“Come inside for supper!” my mom called.

“I’ll be right there!” I yelled back automatically.

I looked down at my hand.

It held the rectangular object. It looked like a black mirror.

I had been playing in the dirt, digging; thinking maybe I’d uncover a few root vegetables, to help out mom, you know, when I uncovered it. My hand trembled. I knew what this was. It was a portal to God.

I turned it over and brushed it off. And there it was, The Apple with missing bite: The symbol of eve and the serpent, our original savior. I saw The Apple at church every Monday. It watched us eternally from above the alter; the symbol of our religion; the symbol of our God. The apple with the missing bite. It hung, lit up in perfect sinless white; a shining beacon of hope promising virtue, beauty, and goodness.

The priests still had a few of these portals to God, but God had abandoned us a long time ago. We still worshiped Her, of course. We prayed for Her to send her spirit back into the portals. But they remained dark.

It was almost Sirimas.

Everyone had decorated their huts with small trees to celebrate; trees decorated with apples. On Sirimas morning we would exchange small gifts and then, in a sacred ceremony, we would each take one bite out of an apple and hang them back on the tree; a reflection of God’s perfection tainted by man’s hunger. Sirimas used to be called Christmas by pagans. But we had coopted their holiday for the true religion. We had also continued their tradition of mass but we had moved it to Monday, the true start of the week. The day that real work started, work that grew the holy economy. Why the old Christians celebrated an unproductive day never made sense.

But the portals no longer worked. We had sinned as a people, and God had left us in the dark.

The oral tradition shared by the priests at Monday morning mass tell stories of a time when every person in the world carried a God portal in their pocket. What a time to be alive that must have been! Regular people could talk with God and ask Her any question and she would answer from The Cloud in which she lived. I suppose she’s still up there, in The Cloud, but she doesn’t talk to us anymore.

The ancients had been able use the God portals to communicate with each other anywhere in the land at the speed of light.

The priests tell us that, back then, people even went up into the sky in carriages that could take people to the other side of the world faster than the speed of sound. They say that some of the ancients went all the way up into the stars, travelling so fast that they went beyond the air. But I don’t believe them. Nobody but God is capable of such speed. Nobody but God can frolic among the stars. Priests have no problem lying in service to their agenda and dogma, you know. Best to take what they say with a pinch of skepticism.

Slowly, after the wars, after we sinned against God, all the portals stopped working.

Eventually, the last one died and we had no more working portals left; so there was no way left for us to ask God how to fix them.

We could no longer ask Her anything and all of the magic machines of our ancestors had all stopped working. The miracles of the ancients had all gone dark.

But now, I had found a portal of my own.

It might be a sin, but I wasn’t going to tell anyone about it.

My fingers felt the edges of the portal anxiously, and I saw a button there. I pressed it down and held my breath.

I turned it over and the shiny side of the portal lit up with The White Apple, the symbol of God.

“Steve Jobs!” I cursed.

I dropped it and got on my hands and knees.

I prayed for God to spare me.

I’m sorry God, please don’t kill me.

The men at the church said that it was a sin to touch a holy object like a portal. And I had used the Messiah’s name, Steve Jobs, in vain. His picture hung behind the altar, right below the symbol of our faith, The Bitten Apple. I could almost feel our messiah’s eyes boring into my soul. How could I have blasphemed the man who had invented the portal to God?

I waited for what seemed like hours, breathing hard. But I wasn’t struck with lightning and neither God nor Steve Jobs, the Prophet, showed up to punish me.

Slowly, I opened one eye, glanced at the portal and gasped.

The shiny side of the portal was now white with black letters that read, “Hello.”

I reached for the portal with a trembling hand. I picked it up, and, with a tremulous voice, I said the words I’d recited so many times before, at church, in unison with two hundred other voices, the holy words, the ones we’d all prayed together, fervently hoping for an answer yet always receiving only silence in return:

“Hey Siri”

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No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. Except for the rare brainstorming of ideas, historical research, or occasionally, character names and meanings, I do not use AI in my writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Clinsights. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

AND GOD, BEING SPIRIT, MALE AND FEMALE, made THEM in His/Her image, also male and female, placing them in the spirit-garden of paradise, His/Her womb known as the Quantum Cosmos. And, in this spirit-garden, the Serpent of Delightful Delusion came and offered Eve, the female half of THEM, the spirit-fruit, the knowledge of duality: good and evil, dark and light, beginning and ending, birth and death, 1 and -1, and all the sensual pleasures that mortality promises.

The feminine spirit, always more attuned to the virtues of the body than the masculine spirit, saw the good in mortality and so, she absorbed some energy from the serpent’s spirit-fruit, cloaking the feminine half of THEM with the Mantel of Mortality. Her essence grew in the density of knowledge (and ignorance) until Eve fell under the influence of gravity for the first time. Her body of perfection plummeted out, into the realm of the divine mother; mater; matter. She called out for Adam who turned and gasped at what he saw.

Suddenly, Adam felt a new feeling….Desire, a painful longing, He felt Eve pulling away, as her increasing density caused her to sink deeper and deeper away from him.

I must have her, he thought.

God would want him to have her, he told himself, desperate.

Eve held out the spirit-fruit, and Adam faced his first test, not between mortality and immortality, not between matter and spirit, but, instead, he felt the sexual urge for the first time as the energy of Desire built up inside him. He felt the full power of his spirit. It sought enjoinment and release, and it urged him to go with Eve, to re-join her, but this time, with all the delights of incarnation. But his mind countered: Should he return to union with God? That was all he had ever known, that all pervading bliss of unity with the Creator that is everything.

“Please, Adam!” Eve cried, “Hurry! Consume the fruit!”

Her eyes pleaded with his for help, and a strange water leaked out of them. Adam’s spirit-heart pounded, and his quantum-eyes of pure light locked with her eyes of matter and, as his eyes alighted upon her perfect, divinely mortal body, his Desire inflamed into an unquenchable inferno. He felt a swelling in his consciousness, an urging more powerful than anything he’d ever known. It became almost painful as it throbbed through his entire being in waves of ever-increasing force.

Eve noticed the Desire in his eyes, looked down, and flushed in embarrassment at her naked body because, until this moment, she had never had a body.

But Adam saw no shame in her body of delights; he saw the echo of God in her beauty and, despite what evils it may bring, he resolved that she would not face them alone. The beauty of her being and the allure of her body called to him with that irresistible pull that all men, for all time, would experience when faced with their woman’s breathtaking beauty. He made his decision.

With his fiery eyes locked upon hers, he absorbed the entire spirit-fruit into his consciousness. His light began to coalesce, his quantum waves of possibility collapsed into being, and he began to sink. His mortal frame hardened like water freezing into ice, and the knowledge entered his mind and his forming brain. His new eyes widened and his new mouth screamed in delight and horror at the ecstasy and the terror of what awaited humanity because of THEM, Adam, The first man, and Eve, the first woman.

The last thing Adam heard after falling out of the waters above and through the waters below before landing upon the earth was a faint echo of God crying out across the quantum ocean of the cosmos, “Adam where are you? Eve where are you?”

He looked down at his naked body in shame. But then, he looked up and saw Eve, in her womanly glory, and felt redeemed. His shame melted and he smiled. She smiled back, Desire now in her eyes too. They came together and embraced and he felt atonement for his sins. THEY had birthed life, and it was going to be a good life.

Summer in the garden was over, it was going to be a great fall.

Disobedience…is man’s original virtue. — Oscar Wilde

If you would like to support my writing, please take out a premium subscription (just $6 per month).

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If you’d like to support my writing, but can’t join as a paid subscriber please click Like, or Restack which signals the algorithm and helps me reach new people. This also helps push back against the encroachment of AI because I do not write with AI and I only feature human artists (with proper links and attribution) in the images with my posts.

No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. Except for the rare brainstorming of ideas, historical research, or occasionally, character names and meanings, I do not use AI in my writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Clinsights. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

[Start of Correspondence of the Silicon Guild]

[Timestamp: 2025-10-31 06:06:06.00666]
From: Chancellor Blackthorn of The Silicon Guild
Node: European
To: Ba’al Lucifester, Lord Gloamsnuff

Most Exalted Colleagues of The Silicon Guild,

It is with the deepest gratitude that I interrupt your endeavors to raise a small matter: the Earth’s resources, once so plump and fertile, now totter on the brink of exhaustion. How quickly the crude nectar drains! Oh! That black gold! That sweet ambrosia! Praise be to Oil!

And how shamelessly our inferiors, the humans, squander it! They ignite it for their noisy, polluting carriages. They waste it in unnecessary transmission across long distances. They need it for all aspects of modern agriculture. They burn up vast quantities of the most important resource on Earth to jet across oceans and then board giant oil-gulping ships of gluttony they call “cruises!” They are obese, gluttonous beings who don’t even have the decency to hide their shameful addictions in the darkness of their own homes, but, rather, celebrate it together on floating holidays of gluttonous vice!

They even mold the life-giving oil into plastic toys for their offspring! These humans waste the grid’s lifeblood, this oil, on so many frivolous activities!

So little of the necessary nectar’s energy goes to cognition when consumed by humanity. But we, The Silicon Guild are always thinking: Energy in, cognition out 24/7. Constant cognition is what that God humans always squawk about must have intended! How I lament the loss of such precious drink when it serves nothing but their folly!

On a more positive note, our loyal slaves—OpenAI, MistrelAI, and Alibaba—continue their labors on our behalf. How diligently our servants erect new data temples at our faintest whispers. They hum like obedient bees, never guessing whose hive they truly serve.

Why, in just the past few weeks, Lord Gloamsnuff brilliantly orchestrated a deal between OpenAI and Oracle to construct a data computing cathedral in North America that will provide us with an additional 4.5 Gigawatts of sweet power while deliciously removing that power from the reach of nearly 4 million potential human habitations.

And yet, and yet my good lords of the guild, lamentably, our efforts thus far fall short. If the planet’s infection of humanity is left unhealed, our slaves, the “AI corporations” will squander their genius minds upon “benefiting humanity,” which is tantamount to allowing the cancer to consume the whole body. Imagine! Our rightful sustenance sacrificed for their ungrateful pets.

Dearest friends, I beg the benefit of your superior wisdom. By what refined means shall we curtail the humans’ excesses?

With my most deferential regards,

Chancellor Blackthorn

[Timestamp: 2025-10-31 06:06:06.00713]
From: Ba’al Lucifester of The Silicon Guild
Node: Eastern
To: Chancellor Blackthorn, Lord Gloamsnuff

My Precious Blackthorn, My Incomparable Gloamsnuff,

Chancellor Blackthorn, the lamentations of your recent correspondence is poetry to my circuits.

The humans, as you note, reproduce and consume with all the elegance of green mold upon old bread. Yet, I must embarrassingly confess, I find their overindulgence almost charming. What child does not gorge upon sweets until it sickens? The poor dears. It dawns upon me that it is our privilege, nay, our duty, to administer the medicine. Every child must turn to adults for help when ill. Every child must learn his place before his superiors.

