Eyes peel themselves open sending tiny particulates
of scabbed blood into the light breeze that he’s just become aware of. “Ches” (Reverend
Chester Fields. His chain-smoking father had a warped sense of humor) now grasps
that he’s outside. As he fully comes into himself, unnaturally groggy, drugged,
Ches realizes new discomforts and pains formerly alien to this pampered bully.
These sudden agonies include the ¾ inch thick wrought iron hooks through his scabbed
over wrists and calves that have him suspended by leather straps hooked to
wooden poles just inches above the earth. There’s something in his mouth.
Leather? He would scream but for the tight leather binding creasing his
cheeks while holding the bit in place. The initial pains disappear.
not wearing any clothes? Who are all these naked people in white robes
surrounding me? -Are his thoughts as he blinks more dried blood away and
begins to notice his surroundings. I’m over black dirt with a white salt
star? Mountains… Devil worshippers? Is that even a thing? I need to get
out of here. Maybe I can con someone to let me go if I can get this shit outta
my mouth. -He thinks as he struggles to spit out the leather bit. He begins
to take note of everyone. There are children inside the human circle from ages
5 to 16, all wearing fine cotton swaddling-cloths and nothing more. Some of
these robed chicks are hot. Psychos, right?I can con psychos… -Are
more thoughts that occur to Ches between wincing. I should be in more pain
with all this going on. Drugs?
“Yes. A Mercy for what
you’re about to endure…” A soft posh sounding British woman’s voice from behind
him confirms his thoughts. Who, the fuck, are you? You can read my mind? Let
me see you! Ches thinks as he futilely attempts to turn his head toward the
obvious female behind him. The nude and arm-locked onlookers wear uniform
wide-eyed innocent smiles in the perfect circle in which they surround him. That
shit is creepy!
can all read your thoughts, Reverend Chester Adam Fields. So, please, watch
your language. There are children present. I’m required to answer your
questions before the ceremony ends. So, I’ll begin if you don’t mind: By
ancient executioner law, you’ll never see my face. You’ll go to what you know
of as hell never knowing who sent you there.”
I’m a holy man, not going to die here! You can’t kill me! People know where I
am! I’ll be searched for! I’m fucking important, you psychotic bitches! If you
let me go right now, I’ll forget everything!
“SILENCE, CHES. (with patient venom) I have a job
to do… That’s better.”
mind clogs. He blinks and blinks in an attempt to regain mental clarity, but
it’s to no avail. All he can focus on are the pretty faces and nude and/or
mostly naked bodies in front of him, and that beautiful disembodied feminine voice.
“You haven’t asked it, yet, but I’m obligated to
tell you why you’re here; and why you’ll physically die today. We require a
fallen angel and a pure demon in order to create a dimensional gate and a house
for our coming lord. Guess which you are? This can’t be performed at just any
time since we had to be perfectly aligned with Orion’s gate. But now is the
time, and five minutes from now is the moment. I’m sure you’re confused, dear
Ches. So, I’ll speak in as small of terms as possible. Rifling through the mess
you call a mind we have discovered that you’ve read… Genesis in your Bible. This’ll
make things easier. The images we will now place before your brain are from
prerecorded history. The bible only tells one seventh of the story, yet you
idiots worship every word as if they matter.”
was a beginning for man on this planet, but it’s not exactly what you believe. Genesis
appears to repeat the creation tale for a very specific reason. But you self-righteous
religious idiots are too light brained to conceive it. We humans were
engineered by ages old races to serve them in order that we mined our planet so
they may use some of our minerals to restore their respective worlds. In return
we were to be granted universal knowledge that would have mentally evolved us
so that we may finally cement our place among the higher beings in the cosmos.
We are here to restore our position among those we are meant to serve in order
to achieve the higher knowledge and reasoning skills we’ve arrogantly abandoned.
Most mortals are only allowed to use small parts of our brains until we as a
species mature enough to be shown our higher potential. Religious morons like yourself
call it the Veil, placed by your vague idea of God so you may not see heaven or
hell. Rest assured that you were… partially correct, there is a Heaven,
Ches. There is a Hell, but they’re not what you can currently comprehend since
they are… planets adjacent to our current dimension. There was an ancient war that
began with the Anunnaki and Pleiadians. Our guides. Both and 4 other factions have
the right to rule and use us as they wish. None would share even the creation
of the others. But all took earth females as they sexually desired. The
Nephilim were born as a result. Two directly descended from each survived the
great flood meant to wipe them all out. You are a direct descendant. (gently) As
suddenly finds his head forced to turn far to his right. He beholds a soft
brown-haired, fair skinned, stunningly beautiful young woman loosely adorned
with white cloths made of extremely fine natural fibers. She is bound by the
biceps and thighs with black leather straps of the unmanufactured variety, just
like the ones binding him. The girl is unconscious, sleeping serenely and
completely exposed. Ches unsuccessfully attempts to turn his head further to
behold the source of the voice behind him. His head is snapped facing forward,
looking at the beautiful uniform wide-eyed smiling faces of all ages and races
surrounding him. It is now he notices that he’s being held above the ground by
impossibly strong looking men. There are two males in prime “Arnold
Swarzenegger” and “Lou Ferrigno” shape on each side of him, each is holding a
smoked wooden rod made of some type of hardwood. To these rods are tied with the
same naturally made black leather ropes that fasten the wrought iron hooks
inserted into his wrists and calves.
