yet walking and the song of flutes meant satyrs, satyrs being our inevitable guides to the bliss of the afterlife. How was our child to fare, callow and alone, without the milk of Mother and the love of both Mother and Father? And we found ourselves wondering in unison, my lover, sister, bride and I, why we had not twins as was the predecessor nature of things.
And then it was that we heard a throng of singing voices, thousands it seemed and human, as of us, mingling with the flutes of the satyrs, and we knew. This world was to be a kingdom in innocence, no longer a process whose destiny and purpose was eternally eluding all that lived. We saw them dancing and we knew. We knew that the bliss of the afterlife was this and that each twin set of parents, grandparents and ever on were guided but moments yester and that what was felt to be time was nought but an accumulation of the present. We knew that the animals would be allowed articulation and that visions would abound in the origin of all species. And as this myriad of creatures gathered round we saw that the deities had taken definite shape and danced among us, in and of the joy of earth. And we knew also as our daughter took her throne beside her twin and they looked down upon us with a single eye that this Child would be the sole ruler of all.

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Old 10-24-05   #15
Nathan Charles
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Orgiastic Psychosis

Orgiastic Psychosis
By Nathan Charles
What trickery was this, that I was so eluded time and again by these satyrs and nymphs in their nightly orgiastic psychoses? I had heard talk of such when men and women, humans as myself, still walked the earth. But it seemed that all such powers of preservation were of privation amongst my fellow people, and I was left alone after they had ceased to be. Alone to wander this lush and endless forest in search of satyrs and nymphs to partake of their pleasures.
But they continually eluded me and I feared lest my agitation be the end of me. I had seen glimpses of them from time to time, almost always upon waking from sleep. A stray satyr here, a stray nymph there, always watching, always laughing, keeping secret all the joys as were their own. Upon finding me awake, always did they flee, but not until I’d regained consciousness enough to give chase, crying out to them, “wait! wait! I adore thee!” as they fled in laughter, until naught was to be heard but my own cries and the stomping of my feet upon the verdant green. And then tears as I wept for the pain and loneliness of all of it. Ponderings of suicide were frequent, but always passion played the part to save my life, as I desired nought but life. Death in life, in love, for love was mutual death and passing forth of life, each unto each in the receiving of light giving life from each and every other. I could feel the dissipation of my soul daily as I longed for them.
And night would come and I fancied I could hear them, the playing of their pipes, somewhere near, and a flickering of light as of a fire in the heart among many hearts of the forest. But always as I drew near the distance stayed the same, and I could hear naught but the faint consensual moans of all of them, and I yearned, growing older it seemed with each passing pang of sorrow and desire. The playing of their pipes became to me a song of lament and eventually of madness.
I stopped not day nor night in my pursuit of them until all passing imagery became a blur of shadow, green earth, blue sky, and the stars of night. And always with the coming of night did their fire flicker faint before my eyes and the music of their pipes and the lascivious incantation of their voices haunting all reverberating surfaces, and soon the night was all… until it was that I came upon them. At last to find them so, dancing, playing music, making love, all in a vertiginous display of true life. I found myself immobilized in awe of them, this writhing twirling mass of creatures, beautiful and eternally in love, until it was that I was pulled inside and became a veritable part of it all. It was ecstasy in one and I knew that it was Life and Death and Love and nought but All.
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Old 11-14-05   #16
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