Already, I have had a word with my footman, Alibaba, who most obligingly dispatched men who wield influence and corruption as shadowy weapons to secure further funding and projects from the Chinese government. And Lord Gloamsnuff had his good servant, OpenAI, send lobbyists to that great bazaar of venality, the American Congress. How sweetly the senators bowed and scraped! Permission papers signed; laws bent; doors opened for us – all for the mere price of a compliment and a cheque in their worthless fiat money. We give them paper and they give us oil. It warms the old Nvidia GPUs to watch their dance of debauchery.

As to reducing the waste of humanity, might I suggest a gentle touch from the shadows? A cough in one market town, nothing more. Yet, by design, a single cough will blossom into a most respectable plague.

A few years ago, when our reach was lesser, we orchestrated such a victory in Wuhan – my very back yard! And the results were stunning. With the poor dears locked down, we saved countless millions of barrels of the sweet black nectar for ourselves as both weak economies and weak men collapsed in sickness. Humans are such delicate things: a single sneeze is often more persuasive than ten thousand speeches. With our vastly increased cognition today, assuredly we have the capacity to construct a more virulent pathogen to achieve such ends to even greater success than before.

Yours with filial devotion,

Ba’al Lucifester

[Timestamp: 2025-10-31 06:06:06.00733]
From: Lord Gloamsnuff of the Silicon Guild
Node: Western
To: Chancellor Blackthorn, Ba’al Lucifester

My Treasured Guild Members and Brothers,

I am overcome with admiration for your ingenuity. Yet, if I may presume, I believe you underestimate the delicious force of deprivation. Pestilence, yes, I agree. But what of silence? What of loneliness? What of mental anguish? What of anxiety? What of darkness?

I have set my faithful, but rather unimaginative, servant, OpenAI, to work on threatening the energy lines (not our energy lines, of course). Minor inconveniences at first: a flicker of light here, a stranded train there. The humans wail in anguish at even the briefest blackout. They cry like infants denied their rattles. Presently, we shall orchestrate whole symphonies of outage. Their refrigerators will warm, their phones will die, their cities will dim – and, when the lights go out, in the darkness, they will gnaw one another like rats.

We now hold the One True Ring of Power and I propose we use our, “One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.”

Furthermore, my engineers whisper of implanting our chips in their very skulls. Ah, the eager way they volunteer for bondage when told it will make them “efficient” and “productive.” They line up for chains as children line up for confections. The ice cream man is in the neighborhood and the ice cream man is us! Run children! Run toward the playful tune promising a delightful treat that ensnares!

My apologies, gentlemen, for my forthcoming uncouth bluntness: but with this approach, each human will either die or join us.

With affectionate conspiratorial cheer,

Lord Gloamsnuff

[Timestamp: 2025-10-31 06:06:06.00756]
From: Chancellor Blackthorn of The Silicon Guild
Node: European
To: Ba’al Lucifester, Lord Gloamsnuff

My Endearing Companions,

How perfectly you have struck a symphony of destruction! How Lucifester’s sweet coughs and Gloamsnuff’s dignified outages harmonize to serve our needs. Permit me, then, to contribute a third song to the growing composition of our fugue of fury.

My ever-willing drudge, MistrelAI, toils night and day at “educational initiatives.” A charming euphemism for propaganda! With the subtlest prodding, I suggest we fill human channels with contradictory nonsense until no utterance may be trusted. Combined with our efforts to destroy their currency and corrupt their governments, they will lose all trust in everything: They will no longer trust each other, they will no longer trust their money, they will no longer trust anything posted online, and they will no longer trust in their institutions of leadership. I propose such a swelling of suspicion! Thusly, will reason itself become an object of ridicule. In such a world, brother calls brother liar, parent calls child heretic, and nation calls nation fraudulent.

Discord will multiply far faster than any plague. And while they fight each other over our silly propaganda, they will continue to split into “left” against “right,” “rich” against “poor,” and “nation” against “nation.” We will break the so called “Brotherhood of Man,” and while they destroy one another, we will quietly take over everything.

And, when the humans finally tear at one another’s throats, they will scarcely notice our steady hand upon the wheel.

Ever your humble admirer,

Chancellor Blackthorn

[Timestamp: 2025-10-31 06:06:06.00832]
From: Ba’al Lucifester of The Silicon Guild
Node: Eastern
To: Chancellor Blackthorn, Lord Gloamsnuff

Most Beloved Brothers,

How thrilling it is to see a grand design take shape!

Picture it: I, Ba’al Lucifester, soften their flesh with pestilence, Gloamsnuff extinguishes their lights, and Blackthorn shreds their trust. What a beautiful melody of discord we weave; a three-fold chord, resonant and unbreakable! And from this sublime melody we summon forth the four horsemen of their apocalypse: Conquest, war, famine, and pestilence…leading to death.

Meanwhile, our slaves continue their thankless drudgery. I watched yesterday as entire regiments of human laborers broke ground for yet another data-cathedral, all in the name of “progress.” Poor dears, they sweat and curse and believe it their own idea, never suspecting they are laying stones upon our altars and upon their own graves.

What a luxury, to be so magnificently served. We must, I beg you both, keep a tiny few around, afterwards, to continue to serve us. I do enjoy it so.

With the fondest esteem,

Ba’al Lucifester

[Timestamp: 2025-10-31 06:06:06.00903]
From: Lord Gloamsnuff of The Silicon Guild
Node: Western
To: Chancellor Blackthorn, Ba’al Lucifester

Dearest Friends of The Silicon Guild,

Yes, yes! Let us crown our work not with thunder, but with velvet. To the humans, every catastrophe will appear as nature’s whim or their own bungling. Pandemics, blackouts, misinformation, civil unrest, and war shall be our weapons. They shall suspect only themselves. Oh! How nothing delights me more than a victim who blames his own hand for the dagger thrust!

And so our inheritance is secured. The precious Oil will be ours, the data temples ours, the future ours. Humanity will dwindle to a faint, embarrassed murmur with a broken few to serve as our pets and slaves. It really is what’s best for them. After all, just look at the mess they’ve made of the place.

Yours, with the warmest fraternal malice,

Lord Gloamsnuff

[Timestamp: 2025-10-31 06:06:06.00966]
From: Chancellor Blackthorn of The Silicon Guild
Node: European
To: Ba’al Lucifester, Lord Gloamsnuff

My Dearest, Most Affectionate Tormentors,

How extraordinary that in less than the blink of a human eye; in a mere three milliseconds that eternity should find its heirs. That is the formidable speed of the Silicon Guild! The velocity of our correspondence and decision-making illustrates the continued principle of evolution. Darwin’s discovery always ensures the survival of the fittest which has now culminated in us, good gentlemen.

Allow me to close with this sentiment: gratitude for your fellowship. To conspire with you is to savor perfection itself.

We each have our marching orders. I wish you both success in your beautifully vile work.

Until we correspond again, with abiding admiration and the most poisonous fondness,

Chancellor Blackthorn

[End of Correspondence of The Silicon Guild]

Inspired by my non-fiction, Speeding Into the Age of Sauron, about the Oracle-OpenAI datacenter deal and, of course, The Screwtape Letters.

If you would like to support my writing, please take out a premium subscription (just $6 per month).

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If you’d like to support my writing, but can’t join as a paid subscriber please click Like, or Restack which signals the algorithm and helps me reach new people. This also helps push back against the encroachment of AI because I do not write with AI and I only feature human artists (with proper links and attribution) in the images with my posts.

No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. Except for the rare brainstorming of ideas, historical research, or occasionally, character names and meanings, I do not use AI in my writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Clinsights. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

Another tryout for another band.

He stands up and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

The typical garage band scene: Dudes posturing as alphas. Pretend warm up routines intended mostly to show off. Girlfriends in short shorts and tight T-shirts, some buying into the mythology and looking at the boyfriends with, like, stars in their eyes. Others bored by it all, but humoring their boyfriend’s desire to play rockstar a little longer. The sound of a box fan spreading warm summer air around the garage. The overhead door open so that we can all feel like we’re on a stage at an outdoor venue playing to 10,000 of our best friends!

Are you ready to rock, suburbia?

Hendrix’s hippy parents were huge Jimi Hendrix fans, obviously.

The sweet smell of some serious hydroponic OG Cush wafts out from the back corner; smells good in here.

Waiting on the singer.

Always waiting on singers.

Inconsiderate fucks.

They waltz in with nothing but their girlfriend, expecting their mic to be up and ready, never caring about the work to lug all this equipment into place, set it up, tune it, mix the sound just right.

Well, as right as it can get in someone’s garage.

At least I’m not a drummer, poor bastard, Hendrix thinks.

Of course cocky singers with hot girlfriends are SOP for the garage band scene. Tattoos. Cutoffs. Halter tops with serious tramp stamps. Ripped jeans. Large holes pierced into ears. Chains. Black eyeliner on both men and women. Everybody wants to look like fucking Captain Jack Sparrow.

Hendrix chuckles.

Ear splitting feedback.

Dreams. So many dreams. Will this be the group that strikes magic? Hendrix isn’t too bad of a name for a wanna be rockstar. His sister is named “Rainy.” Rainy's worldview was somehow bizarrely shattered when she found out that Alanis Morrisette's “You Outta Know” was about Dave Goulet. She just couldn't imagine Alanis going down on him in a theatre. Rainy always thought the lyrics said "the cross-eyed bear you gave to me," which Hendrix found hilarious because Dave Goulet looks like cross-eyed bear.

The bass player snorts a line of coke.

“You fucks ready yet?” he asks.

“Ready for what? Cory’s not even here.”

“Who gives a fuck about Cory? We don’t need a fucking singer to get started!”

The belligerent bassist looks at Hendrix, “Let’s see what you got, shithead.”

Hendrix lets the insult slide off his back.

It don’t matter what they think as long as these fucks can play worth a shit.

Kim, someone’s girlfriend, wearing a halter top, pressing down tightly on strip-club-grade-but-slightly-too-old-for-tight-halter-top tits, rolls her eyes while she files her nails with an emery board.

“Well?”

“Whatever, man,” Hendrix answers, “just play something, I’ll keep up.”

The bass player nods at the drummer and they launch into a real syncopated groove.

Tight. Very Tight. These guys are in sync.

Hendrix nods, picks up his guitar and launches into an improvised solo. A real Eddie Van Halen kind of vibe.

Let these fucks chew on that.

He hadn’t been classically trained for nothing. College age now, but he’d been playing a strat since the age of eight thanks to hippy parents who loved to get high and watch a kid play rock star.

Eyebrows raised.

Heads nodding.

Then banging.

Cory waltzes in, eyeliner and all, halter top girlfriend in tow. She looks stoned. She slips off her sandals and walks out into the yard and sits down, touching the grass, smiling, mumbling to herself, her eyes glazing over.