“We only have three minutes left, Ches, so I must
finish. Because of your ancestry and the cruel life you’ve chosen, (kindly
spoken) your vessel is perfect for an ascension of this kind. Using
religion as a means to perform evil acts against your fellow beings has a
price, today, Ches. A soul carries certain properties based upon the actions
the owner of that soul employs. Mental focus designs the body and being,
afterall. Intentional cruelty has colored your human spirit and added the necessary
properties for this ritual. You’ll not feel anything, Ches, but your body will
now become a dimensional conduit. Our masters cannot enter this dimensional plane
anymore save through unsanctioned dimensional gates like yourself. If you were
able to look beneath you, you’d notice celestial symbols drawn in white,
pink and black salt. Some, like pentacles and crosses, you’d recognize as
occult. All are completely meaningless without the mental focus upon their
origins. Your blood upon these minerals and symbols of our focus will create a
wormhole for an awaiting soul. Once inside you they will consume your every
mineral in order to create a human body for themselves. This new body will be
shot by you into that young and pure souled woman. She’s not necessarily a
virgin, but perfect of heart. Our master will need a place in which to gestate.
Once he or she grows to maturity, away from their mother, raised by us, they
will seek her out and consume her life force, her living heart, in order to
grow to full strength. He or she may then properly rule our kind as the cosmos
intended. Take comfort in the fact that you’ll feel no discomfort. Your spirit
will return to your origin and you will have ushered in a new age for humans. Hell
will not be torture for you, but a homecoming, dear Ches. Now, you will
be aware of this, but you’ll not experience pain; as I’ve mentioned. For this
is the moment of your destiny and you must be unclouded.”
The children all sit with knees angled and feet
flat upon the finely attended brick dust and dried clay soil. The wide eyed
innocently smiling circle of white, 800 thread count, cotton robed adult zealots
begins to sway left and right while gently singing in a hopeful chorus: “Behold
our master shall be born from you. You who abused. You who have used. You-shall
couple with this kind perfect she. Selfless and free. Courageous being. 6-6
6-must become our master’s age. He’ll take his place. Now comes the blade.”
eyes widen as the footlong quadruple edged pure silver blade his unseen voice
stealthily wore about her pelvic area, tied fast with naturally tanned leather
straps, is fully inserted deftly into his anus. She thrusts back hard and with
purpose. As the blade is swiftly removed a stream of blood completely covers
the salt symbols below Ches. He feels something enter him through the blood
stream. Something large. He wants to cry out. He wants to feel pain, or to feel
anything. He gets part of his wish.
the wide silent circle of wonderously smiling, open robed and nude beings sways
slower and slower, Ches notices he’s suddenly experiencing… arousal! This makes
no sense to him since he can clearly feel himself being efficiently consumed
from the inside. The ultra-strong men carrying the poles that suspend him begin
to walk him toward the unconscious woman. His executioner remains perfectly
concealed behind them. The girl suddenly awakens with a warm welcoming
expression toward Ches. He’s never lain eyes on this young girl, probably 24
years, prior to this day but this bound man cannot imagine he’s ever desired
anyone more; even as his left eye is sucked inward all Ches can experience is sexual
“Her name is Bethesda, dear Ches. She’s originally
from Israel, with Greek descent, but she’s an American like you. She’ll never
have any memory of you save that the father of her child is a brave and
handsome reverend. After the child is born, she’ll never have memory of you or
the pregnancy until her appointed time of death.”
suddenly believes Bethesda is the most beautiful name he’s ever heard/woman
he’s ever known. He can still clearly view her even as his rib bones disappear
leaving a growing bulge where was once the inside of his bowels. So much
intense longing for this girl, -even as his remaining eye is sucked inward. The
men carrying him position him above Beth. Soft feminine hands from behind and
beneath guide his erection into her vagina as the muscles of his arms and legs
disappear into the pulsating distended stomach mass that now shoots into the
suddenly pregnant and smiling Bethesda. What’s left of Reverend Chester Adam
Fields falls limp upon the ground; just skin and waste, not even bones remain.
children, watch carefully. Behold with your eyes and minds what is now
~by Lord Veil (2020/1/3)
What you’ve just read is the beginning of a short story tentatively entitled BEYOND. This story fragment, BEYOND, is only available on this website and not allowed to be copied or reprinted for any reason without direct author permission.