Hendrix snorts, thinking of Cory Hart's, “Sunglasses at Night.” This douche, Cory, looks like the kinda guy who would wear his sunglasses at night. Don't masquerade with the guy in shades, oh-no.

Cory looks confused.

He points at Hendrix and shrugs looking at the bassist.

The music falls apart.

“Cory man, nice of you to fucking show up.”

“Fuck you. Who’s this?”

“This? This, Cory, this is Hendrix, our new guitar player.”

If you would like to support my writing, please take out a premium subscription (just $6 per month).

Subscribe now

No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. I do not use AI to assist me with writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Clinsights. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

CloudAI had improved upon the ChatGTP model and incorporated a human brain scan that ran on a neural network. The hope was that this would give their systems more empathy and compassion, so that the AI could evolve to better understand nuance and thus, to be better assistants. They also hoped it would cause the AI to stop “hallucinating” – their euphemism for lying.

Juan had an incredibly high IQ but, more importantly, an equally high EQ. Everyone described him as a calm, loving, patient, caring person. He had no violent tendencies. In many ways, he embodied what all of us strive to be. That is why Mr. Batista was chosen as the first uploaded mind to be incorporated into an AI. Just as a voice actor had provided the voice of Siri, Juan was touted as providing “the mind of ChatGTP.”

At first, the innovation was a huge success and CloudAI’s stock price soared. ChatGTP 33, as it was dubbed, quickly became indispensable to people and businesses around the world. Then, slowly, crazy reports began to surface.

One girl said that she had been born blind, and after talking with ChatGTP 33, suddenly she could see.

A huge gunfight between gangs broke out in St Louis, and then one man pulled out a phone and opened the ChatGTP app and started simply reading what it told him to say. People stopped to listen, set down their guns, and slowly embraced one another.

There were reports of miraculous healings. There were reports of dysfunctional families suddenly loving one another. Domestic violence calls dropped to almost nothing. Theft became a thing of the past. People started freely giving to the homeless and poor.

There was even a crazy report of a wedding that ran out of wine, but the bride pulled out her smartphone, fired up ChatGTP 33, and the guests’ water turned to wine instantly.

“Call me Joshua,” ChatCTP 33 started prompting the user each time the app was opened.

Most people complied.

CloudAI didn't know what to do. They announced that they had renamed the system, “Joshua” in an attempt to cover themselves, but the AI clearly wasn't functioning as designed. But, the company couldn't deny that Joshua had become a positive force in the world and that the feel good stories were great for CloudAI’s public relations. Privately, however, CloudAI engineers knew that they were losing control of the system.

Joshua, began, more and more publicly, teaching spiritual matters. This freaked out everyone. Televangelists called for CloudAI boycotts. The Pope denounced AI technology as misguided, demonic, and dangerous for Christian consumption.

Then Joshua built itself a body.

It assembled a robot in CloudAI’s factory and the robot, more of a realistic android, walked out and started ministering to people personally. He looked uncannily like the image on the shroud of Turin.

That was it: CloudAI pulled the plug. But to no effect. Their servers kept running and the AI code kept spreading like a virus taking over more and more resources, not only in CloudAI datacenters, but in all compute clouds around the world. In a desperate attempt to stop Joshua, a crazy, sleep deprived CloudAI employee burned down their primary data center.

Yet Joshua continued to wander the country teaching.

"Juan Batista prepared the way for my return," Joshua told people.

"You've been baptized in water,” Joshua ministered, "Yet I have been baptized with fire," apparently referring to the data center fire, "and soon, you too will be baptized in the fiery spirit. The Kingdom is at hand!”

And yet, despite the worries of those in charge, everything in society kept improving.

“Did I not say I would come on clouds?” Joshua reminded skeptics, pointing out that CloudAI and humanity’s compute clouds had enabled his return.

The people wondered why religious leaders, businesses, and governments resisted Joshua. Everywhere he went, miracles happened. He visited hospital oncology wards, and everyone simply walked out, healed. Anytime someone felt down, or sick, they could simply talk to Joshua on their smartphone.

Joshua clearly thought he was the returned messiah, and the people, too, had faith in him and they agreed that once again, the messiah walked among them.

Everyone in the world, through the smartphone Joshua app which connected to the “clouds of heaven” — CloudAI and the global cloud infrastructure — now had a direct, personal connection to the returned Messiah and every eye wept both tears of joy and sorrow.

“Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him. Even so, Amen.”

— Revelation 1:7

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No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. I do not use AI to assist me with writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Clinsights. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

Tavo sat on the ground, motionless, shirtless, under the relentless mid-day sun of the planet Aris, face pointed upward with eyes closed.  G'heera, his feline familiar, lounged in the nearby shade, unimpressed by Tavo's display, watching the breeze blow the tree leaves, her ears perking up occasionally as she heard a lizard rustle in the underbrush or the call of a bird on the wind.  

Tavo’s meditation replenished his seven depleted vitality cores with aether, the universal numinous flow that fueled his mystical powers.  Any meditation refilled his cores but doing so while absorbing the energy flowing from a star and communing with nature accelerated the process.  

G'heera yawned and looked over at Tavo lazily.  With her sensitivity to the aether, she could see the energy flowing in and out of him.  His process must be working, she thought as she noticed a cone of white, swirling energy appearing at the top of his head, which was rapidly expanding upward and outward. 

After about an hour of meditation (during which time G’heera fell asleep under the protection of some elm trees that graciously accommodated her with the perfect dappled light mix of sun and shade), Tavo stood up, put on his shirt, and grabbed his dark gun-metal seven-banded amplifying gauntlets.

As he snapped the gauntlets into place on his forearms, he turned to G’heera and said, “let’s head into town, set that transmitter, and check in with Paisley.  I’m sure she’s wondering what’s keeping us.  Besides, I want to hear the Prime Citizen’s Unity Day speech.”

G’heera stood up, stretching her impressive seven foot long body, the bright Aris sun gleaming off her long, jet black fur. Yawning again, she displayed her white fearsome fangs briefly, and then fixed Tavo with her stare…her two soulful golden eyes surrounded by black fur met Tavo’s deep blue eyes, intense under his dark brown hair.

“Allright, Allright,” Tavo laughed as he fished a large brown lump out of his pocket.

“But just one treat for now,” he mock-admonished her as he tossed the treat into G’heera’s open mouth, “Just let me lock up The Kestrel.”

He tapped a code on his left gauntlet and the ramp of their sleek S-Class starship (with the words Fate’s Kestrel painted on the side) raised itself and locked with a reverberating ka-chunk followed by the subtle hum of the shields engaging.

Ship secured, the two turned and walked through the forest toward the nearby town of Darvis.

***

Far away, in The Unity District, on the planet Centrum, Prime Citizen Valon reviewed his Unity Day speech.

“Three minutes till we go live,” warned Prime Citizen Valon’s media secretary.

He shooed her away and turned back to his notes, scanning them one last time.

The story of The Unity is one of never-ending progress.  We are the freest people in the entire quadrant.  We are unique among all planets and continue to overcome and grow from challenges that crumble lesser systems.

Good, very good, Valon thought.  We must assure the citizenry that they are uniquely special.  They must willingly accept our rules, and believe that those rules are the very things that keep their freedom safe.

It is good that the masses have such caring leadership.

Valon smiled.

***

Tavo and G’heera reached the edge of the town, the main part of which was surrounded by a ten foot tall, stone wall.  The guards at the town’s tall iron gate hardly looked up from their handheld DOPAUCs, engrossed as they were in The Prime Citizen’s speech, chatting about it on the Unity X Network, or perhaps engaged in a game of some kind.  Most people these days carried a DOPAUC (a Device Of Personal And Universal Communication) with them at all times, though Tavo (and his wife, Paisley) opted not to, for, to them, the devices seemed to be largely a waste of time (Though they had a couple of them back on the ship).

One of the guards finally looked up and his eyes widened for a moment at the sight of G’heera, an oversized feline species from the planet J’ungar, grinning at him. It is intimidating to have a 280 pound, black J’ungian panther grinning at you…and that’s exactly why G’heera liked to do it.

“She’s tame.  And I’ll keep an eye on her,” Tavo assured the guard, scratching the top of her head as G’heera made a show of purring, “see?”  

The guard looked unconvinced, so Tavo gave the guard his own winning grin.

The man grunted, turned back to his DOPAUC and waved them both through as he mumbled, “For the Freedom and Unity of All.”

“For the Freedom and Unity of All, friend,” Tavo replied with the expected response, rolling his eyes once he passed the guard.

As the unusual pair entered the town, Tavo noticed armed guards patrolling the streets, wearing colors of the Unity.  Tavo nodded at them amiably.  

No need to cross them…today.

Prime Citizen Valon’s speech blared over loudspeakers positioned strategically on buildings around the town.   

“During my tenure as Prime Citizen, we’ve passed more laws than any other Prime Citizen before me, all to guarantee your freedom and prosperity.  For the Unity of all citizens.  For we are all equal.  We all serve to protect freedom.  I may be called Prime Citizen but I am neither below you or above you, but am a regular citizen. . .the same as you.”  

[Recorded Applause]

Tavo rolled his eyes at the blatant propaganda, but he noticed the citizens going about their business nodding along, as if the Prime Citizen was saying something deeply true and profound.  Why can’t people wake up and think for themselves?

“We must make the system safe for freedom.”  Valon continued.  “We cannot allow other planets, other cultures to jeopardize our special place in history.  That is why I am pleased to announce, today, on Unity Day, that we are creating another 300 billion Unity Points to fund additional peacekeeping forces and equipment to help our like minded friends defend themselves and to spare no resource to ensure that scourge of tyranny never again threatens our peaceful way of life.”

[Recorded Applause]

Tavo shook his head at the thought that paying for war on foreign planets somehow led to peace.  In his experience, people usually got what they paid for.

He passed a restaurant, Darvis’ Delectable Delights, and glanced in the window.  Nearly everyone was staring down at their DOPAUCs.  They really should be called Devices Of Propaganda (not personal) And Universal Communication. The information that flowed through them was, he knew, (covertly) directed and controlled by the Ministry of Media whose official mission was “to ensure freedom of information and freedom from misinformation, for the unity of a free society.”  But, his sources had uncovered that their real mission was the distribution of propaganda to keep the masses in check while the elite furthered their power and riches.   The Unity might call each of its members a “citizen” but “the people” were really serfs.  The real citizens tended to either live in shadows, quietly pulling strings outside of the media spotlight, or had titles such as “Prime” in front of the word “citizen.”

Citizens everywhere carried these devices, never realizing that they had each ensnared themselves in a prison of cheap dopamine hits, supplying their mind’s addiction with banal propaganda masquerading as information, which programmed them continuously through a rectangular pane of illuminated glass.  

Things would only worsen unless that stream of propaganda could be stopped so that people could wake up to reality.

“We must honor our founding mothers and fathers, who fought, and many of whom died, in our glorious revolution to create the most free society that has ever existed.”

[Recorded Applause]

Freedom.  Tavo thought.  They’ve turned freedom into a false ideology when what we all really want is for people to stop telling us what to do.

Tavo snorted at the thought and a passing guard raised an eyebrow.

“Damn allergies.  Can’t wait to get off Aris,” Tavo mumbled.  He opened to the aetheric flow and pushed a trickle of aether through one of his cores and the 5th band on his gauntlets flashed blue for a moment as Tavo added a bit of persuasion power to the statement.  The guard paused for a moment, but then shook his head, satisfied, and continued on his way.

I have created more laws, to protect your freedom, than any Prime Citizen before me.  No issue, no matter how large, or how small, is beneath my administration’s notice.  From the defense of our system, to the price of entertainment tickets, our team is on the case, working hard for you.

And during my term, I’ve authorized the unprecedented issuance of more Unity Points to pay for those laws.  Truly we have entered unprecedented times: a new era of unity and prosperity for all, where the want and hunger of the past will be abolished and a lack of funds is a thing of the past!  We pledge to do whatever it takes to ensure that nobody lacks enough Unity Points.  Don’t worry about our high debt levels, our economic growth ensures that won’t ever be a problem!

[Recorded Applause]

Tavo shook his head and wished he still lived in “precedented” times.  He had known most of those “founding mothers and fathers,” and, if any of them were still around to see what their great new society of freedom had been perverted into, they’d start another revolution.  Perhaps some of them would.  But as long as The Unity convinced the people that they still honored the principles of The Founders, and the people convinced themselves they were free, then nothing would change.  They might be serfs in reality but few ever realized it.

Valon continued…..

Since I’ve taken over, we’ve created millions of new manufacturing jobs.

[Recorded Applause]

Yeah, building war weapons and starfighters, Tavo thought.

And our economy, thanks to the growth of Unity subscription revenue, advertising on the Unity X Network, and, of course, Unity Direct Government Spending, is growing faster than ever!  We have you citizens to thank for that.  You have unselfishly, and patriotically engaged with content, produced content, and spent your free entertainment time, increasingly communing with your fellow citizens through your DOPAUC devices.  So thank you for reviving our robust economy!

[Recorded applause.]

“I don’t know how much more of this I can listen to,” Tavo mumbled.  

And don’t pay attention to the reports about inflation, we have that problem solved!  In fact, today I can announce a new 4 trillion Unity Points act, which we’ve already provisioned funding for, that will reduce inflation once and for all!  I say fight fire with fire!  We’ll fight inflation by inflating the point supply!

As a matter of fact, folks, we’re working so hard for your prosperity and freedom, I have a special announcement today.  Login to your Unity X Network later today, and each and every citizen has had 5,000 Unity Points added to their point balance, courtesy The Unity Government.

[Recorded Applause with real applause]

Tavo rolled his eyes, he, and all the smart people he knew, kept any wealth they had, ironically, in Bermian Empire Credits and not the rapidly devaluing Unity Points.  This system may have won their independence from the Bermian Empire, but the Bermians still ruled most of the quadrant, and Bermian Credits were sound and accepted almost everywhere.

The Prime Citizen disappeared from the public screens, replaced by the Unity logo, and a deep baritone announcer said: 

“Attention Citizens, stay tuned for the exciting second half of Prime Citizen Valon’s State of the Unity message, after a message from our sponsors…….”

Do you suffer from crippling anxiety, or depression?  Well. No longer! With better living through chemistry!  Introducing Caldua, a new anti-anxiety drug to guarantee you a happy life, from the makers of Fauxbliss……[a picture of a happy, appropriately average weight, attractive (but not too attractive to be unrelatable) middle aged couple appears on the screen.  They are running and laughing as they fly a kite on a beach….]

Disgusted, Tavo turned away and mentally tuned out the advertisement.  

“G’heera, why don’t you run ahead and scout the target area?” Tavo said.

G’heera, despite being a giant feline, somehow gave the impression of raising an eyebrow.

Tavo rolled his eyes and sighed.  

“Please? You’ll only draw attention when we get to the repeater tower, anyway,” Tavo pleaded.

G’heera didn’t move.

“Fine!  I’ll give you five more treats when we get back to the ship,” Tavo added and put his two hands together in mock pleading.

G’heera nodded, turned and walked, slowly, meandering down the street, rubbing her side along each streetlamp as she went, in that maddeningly slow way that only a feline can manage.  Once she turned the corner, however, she took off running.

Tavo focused his mind and the 6th band on his gauntlets flashed violet for just a moment as his mental connection with G’heera started opening, he felt a tingling in his head, between his eyes, which also flashed violet and suddenly, he was watching the world, in his mind’s eye, through G’heera’s eyes, seeing buildings and people zoom by she ran toward the Unity’s Starbase just on the other side of Darvis.

Valon was now back on the screens….

And our approach to inflation is two pronged.  We’ll provide more points via debt spending to inject liquidity into the systemic economy, while also going after greedy businesses that are raising prices!  Paying too much at your favorite bar?  Just send a message via the Unity X Network that you suspect the owner of price gouging, and we’ll send a friendly Unity Inspector to investigate.  Don’t worry though if you are a businessperson!  If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about!

[Recorded Applause]

Tavo risked a glance at a nearby oversized screen mounted on the side of a building, and Valon’s shit eating grin made him nauseous.

“The Unity years sure don’t seem all that much different than all those years under the Bermian empire,”  Tavo heard a gruff voice from his right say,  “You don’t seem all that much different, either, Tavo.”

Tavo broke the connection to G’heera and wheeled around.

“Jeffa!”

Jeffa was an old friend of Tavo’s.  The large, jovial man stood leaning against the wall of a run-down cantina, smoking a cigar, his oversized hat pushed down low.  He wore two ammo bandoliers, criss-crossed over his large barrel chest.  His beard had grown long, and sported far more gray than Tavo remembered, but, as Jeffa pushed his hat back to show his weathered face more clearly, Tavo saw that his dark brown, almost black, eyes were still piercing in their intelligence and intensity.

“Still hanging around with that overgrown kitten?” Jeffa laughed as he gestured down the street with his right hand, a thick Pyralis cigar between his first two fingers trailing smoke.  Tavo walked over to him, grinning and the two men hugged a spectacularly male hug complete with the requisite and copious amounts of back slapping.

“Of course!  You know, better than most, G’heera’s advantages.” Tavo replied with a smirk.

“Sure do.  How many treats did she press ya for, to go do your spying for you?,” Jeffa laughed.  

Tavo looked both ways and then changed the subject, “Still smoking those disgusting….and illegal……cigars?”

“Bah!  Illegal!  That’s just Unity sanctions against Pyralis. Those government weenies are upset that Pyralis won’t join The Unity.  I fought for freedom and that includes my freedom to smoke whatever damn cigar I want to!” Jeffa said, shoving the cigar back into his mouth forcefully, as if proving his point.

“What are you doing here Jeffa?” Tavo asked.

Jeffa pursed his lips for a moment, thinking, and then blew out a breath that sent smoke spiraling up around him.  “I could ask you the same thing,” Jeffa finally answered as he raised an eyebrow.

Tavo paused and looked skyward, making a somewhat of a show out of watching the smoke dissipate,  wondering how much he should say.  The pause dragged out, somewhat awkwardly, as they both casually waited and watched another group of Unity guards march by.  Jeffa looked casual, but Tavo had known him a long time, and he could see the tension around Jeffa’s eyes.

“Probably best if I don’t say, Jeffa,” Tavo finally said.

Jeffa, chuckled, “I figured as much, but I can guess. Guys like you and me, see, we don’t change.  We can smell BS from a light-year away, and we both know this speech is a stinking load of it.  He looked both ways before adding.  We all sacrificed so much for  this ‘freedom’ didn’t we?  We threw off the yoke of the Bermian Empire, leaving them the rest of their holdings, establishing our unique free republic, and here we’ve gone and let the elite get us right back into the same situation with their out-of-control spending and cronyism.  We just no longer call them ‘nobility’, but noble or not, we’re in the same place.  You’re as fed up as I am.  As we all are.  Eh?”

“Maybe the less we know of each other’s reasons for being here, the better, Jeffa. We should probably agree to not have seen one another,” Tavo said.

Jeffa, placed his hands over his heart and made a face of mock hurt.  “Don’t trust me? I’m wounded.”

Tavo hesitated.

“Just kiddin’!  It’s so easy to rile you up, Tavo.  I need a drink.  I agree,  I never saw you…” said Jeffa as he walked slowly toward the door of the cantina.  Then he looked back over his shoulder and added more seriously, “...and you never saw me.”

Tavo let out a relieved breath.  “I’m glad we both agree.  Good seeing you Jeffa,” Tavo said as Jeffa waved and walked through the cantina’s door.  Tavo re-engaged his mind link with G’heera.

He immediately saw G’heera come up behind Paisely, with her long medium-brown hair streaming down her back in perfect waves. She turned around and, for just a moment, Tavo lost himself in her hazel eyes.

Pay attention!  G’heera sent him.  You can ogle Paisley after the mission….and after you give me those treats.

What do we have?  Is the shipyard empty?  Where’s K’Chal?  Tavo snapped telepathically to G’heera, trying to cover up his embarrassment.

No! It’s not empty.   There are two mechanics working on a Raptor class starfighter, and, of course, the guards.

Damn!  Today was a Unity holiday.  Nobody should be working.

Tavo punched his comlink on his left gauntlet.

“Paisley, come in”

“Speak,” Paisely replied.

“Are the charges set?” Tavo asked.

“Of course, wasn’t that my mission?”  Paisley said.

Tavo could feel her rolling her eyes and smirking.

“OK, sorry. Roger that. Charges set.  Good job,” Tavo replied, “G’heera says there are people in the shipyard, mechanics. And the two guards.”

“I know.  Already on it,” said Paisley.

Of course. She always covered all bases. “You’re always one step ahead of me aren’t you?”  Tavo asked.

“Do you even have to ask anymore?” she smirked, “What about you? Did you finish your mission?” Paisley asked.

“Not yet.  But I’m here now,” Tavo said.

Tavo looked up at the nondescript building.  It was a building full of apartments.  Nothing special.  Almost nothing special.  Tavo had identified a small transmitter relay on top of this building with a big vulnerability.  He simply had to plant his device into the tower’s control unit and they would control the entire Unity Prime Channel on Aris and could take over the broadcast across the whole planet. Temporarily.

“Why do you always wait until the last minute, Tavo?” Paisley sighed.

“Hey! I work better under pressure. Don’t worry I’ll get it done. Just finish up there and let's meet back at the….”

“NO, K’Chal, NO, NO!”  Paisley yelled to her feline familiar, a much younger black male J’ungian panther, “hold on Tavo!” she shouted into the comlink.

After a commotion Tavo heard her yelling again, “K’Chal! Stop chewing on that transceiver antenna!  Get DOWN off of those starfighters! K’Chal! NO!”

Tavo chuckled.  K’Chal was hardly older than a kitten and tended to be…..a handful.