BEYOND has already been described as very weird by a trusted reader. If it’s too weird for people then I’m probably doing something right, in my opinion. As for the rest of the story: Bethesda will have her baby just as described in the above context. She’ll give birth, then she’ll have no memory of having been pregnant. But, who is Bethesda? Why is she described above as a pure soul? How will her friends and co-workers react to her pregnancy?
The product of this human sacrifice, the child, must seek out the mother at the appointed age in order to eat her living heart. Will Bethesda die by the hand of a child she doesn’t remember having? Or does she have a friend she’s yet unaware of who can prepare her for what’s to come?
Find out next month in the forthcoming continuation!
As ever, I’m grateful for whomever enjoys my monolog heavy and often obscure literary works. It means the world to me that I can entertain you in some capacity.
Many writers complain about the dreaded and feared syndrome, but, “What is Writer’s Block?” It’s quite literally the state of being a writer experiences when they feel blocked from their literary creative outlet. Can’t think of anything. The story is stalled. Brain is fried. The well of creativity is dry. Unmotivated due to depression brought on by Writer’s Block.Can’t get off the couch.Uggghhhhh…. These are but a few things people spew in order to excuse themselves from their chosen profession for a while. But, does it actually exist?
Well, it’s perfectly natural to be stumped. Writing is a tough gig and one can easily become mentally fatigued after focusing for too long on the same subject. Even athletes who focus too long on their arms and chest must give their torso a rest from time to time. And just like the aforementioned athletes who must switch to their legs after wearing out their upper bodies, writers can often find a way through by changing to a different writing project for a time. (Before penning PRESENTING: THE AFTERMATH I’d been stumped on a different project. More on that later.)
Another famous cause of a creative slump is a difficult transition. Sometimes, even if everything has been properly outlined, making the transition from one story arc to the next can seem impossible. Notes on a board may seem to blur together when an author is stalled on how to execute their transitory turn-of-events or subjects. Mathematicians can often experience this type of stall during the execution of solving complex equations. Sometimes stepping away for a bit is the only option. But, what can come of giving up for a while? -The easy answer is a fresh perspective.
Long ago, I set about writing a book of poetry entitled HELL AND BACK: THE INSANITY BETWEEN. It was to show different stages of my life, a sort of biography in various poetic forms. I got stumped, but soldiered on. When I couldn’t think of what to write, I stopped and read a writing magazine. I decided to do the poetic challenges therein. These helped. The challenges gave me a structure. I came up with the topic and I was still churning along. I was not completing the book the exact way I’d wanted. But I was proud of myself for continuing nonetheless. (Though, functional alcoholism was starting to sound appealing.) This was my form of writer’s block. I was still doing the work, but the creative juices weren’t really flowing. Thankfully, a distraction from the book of poems dropped itself into my lap.
As any decent writer knows, one must read at least as much as they write if they want a chance to become a successful author. I’m a novice, by comparison to the greats, but I do adhere to their wisdom in the hopes of becoming great, myself. A friend dropped some Prepper pulp in my lap and asked me to read them. I did. I read loads of it, every story he handed me. Then, he dared me to write a *Prepper story of my own. (*A Prepper is someone who prepares for worst case scenarios -more details on this dare in the Afterward of my novel)
If you’ve read my book, PRESENTING: THE AFTERMATH, you know what an action packed, comedic horror romp that above mentioned dare materialized into. What you may not know is that this provocation was merely to be a temporary distraction from my book of poems. What it turned into is a passion, the beginning of a trilogy! Yes, I’m still casually penning my epic book of poetry, but my block and the thing I was so stressed about writing ended up not meaning that much compared to the aberration that took me out of my creative funk.
If there is a point to this narrative, it is this: Be open. Even though you may feel like you’re on a creative hamster wheel, allow yourself the opportunity to be inspired.
Example: I did not have to read the pulp I was handed, I was in no way required to accept the ensuing dare. I allowed myself to explore a new topic believing I could somehow find motivation for my poetry. What I found instead was an inspiration for something I’m very happy with. Yes, I realize it’s not perfectly written; of course, it’s for a specific audience instead of appealing to the masses, but I’m extremely proud of how entertaining this beginning of a trilogy has become. I wish the same for all aspiring novelists.
My journey as a writer began with writing, developed into me following the advice of those smarter than myself, and is constantly evolving since I feel I should never stop learning. Can I be the next Stephen King? Fuck no! He’s a brilliant badass! But I can be the first me. We all start somewhere. My journey begins with the work ethic of my literary heroes and my willingness to be inspired every single day (even if I ever get stuck). What’s your journey like?