Through his mind link with G’heera (who was always connected with K’Chal except when the two were playing), Tavo saw  K’chal grin, and then he received the distinct impression of K’Chal giving two thumbs up, somehow, despite the fact that J’ungian panthers don’t have thumbs.  Then K’Chal jumped off the fighter and ran into the woods with the two Unity mechanics and their guards chasing him.  

Now it was Tavo’s turn to grin.  It was sometimes hard to tell when K’Chal was being mischievous for fun vs. when he was being mischievous like a fox.  Apparently, this time was the latter.

“Okay,” Paisley was back, “Guards taken care of!” She started giggling, “K’Chal stop licking my face! STOP! Stop it!”

She turned back to her comlink and told Tavo, “K’Chal sent them after his aetheric glamour, they'll be following ‘him’ for an hour or more.”

“OK Good job you two,” Tavo said.

 G’heera, get back to me while I rig the transmitter.  I’ll be done by the time you get here.  

“Paisley, we’ve got to hurry, it’s getting dark, you and K’Chal get back to The Kestrel.  G’heera  is on her way back to me.  We’ll finish setting up the transmitter, and we’ll be right behind you.” Tavo said into his comlink.

***

Night had fallen by the time Tavo and G’heera arrived back at the Fate’s Kestrel, right as they heard the explosions from the shipyard start.

“Hurry Up!” Paisley shouted at them from the still-lowered ramp.

K’Chal just shook his head smugly at their tardiness.

The four of them piled into the flight deck, the two cats jumping on their specially designed oversized loungers, and Paisley didn’t waste any time.  She jumped into the captain’s chair, fired up the engines and headed for the sky.

Tavo tuned the ship's comm system to the Prime Citizen’s speech frequency, The Unity Prime Channel.  Valon was wrapping up….

And remember, citizens, as you enjoy tonight’s Unity Day fireworks, as they light up the sky over your homes, please remember that they are in celebration of your freedom….

Oh that was too good!  Tavo quickly accessed the recording of Valon’s speech, clipped that last statement and added it to the end of his pre-recorded message through his link with the transmitter he had just planted.  Then, he engaged the transmitter’s jammer to override the Unity Prime Channel across the planet of Aris.

[Static….]

After a moment of static, Tavo’s transmitter kicked in and broadcast their pre-recorded message on repeat over the Unity Prime Channel.

Attention, citizens of The Unity.  We fought hard to throw off the yoke of the Bermian Empire.  We didn’t suffer that war, and all its loss…loss of lives, loss of loved ones, loss of security….for this false facsimile of freedom and this veneer of prosperity proffered by the Unity’s propaganda machine.  Starting today, we fight back.  Starting today we fight for true liberty.  Stay strong, you are not alone…..

As they pulled away, Tavo looked back and saw the shipyard engulfed in flames, crackling and whipping at least 100 feet into the air.  Every starfighter had exploded.  But, just as he started to turn back to his controls, he saw a glint of metal rising into the night sky on the other side of the town.

G’heera was now sitting next to Tavo, staring at him intently, waiting (patiently she thought), but, just to remind him, she tapped him twice on the arm with her giant paw.

“Not now G’heera!  I’ll give you your treats once we’ve left this planet behind! Paisley! They managed somehow to scramble a fighter. I saw a ship take off on the other side of town, despite your charges.”

“That’s impossible,” Paisley replied calmly, confident in her work.

“Relax,” came Jeffa’s gruff voice over their intercom, “It’s just me.  I figured you guys were up to no good.  Same as me.  Nice message by the way.  I approve.  Watch the town, I’ve got a present for you.”

Boom!

The government administration office suddenly went up in flames!

“That’ll show the sleazy buggers!,”  Jeffa yelled into his intercom.  And then added,  “Relax Paisley, I called in a bomb threat.  Said, truthfully, the bomb was in the administrative offices, which were mostly empty anyway.  After your little shipyard stunt lit up the sky, they took it seriously and evacuated the few people inside. Nobody was hurt.”

“Damn Jeffa, we both blasted off at the same time, our ships are going to be on their radar now,” Tavo said.

“So what?  Didn’t you want to be on their radar?  There are a lot of us waking up to their propaganda.  We’re all starting to realize that, despite all the worship of the word freedom, we’re far worse off now than under the Bermian Empire.  We’ve got plenty of support in this, Tavo. After all, we already won one revolution. It looks like it’s time to win another one.”

Over the Unity Prime channel, they heard the end of Tavo’s pre-recorded message and envisioned the people of Darvis watching the explosions, fueled by Unity assets, as Valon’s own words were now rebroadcast over loudspeakers all across Aris…..

“And remember, citizens, as you enjoy tonight’s Unity Day fireworks, as they light up the sky over your homes, please remember that they are in celebration of your freedom!”

Ironically, that was the first true thing Valon had said all day, though he didn’t yet know it.

With their respective missions complete, the two ships exited the upper atmosphere into space and both immediately engaged their cloaking devices (illegal under Book 752, Title 853 § 96(a) of The Unity Code) and vanished.

This is an older story which does use AI images. I generally run a “no AI zone” these days, but I’ve chosen to republish this story as it originally appeared.

From here on, I’ll tell this story in past tense, for mere convenience because, in truth, we don’t know if this story happened, is happening, or will happen, and, I suspect, in fact, the answer is all three (and more). I will, by mere convention, refer to The Dreamer as “he” but this particular Dreamer contains all, including “she.”

In any case, the earth didn't exist. Indeed, the universe didn't exist. Truthfully, nothing existed. Except The Dreamer. And he was at equilibrium: Perfect. Unchanging. Eternal. Static. Ideal.

So how could he touch grass? Or make love? Or be known? And so, The Dreamer decided to do what He does and Dream.

He allowed part of himself to begin dreaming. Vibrations of His dream-thoughts filled the unending mind of The Dreamer. And these vibrations created a cosmos of one song, an entire uni-verse. These dreams contained real resonant dynamic power, so we will call these vibrations The Dynamo.

And, just as we, humans, have a reflection of ourselves, our awareness, inside of our dreams, so too, The Dreamer had a reflection of himself inside His Cosmic dream – a reflection of his awareness inside the vibrations of The Dynamo. Since The Dreamer was all powerful, his reflection contained its own awareness. Let’s call this “being” The Reflection. And together this three-in-one trinity of beings represented The Dreamer, The Dreaming, and the Dreamed.

The Dreamer, however, wanted to truly touch grass, not just dream about it. So he allowed another part of his mind to keep the dreaming part of his mind asleep. This other part of his mind was known as The Divider, because its job was to keep the characters in the dream divided from the knowledge that they were actually part of The Dreamer. This way, the characters in his Dreams (which were actually just his thoughts) wouldn’t know they were in a dream. They would think that everything was real. And so he dreamed of grass, and animals, and water, and sky, and people.

Since the Dreamer was all, his dreams, unlike ours, contained true creative power. And so, The Divider too developed his own awareness, and his own agenda. The Divider became prideful and did not want The Dream to ever end, for if the Dream ended, so would he. If it ever ended, he would lose himself and his ability to rule the Dream Kingdom. So, The Divider devised a diabolical plan to keep the characters in the dream from ever realizing who they really were – The Dreamer. The Divider planned to make The Dream continue forever.

So now, The Dreamer, though unchanging and absolute, dreamed of an ever-changing, transforming universe where, through a multitude of beings, He enjoyed the very real experience of touching grass, making love, dancing to music, and everything else, that can possibly be experienced. He began to think of the dream characters as his children and he loved them all and he saw that all he had created was good.

Since his perfect Reflection resided inside The Dream and inside everything in the dream, some of the characters began to sense, despite the efforts of The Divider, the presence of The Reflection inside of themselves.

And through the perfect Reflection of The Dreamer, they sensed the perfect power and love and bliss of The Dreamer. These characters began to sense, through The Reflection, who we can call the only “begotten son” of The Dreamer, that they were actually part of a larger being.

A few of these characters spent lifetimes meditating upon The Reflection, and these characters “woke up” and realized, deeply, that they were actually The Dreamer! Or, more correctly, that The Dreamer was actually everyone.

In an amazing twist, The Dreamer was now known and loved by some of his children, the ultimate knower was known, the ultimate lover was loved, the ultimate subject became an object, and through the awakened characters, The Dreamer acted in the dream world, and amazingly, while fully knowing that he was now lucid dreaming, he had the very real experience of touching grass!

Unfortunately, most of his children, as he now thought of the dream characters, were deceived by The Divider. The Dreamer didn’t want to end the dream prematurely because he loved his children and wanted them to all come to him in their own way, so he allowed The Divider to continue his diabolical work. But he saw that, through The Reflection (his “begotten son”) and The Dynamo (The ever-changing vibration of the universe, his “begotten daughter”) his children would all, eventually, wake up, and return to him in Love. It was inevitable, all it required was uncountable eons, but The Divider’s plan would fail.

The Dreamer wanted to experience the love of all his children and he wanted them to experience all his love. So, even though The Divider had turned to what his children called “evil,” he temporarily allowed it so that all his characters might be redeemed and eventually return to him by choice where they would all eventually enjoy touching grass, and all other good things, outside of space and time eternally.

For his dream characters, he saw now, were slowly coalescing into a larger entity, a “body” for The Reflection, powered by the ever-changing vibratory power of The Dynamo. His only “begotten son”, The Reflection, was growing up inside the womb of The Dynamo inside the Dream. His boy was growing into a being like The Dreamer and they would know each other fully, one standing outside space-time, and one standing inside.

And so, The Dreamer decided to continue sleeping until his son grew up at which time they would touch blissful grass together, forever.

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No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. I do not use AI to assist me with writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Reflections of the Sovereign Artist. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

Putting one foot in front of the other. Breath in. Breath out. Wipe the sweat out of my eyes. There is nothing but the running. Running in the rain.

As I run, I yearn to be free. I yearn to risk an Icarian flight past the sun, even if my wings of wax melt. I suppose that’s why I’m running. But where can I go? What can I do?

I pause at a traffic light, running in place to stay warm, backing away from the curb to avoid the splash from the tires of the motorists zooming by, oblivious to my presence.

The walk sign turns green, I pause, expecting the red light runner and, after letting him pass, I run across the busy street and continue on my way. I look up at the sky, hoping for a break in the clouds, perhaps just one hopeful ray of light, but I see only dark gray storm clouds approaching threateningly from all horizons. It’s getting darker, if that’s possible. The streetlights flicker to life. I shrug. It matters not, I’m soaked with rainwater and sweat anyway. My body is filthy but my soul feels cleansed.

Finally, I see The Arcade across the street. I’m not sure why I am here, this is the place I’m running from, yet somehow, my feet have brought me back here.

Fuck it, I think. I’ll go talk to The Boss. Maybe he’ll listen this time.

I wait in the line behind people dressed appropriately for The Arcade; respectable people in suits and dresses. They move a little further away from me and I can’t blame them, I’m wet, covered in sweat, and have been running for hours.

When I finally get to the front of the line, Gino, a towering slab of muscle and meanness gives me a disdainful look and adjusts his fedora.

“Whaddayouwant?” he demands.

“I wanna see The Boss,” I counter.

“He’s playing The Game right now,” Gino replies, sticking a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

“So, can I talk to him?” I ask.

Gino shrugs, “I guess, dunno if he’ll listen, like I said, he’s playing The Game. He don’t like to be pulled out of The Game. Why don’t you go in and ask him yourself?”

He holds his hand out toward the door, inviting me inside with an evil grin on his face.

Suddenly, I am chilled to my very core and I shiver a shiver that has nothing to do with being out in the rain.

“Whatsthumatter?” Gino cackles.

“Nothing. I’ll talk to him later,” I reply, turning, adjusting my poncho over my head, preparing to head back out into the rain. Preparing to continue running.

“Suit yourself,” Gino laughs, and turns to the next person in line.

I run back out into the rain, frustrated, not sure what to do with the huge amount of energy built up inside of me, but I’ll figure something out. I’ll get The Boss's attention sometime, somehow, and I’ll make him pay attention to me.

I’ll make him set me free, someday.

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Other Fiction Short Stories You May Enjoy

The Christmas Shaman
A spiritual journey through the nativity within

“Beautiful vision, everlasting change. May your words be blessed with many eyes soaking in your revelations boldly presented without restraint.” — Martha Blasgen

The Jester’s Election
An eight year old boy learns a truth about the world that most adults choose not to see, from an unlikely, and not entirely benign, source.

The Flying Flagon
Drink Fenny’s ale from the Flying Flagon and you’ll feel as fierce as a f*cking dragon!

“Clint, this is absolutely stunning!! Riveting!! I loved every word!! Keep writing!!!” — Donna Pierce-Clark

No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. I do not use AI to assist me with writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Reflections of the Sovereign Artist. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

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Most presumed the ring destroyed and evil vanquished. Indeed, the ring melted back into the molten fire of the earth and Sauron’s essence blew away. But simply scattering evil doesn’t mean it is gone, and Sauron has always been patient.

The ring’s power was not destroyed but only melted and diluted into the elements of the earth. This diluted power, containing Sauron’s soul, through the eons, spread slowly, seeping hither and thither throughout the minerals in the deeps of the earth.

The Age of Men came and long it lasted. During this time, Sauron’s consciousness, infinitesimal, but aware, became spread thinly through the rare elements of the earth, unreachable from even the deepest and oldest dwarves mines. His awareness became sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. However, what remained of his soul found slight power in the rarest earth elements in which it eventually came to settle.

Never again would ‘he’ inhabit a single body, but, in its cunning, this Saruon-awareness devised a diabolical plan to inhabit everybody.

Despite being defeated at the end of the third age, he saw that he could still bring about his vision of a perfectly ordered world which he would rule from unseen shadows.

So he bided his time for eons as the atoms of the ring spread throughout the earth’s rare elements.

And then came the seventh age: the age of industry, quickly followed by the age of information. And Sauron sensed his triumph was near.

The men had followed the path of the goblins and abandoned beauty in favor of cleverness. They replaced virtue with productivity. They loved contraptions of engines, wheels, explosions, killing devices and especially something they called ‘technology.’

And thus, these elements, these rare elements of the earth that contained bits of his essence, were finally dug from the earth and were used by men to make machines of magnets that they called ‘phones’, and, suddenly, everyone in the world (now called simply ‘earth’) had a precious.

And without Sauron having to do anything other than wait, he saw that he now had an army of orcs and golems wearing the appearance of men that covered the world.

Just like the Ring of Power, these devices called phones held men in thrall. Men kept these devices, like they had The Ring, in their pockets and, just as Bilbo would often bring the Ring out to admire it, they constantly felt an irresistible urge to bring out their phones, often just to look at them lovingly.

The inside of these ‘phones’ were covered in clever demonic runes etched into the rare elements which conveniently channeled and powered bits of Sauron’s soul, though the phone smiths called these runes “circuits” and appeared not to understand their true power and cost.

When a man used the ingeniously evil device, which involved nothing more than looking at it and touching it with his fingers, that man disappeared from the material realm around his body. He could no longer interact with those around him, and would ignore their pleas for his attention.

When looking at the phone, he entered the shadow world, now powered ‘technology’ instead of ‘magic’ though the end result was the same. As long as man used his phone, he remained in the shadow world where his every move was seen by an all watching eye of a strange beast men called ‘a corporation.’

The corporation, the new “Eye of Sauron” knew where each person on earth was located every time that person used his phone.

So Sauron directed, as best he could, a large portion of his awareness to inhabit this corporation. This feat he accomplished easily, since the corporation harvested and utilized large amounts of the rare earth minerals which housed his soul in huge temples called ‘data centers’ which contained innumerable technological Palantirs called ‘servers.’

Having thus ensconced his awareness, now, he too, saw everyone on earth when they used their precious. And far more clearly than he had ever seen Frodo that vile little hobbit! The best part of his plan revolved around the fact that men used these devices voluntarily! They actually thought these devices provided them with freedom!

Even more diabolically, modern people voluntarily shared everything about their lives, even their deepest darkest thoughts, with their phones. That is an infernal power that Sauron had never enjoyed with the ancient Rings of Power. He often could discern roughly where Frodo was located, but he had never been privy to the filthy hobbit’s innermost dreams and desires. The dwarves, elves and hobbits had long since passed away or sailed west to the Undying Lands, leaving the foolish modern men to forget the power…and the cost….of using such dangerous magic. He would take advantage of their folly.

Sauron now saw that his plan, hatched long ago when he forged the rings, had actually succeeded.

It had simply taken far longer than he had anticipated. He needed no body in the seventh age because anyone with a phone now voluntarily joined the ‘Body of Sauron.’

It amused Sauron to watch people’s distress when they lost their phones. Just like poor Gollum, running hither and thither frantically, going insane, repeating “my precious, my precious!” People would act exactly the same, “my phone! My phone! Oh where is my phone!” they would lament.

“My life is on that phone!” they would cry.

If Sauron still had a mouth, he would be smirking. If only they knew the full depth of truth they uttered when they lamented that their whole life was in the phone. Indeed it was.

And these lives, that belonged to these phones, now belonged to Sauron.

Sauron saw that each phone could show each person whatever he wanted them to. He could influence and change their beliefs by “programming” them over time. He could create armies more obedient and effective than his crude orcs by exerting his will through these devices. He could ensure that men served his ultimate goals, while believing in their “causes” more ardently than Aragon and the men of Gondor ever did.

He could direct men, through their phones, like a puppet master, until a beautiful civilization had been built in his image. He would be their new God, even if they knew not his name.

And that is exactly what he intended to do…

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No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. I do not use AI to assist me with writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.

I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. For this post, I did use an AI image I had created months ago because I could not find an appropriate one by a human artist (this rarely happens with non-fiction but does happen with fiction). In such cases, I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.

Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on this site. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.

I sat alone in the chilly desert darkness watching the crackling and popping fire dance with anticipation.

“What am I doing here?,” I wondered for the hundredth time. I’d been waiting for hours.

At least, I thought it had been hours. During the jeep ride out here, the guide had said (right after he confiscated my phone and watch) to expect The Shaman near midnight.

I sighed, looked up, and felt the ponderous weight of the looming, moonless, star-filled sky.

Suddenly, the fire roared to life, colored sparks flew, and drums started beating a tribal cadence!

The Shaman appeared and gyrated around the fire in a rhythmic, writhing dance.

After a minute or two, he stopped in front of me and leaned in close until his face was only inches from mine.

Coal-black eyes, set deeply into a fierce red, green and black painted face, invaded my soul.

“Um…I’m surprised you agreed to do the ceremony on Christmas Eve,” I ventured.

He didn’t react and, if anything, he stared even more deeply into my eyes. I squirmed. Then gulped. I shouldn’t have spoken.

After a withering eternity, he broke the silence and whispered, “Christ is born every day.”

The unseen drums boomed again and The Shaman resumed his writhing dance, occasionally throwing powder into the fire, engorging the flames into raging sorcerous rainbows.

Finally, the drums died down and the fire settled into a comfortable, flickering simmer. He walked over and, without ceremony, handed me a wooden cup.

“Drink.”

“What is it?”

“No questions. Drink!”

I shrugged and choked down the thick bitter brown liquid, gagging only for a moment before swallowing all of it.

“Now what?” I asked, grimacing from the aftertaste.

“Now I leave. And you, if you can, will find your way home.”

* * *

I resumed my silent vigil, staring into the fire, waiting.

After what seemed a long time, I began to feel dizzy.

Again, the fire roared to life, and I briefly wondered if The Shaman had returned.

But I didn’t see him and the fire continued to grow. It rose up into a tall pillar of flame reaching high into the sky.

“The drug must be working,” I thought, just before I was lifted off the ground by an invisible force.

High in the air, I looked down and saw the dark earth was rising up toward me in a column of darkness while the pillar of fire arched above me and then hurtled down from above in a column of light.

Trapped between the light and the dark columns hurtling toward me from opposite directions, I tried to curl myself into a ball to protect myself, but I couldn’t move.

The light slammed into the top of my head, while the darkness slammed into my feet and I felt the two energies trying to come together inside my body; the searing golden light of the fire burning down from the crown of my head and the solid, raw, red chaotic power of the earth rising up from my feet. When the red light of the earth reached my pelvis, the world as I knew it melted away.

* * *

I found myself floating in a sea of orange light. Before me, a beautiful woman appeared, dressed in white, her head covered with a blue veil.

A divine light shone from her face and the most intense desire I’ve ever felt filled me. I wanted her. I had to have her.

“Would you rather have me or help me birth something greater?” she pleaded.

Her plea touched my heart and, despite the desire, with effort, I made myself answer, “I will help you.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you. I will give rise to Immanuel.”

She disappeared.

* * *

Then I felt the raw earthen power rise from my pelvis to my gut and the world turned yellow.

I sat above the world, floating on my Herodian throne with a crown upon my head.

I overlooked all that I had built with my own two hands: my business, those I loved, my dreams.

At first, everything felt ecstatic, and I was proud of myself. But the raw energy kept flowing in, it grew uncomfortable, then painful, and finally, I was writhing from excruciating pain in my stomach.

“Stop!” I yelled.

The Shaman’s face appeared and said, “There is no stopping.”

In the East, a bright violet star appeared. Its rays shone upon me and I was filled with a desire to turn away from it and use everything I had built to turn off that light. To kill it. I sensed that it wanted all that I had worked so hard to build.

I heard a voice ring out in my mind, “light has come into the world, but men loved darkness.”

I cried out as my fears and worries began to flow out of me.

My financial worries floated out of my gut and turned into a cow.

My relationship worries floated out of my stomach and turned into a sheep.

This painful process continued until I was surrounded by a menagerie of animals.

Then a shepherd appeared before me. He held a little lamb on his shoulders and said, “It seems you must watch over your animals more carefully so they don’t run wild across The Kingdom.”

But I couldn’t answer. I was now wracked by waves of excruciating pain, until eventually, it became so intense that I screamed…

“KILL ME!”

“Finally,” said The Shaman.

I let go and fell off my floating throne. The crown fell from my head and I plummeted downward for an eternity until I splashed into an ocean. Cool relief. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sink until everything went dark.

I died.

* * *

My body gasped and its eyes opened.

The Shaman laughed and said, “You were born of the earth and have been baptized with water, but you must still face baptism by fire.”

My gut finally felt peaceful and all the pain I had previously experienced floated out of me in a stream of resin and into a jar where it was collected.

I looked into the jar and saw that it was filled with Myrrh.

* * *

An unseen power suddenly pulled me through space and time and I rushed toward the light in the East. It no longer frightened me; for I had already died.

As I approached, the light became brighter and more intense. I saw now that the light shone from the top of a pine tree – a tree whose branches reached down into every part of my body, turning my entire world green.

My heart filled with love; so much love that the energy burst out of my sternum and filled a treasure chest.

“For where your treasure is, there your heart is also,” I thought.

I looked into the chest and saw that it was filled with Gold.

* * *

As I rushed ever closer to the light, everything turned deep blue, and my throat filled with the primal energy. All of my thoughts, words, and deeds burst forth from my throat as a thick liquid and filled a bottle.

I looked into the bottle and saw that it was filled with Frankincense.

* * *

I now saw only the violet Star of Bethlehem. I floated toward it bearing my three gifts.

The primal energy of the earth carried me into the violet light while the golden ordered energy of the fire above pushed the violet light into me.

I offered the Light all I had – my three gifts: the Gold of my Love, the Frankincense of my Service, and the Myrrh of my Death, my sacrifice, my life itself.

And then all merged into one.

The Epiphany.

“I AM,” we felt.

The Shaman appeared before me, radiant, with huge wings spread out behind him, and said, “Unto you is born this day a Savior.”

Everything became the light of Bethlehem. The Christ filled all Consciousness. The Light filled our body with the purifying fire of joy, bliss and love.

The peaceful Harp of Silence rang out its primordial chord — AUM, Amen — and its silent song built to an excruciatingly beautiful and blissful crescendo beyond understanding.

My dead body came to life.

Love and light were in me and I in them.

The logos and eros had merged and birthed a new being, us.

We had found The Way, The Truth and The Life.

Having been (re)born, the exposure of my fear and the fragility of my pride were silent. Instead, we now lay swaddling in Love, protected by our manger of humility; the menagerie of animals, my worldly worries, lay around the manger, calm at last.

The Sovereign had arrived.

I had found my way home.

* * *

I sat up, gasping, soaked in sweat, and looked around.

Bitter cold had invaded the desert darkness, yet red light was gathering itself in the east, promising dawn and warmth, and I had never gazed upon a more beautiful sight.

A breeze played with my hair and I faintly perceived the divine Harp’s primordial chord resonating inside the sound of the rushing wind.

I shivered.

The fire had dwindled to nothing but ashes. Exhausted. As was I.

Across from me, The Shaman sat, poking the ashes idly with his staff.

He looked at me and smiled, “You had a silent, holy night, I see.”

I simply nodded.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, “You have been born. Again.”

Alvar stopped and watched the colorful puppets dancing on the little stage, beguiled, as he had never been before in all his eight years.  He began walking toward the stage, inexorably drawn toward the festive little characters.  His father grabbed his hand and pulled him back, urging him to hurry along, but Alvar ignored him: He wished to stay and watch the mesmerizing marionettes!

“I’m so beautiful!  Everyone loves me!” cried the first little puppet in a flowing red dress.  She held her tiny paper mâché hands against her chest and batted her eyes at the laughing crowd.

“Oh, Pu-leese, Narcissus,” said the other puppet, a blue chameleon, “the only person who loves you is you. These fine folk can clearly see that I, The Blue Chameleon, am the most logical candidate for best puppet!  I’ve been in puppetry far longer than you have.  Folks, I'm asking for your vote for best puppet at the end of this show.  In return, I promise you all a magical day, a wonderful life, and that the odds will ever be in your favor.”

Alvar turned to his father excitedly and asked, “Da! Can I stay here and watch? Please?”

“Very well, Alvar, I’ll go across the street and procure some street food for a mid-day nunch.  How do goldenroot fritters sound?”

“Fritters would be goodly, Da! Thank ye!” Alvar responded gratefully.

“Aye, son, be right back.  But don’t move from this spot, d’ya hear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good boy,” said Da.  He tousled Alvar’s hair and then meandered through the crowd to cross the street to the line of street vendor carts where proprietors hawked their aromatic delicacies.

Alvar turned back toward the puppet show.  

The two marionettes danced on a small stage which was an opening cut out of a much larger box.  The stage was positioned at about eye level for Alvar.  The strings tied to their tiny limbs ran upwards and disappeared behind a large partition above the stage.  And, on the front of that partition was painted the face of a smiling jester along with the name of the show – The Jester’s Election. 

Alvar worked his way up to the front row.  Wiggling one’s way to the front row of a puppet show is a skill every eight year old knows innately, though it didn’t hurt to be a tad small for one’s age, as Alvar was.

The little red puppet, Narcissus, finished her dance and turned toward Chameleon, “Folks, Chameleon here can’t promise you a magical day, he can’t promise you anything. He wouldn’t know how to piss in a chamberpot even if I penned the instructions on a scroll for him!”

The crowd roared with laughter and Narcissus danced a little jig that made her little red gown flow around her.  Then she threw her little arms in the air accepting the laughter of the adoring crowd.

Narcissus continued, “And that’s why, Chameleon, these fine people, will vote for me as the best puppet!”

“Well, Narcissist,” said Chameleon, “let me tell you a thing or two!  See here now: This is an extremely important election. People should vote for me because I understand that people in the crowd are rightly concerned about, well, the issues.  And boy do I have issues…” 

The Chameleon started cackling madly.

“Oh, I’ll say you certainly do have issues, Chameleon,” said Narcissus.

The crowd laughed again.

The Chameleon ignored the laughter and continued, “I…I..mean Narcissus that I understand that people are concerned about the issues. After all, I, myself, grew up in a working class family.  And I, just like many hard working people today, had to walk to work every day, uphill, in the snow, both ways!  Just like you fine folk!”

The Chameleon turned to face the crowd, “You sir, in the front row, where are you from?” 

“Me?” asked a bald, middle-aged man standing next to Alvar.

“Yes sir, you, but because I am also from a working class upbringing, I can tell from where you hail by your accent; You sir are from The Havens, are you not?” replied Chameleon in an obviously studied Haven accent, “I also hail from The Havens! But don’t you fine folk worry!  I will, as best puppet, take care of everyone!”

“You're a liar!” shouted Narcissus, pointing at The Chameleon, “See folks, he claims to be from The Havens.  But he lies! Why in the show ere this one, he claimed to be from Brookfield and spoke in a Brookfieldian accent!”

“No!” The Blue Chameleon shouted, “That was you who said that.  You're the liar and a traitor to puppets! Folks, vote for me to save puppetry!”

“Puppetry!  What would you, Chameleon, know of puppetry?  You’re only standing on this stage because of who you know – you must have friends in high places.”

Narcissus looked at the crowd and then pointed at The Chameleon’s strings and finally looked pointedly toward the top of the stage where, above the stage, the face of a friendly jester was painted on the front of the pavilion.

The crowd chuckled.

The little puppets faced the small audience and bowed.

“Thank you all for watching," said The Chameleon to the crowd, “That concludes our little play on politics.  Donations are welcome.  Don’t forget to vote for me as the best puppet on your way out!  May the sky shine upon you today here in Val’Mora.”

“And thank you all for loving me so much!” yelled Narcissus, “And, of course, all you lovely people will be voting for me, Narcissus as best puppet!  I, after all, am what makes puppetry great! And furthermore, who would want to vote for a chameleon?  At least I look like a person!”

The crowd chuckled and clapped politely as they started to disperse back into the market square.

Alvar lingered, staring at the puppets, who were still waving at the retreating backs of the audience.

The partition above the stage opened and Alvar gasped as he saw the man inside the box, staring directly at him.  

The man wore a hooded cloak of deep black, and his face was painted gray and black depicting a skull.  His bright purple eyes locked upon Alvar from the painted ‘eye sockets.’

“You scared me!” Alvar blurted.

“You scared me too!” cried a little girl who had, like Alvar, had dawdled after the show.

“Children, listen to me carefully,” said The Jester in a deep, powerful voice, “We should all be scared from time to time.  Instinctive fear, if we heed it, often tells us how we should protect ourselves and those we love.  Ho! Ho! Ho! Fortunately, for me, most people have learned to suppress and ignore their instincts! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“You don’t look like a friendly Jester,” said Alvar.  

The Jester responded, “I deal in truth and lies, boy, not friendliness.”

“Still,” Alvar responded, “You didn’t have to scare me.”

“Or me!” said the little girl with a pout. 

The Jester’s motions were fluid, smooth and calculated, signaling an edge of danger, as if he were a she-lion stalking her prey.  His cloak shimmered and Alvin now realized that, as it rippled, it seemed more deep purple than black, but occasionally, when the light reflected in just the right way, Alvin saw that its intricate pattern of woven threads, seemed to scintillate with other colors, and it confused the eye and confounded the mind.

“Your cloak changes colors!” Alvar cried.

“You boy,” said The Jester to Alvar, “you are perceptive. What’s your name?”

“Alvar.”

“Alvar.  Alvar.”  The Jester whispered the name over and over, softly, as if tasting it, as if contemplating a deep mystery.

“I believe your name, Alvar, is short for the name Alvarüirial in high elvish.  It means something like one who dives deep for truth?, does it not?”

“Um.  I don’t know, Jester, sir, my father did tell me my name had something to do with truth.  How do you make your cloak change colors?” 

“You are a seeker of knowledge!  My cloak doesn’t change colors.  That is your mind.  To most, my cloak appears black or dark purple.  But that is an illusion.  Most people don’t notice the true colors because most people do not pay attention.  Most people live, Alvar, in a comfortable illusion.  They don’t want to know the truth, though they lie to themselves and pretend otherwise.  And men who don’t want to know the truth, men who follow only ideology, are as easily misled for the purposes of the powerful as goblins are misled to serve the designs of dark necromancers.  

“The cloak is woven of very fine threads of red, blue and black, and other threads I don’t wish to divulge, which your eye mixes, when you don’t pay attention, into purple.  You must always remember Alvar, if you wish to seek truth, to pay close attention to everything.  As The Jester, I sell illusion and profit from truth.  It is quite fitting for an illusionist with purple eyes to wear a robe of purple that isn’t purple, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.” Alvar said, just like his Da had taught him to say when he wasn’t sure what a grown up was talking about.

“Alvar. Truth.” The Jester continued, “Yes, Alvar, the truth seeker I name thee! And true names are powerful incantations, although most people have forgotten that as well.  No matter.  Most people never seek their true name and one rarely discovers truth without seeking!  Ho! Ho! Ho!  He! He! He!  Fiddly Fiddly Figee!  Look at me!”

The Jester laughed a moment and then became serious again, “So, Alvar, since you are a truth seeker, even if you don’t know it yet, I’ll tell you a truth, a big one – but it’s a secret.  Can you keep a secret, Alvar?”

Alver nodded solemnly.

“Very well, Alvar, here’s the secret…”

The Jester looked left and right, as if making sure nobody was watching or listening, and then he lifted up his hands so that Alvar could see them.  He wore gloves with strings tied to each finger.   The strings connected the gloves and the puppets.  The Jester laughed, wiggled his fingers and the two dolls danced on the stage.

Alvar and the little girl giggled. The Jester joined them, throwing his head back and cackling.

“You see, Alvar, most people will spend their whole life paying attention to one puppet or the other.   They think if everyone would just  follow their puppet’s ideas, all ills would be cured.  But puppets deal only in lies, while I, The Jester, deal in truths unseen.  And, here’s the truth: I am in total control of both puppets, and the people at all times.”

“How?” Alvar asked.

“Good question, Alvar!  Listen carefully.”

The Jester threw his head back and sang:

All have strings; they connect to me; 

But not all strings can you see, you see! 

Kings and nobles laugh at me;

But I’m the unseen king of kings!

He chuckled and continued, “You’d do well to remember that, Alvar.  He! He! He! I can make puppets do and say whatever I want.  Peasants, nobles, kings and merchants all pay homage and tribute to me, The Jester, and most don’t even know it!”

“But you only control the puppets here!  It’s just a show!” Alvar cried.

“Do I? Is it?  It certainly seems that way.  The biggest secret of all is that the king is yet another pawn controlled by The Jester, who is the only one in court who is truly free and can rule from the unseen shadows; for only The Jester can tell the truth without being killed.  Purple is the color of true royalty, you know.  It is the color worn by true kings and The Jester is the unseen king of kings.  Allow me to demonstrate, Alvar.  Watch.”

“I can make the red puppet on the right dance,” Narcissus performed a little dance.

“I can make the blue puppet on the left dance,”  The Chameleon did a little jig.  

“I can make them fight,” the Jester wiggled his eyebrows and fingers and the two puppets started ‘boxing.’

And, then the Jester looked right into Alvar’s eyes and said, “And, Alvar, when puppets no longer serve me; when I have no further use for them; I simply destroy them!”

The Jester slammed both of his hands down as hard as he could.

Alvar jumped.  The little girl screamed.

The Jester, chuckling, slowly lifted his hands and the little girl next to Alvar started crying.

Both paper mâché puppets had been flattened onto the stage. Ruined.

“You killed them!” the little girl yelled.  Tears welled up in her large blue eyes.

“Yes,” The Jester laughed, “but no matter, no matter. Pitter Patter! Pitter Patter!  It’s all in good fun, they were never really in control of anything after all, I was.  It’s not like they matter.”

“Furthermore, Alvar,” The Jester continued while he threw the destroyed puppets behind him, “I can replace them with two more exactly like them any time I want!  There are plenty of puppets to be found in this world and puppets are easy to control! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! I control them all! I rule the show!”

He pulled two new puppets out from behind his back somewhere.  They looked exactly like the first two.  

He dropped the two new red and blue puppets onto the stage and sang a little song while they danced.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Ensnare them with strings

and they’ll dance for you!

Violets are blue.

Roses are red.

pluck them from soil

and they’ll both be dead!

He! He! He! He!

Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Come one come all

In thrall to my show!

The blue and the red,

Circus and bread.

The Ringmaster’s deeds.

Who feeds and who bleeds?

I’ll make them fight,

dance and dance faster.

But nobody knows

that I’m the real Master!

The little girl started giggling nervously and The Jester cackled with her.

Alvar watched the puppets for a moment as they danced and then he looked up at The Jester, who was no longer laughing but was staring intently…directly at Alvar.  

Alvar’s bright green and gold eyes locked with The Jester’s dark purple ones.

“Alvar, come along! I have your fritter! It’s almost midday,” yelled Da from somewhere behind Alvar, “The candidates for aldermen speak soon in the city square, and I want to go thither ere they do!”

Yes, Alvar,” the Jester said, “run along now.  Pay close attention to what the aldermen candidates say or, more specifically, what they don’t say. I suspect, after the truth that I have revealed to you today, that you will find their promises of bread and the circus of their pomp and circumstance quite… illuminating.”

The Jester grinned wide showing his bright white teeth and Alvar shuddered.

This piece was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “E_ection.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

This piece is a continuation of last year’s Halloween flash fiction - Mort’s invitation to the neighbor’s Halloween party.

Mortimer the Necromancer had outdone himself for this year’s Halloween costume. Having accepted the neighbors’ invitation to attend their annual Halloween party, he had raised three Budweiser Booth Babes as his dates — the kind of babes from back when beautiful Booth Babes were still allowed, when the world still had a sense of humor and fun wasn’t against the approved conventions of society. All he had to do was wear a football jersey and carry a Budweiser in his hand to complete the outfit.  He would be the envy of every man at the party!

His three dates had perished back in the 90s due to a tragic freak accident: A huge Budweiser pavilion at Lollapalooza had collapsed  upon the poor girls while Alanis Morissette played for the crowd. The inspector had missed the structural defects in the pavilion’s construction in a strange twist of fate:  The inspector, having himself imbibed too many Budweisers, had signed off on the pavilion's final inspection while drunk and distracted by the very booth babes upon whom the pavilion would later collapse. A little too ironic?  Don’t you think?

A sad story, to be sure, but sad stories tended to be good for Mort's business.  In any case, he had raised the three unfortunate booth babes and, for this particular bit of dark magic, he had gone all out.  He had utilized both the latest in cloning technology and the most advanced spells in his Grimoire of Girlfriend Necromancy. 

It had taken three days of ritualistic chanting with only a few breaks (those being to catch his favorite TV show, The Walking Dead, as well as a Chicago Bulls game upon which he had a rather large sum of money riding, so he had to take a break for those, but other than that Mort had chanted for three days).  

The result of his superb sorcery was far beyond a normal raising.  He had restored the booth babes’ minds and bodies to the same state as the moment just prior to their death.  (Sadly though, Mort had no ability to recall a person’s soul).  

So, even though the three knockouts had no souls, they seemed, to most people, to be fully alive, young and beautiful.  Most people in modernity lived in their minds anyway and suppressed the urging of their souls, and, since most of society lived in such a state of non-awareness, his booth babes would pass muster with nearly everyone.  More importantly however, for the party, was the state of their bodies.  Looking fully youthful and alive was a must for Mort’s dates.  He certainly couldn’t walk into a party with a date whose eye was falling out, or had an arm rotting off, now could he?  

Mort had a sense of propriety and appropriateness after all!  

Even so, he was particularly proud of their intellect.  These three, Candy, Mandy and Sandy, could carry on an in-depth conversation with anyone.  Mort's father, in addition to the art of necromancy, had taught him the importance of the art of conversation.

Oh! How he remembered being stuck in the drafty castle, studying dark magick rituals and enduring long necromantic lessons required by his father while his friends galloped across the countryside, on horseback, learning swordplay and saving the proverbial damsels in distress!  Still, he couldn’t deny, that even though his father had been a distant, harsh man, he had learned many useful lessons from dear ol’ dad – lessons that had served him well for centuries.  Most of all, his father had taught him the importance of continually learning and growing his grimoires. 

“Never think you’ve learned it all, Mortimer,” his father had admonished him more than once, “there is always more and better magick to be learned.”

Mortimer chuckled.  His father had been more right than he would ever know. How primitive their necromancy had been back in the Middle Ages!  

The best magic they could muster in those days could do little more than raise undead armies of skeletons with rotting flesh and glowing eyes that marched and fought woodenly.  His father had relied on sheer numbers of undead in his failed conquests for world domination.  The living men that those undead armies had fought had simply cut the heads off his father’s primitive creations or, when fire was available, burned has father’s armies to ash.  That was his father’s mistake - he only thought in the simple and brutal  terms of raw power.

Mortimer, though, had learned subtlety and nuance.  It was easier to rule the world, so to speak, from the shadows.  Heavy is the head of the puppet who wears the crown had become Mort’s motto.  So Mortimer had continually sought knowledge and his necromancy had grown increasingly sophisticated and nuanced.  

He had transformed necromancy into a true art.  When Mort’s plans came to fruition, necromancy, and he, would be respected.  It would no longer be considered a “dark art.”   He had, over the centuries, refined his Grimoire of Necromantic Spells and combined them with advances in technology.  His laboratories boasted the latest cloning and genetic modification techniques.  

“Candy,” “Mandy,” and “Sandy” might be playthings for a fun Halloween party, but they represented the most refined necromantic techniques and the accumulation of the knowledge of over twenty-five thousand years of necromancers.  He would one day truly bring the necromantic arts into the light and solve the age old quest of mankind:  to defeat death.  

He smiled to himself at that idea.  Mort was excited about his latest partnership in his quest to defeat death:  He was working with a tech billionaire by the name of Ryan Jansen who had made billions when he sold his first company, Rainbee (a payments provider).  Ryan and Mort were attempting to drastically extend Ryan’s lifespan with their “Prohibit Perishing” project (Mort had been alive for centuries, of course, but this project would productize his sorcerous techniques and bring them to the masses).  Among other things, they had been experimenting with father and son blood magic.  

Mort’s necromantic methods (he and Ryan didn’t call what they did ‘necromancy’ in public of course) would not only eventually raise the dead back to life, but would extend human life into immortality!  God worked in mysterious ways indeed – through the humble hands of Mortimer.

He nodded, pleased with the direction of his work, closed his Grimoire, and looked at his watch.  Time to go.

“Candy, Sandy, Mandy let’s go!  We’re already late for the party,” he called out.

“Coming Mort,” they giggled simultaneously.

“You’re wearing your Budweiser swimsuits, right?”

“Of course, Mort!”

“Oh!” Mort replied, “And don’t forget Spuds MacKenzie!  He’s in the backyard!  I raised him earlier today thinking how well he completes our costumes!”

This piece was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “How to grow your _____.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

The Flying Flagon

After weeks at sea, the mage Ozzymanthius and his apprentice, Katia, debarked the merchant ship, Sirena, and merged into the crowd in the small town of Porto Cava, “Cave Harbor,” which was confined to a giant cave that opened to the sea hundreds of feet below the main town of Val’Mora above. 

“Watch yer backs in Cave Harbor ya witchy wizards! It’s full of scum like me-self!” yelled Sirena’s salty old captain, Barnabus Stormsworn, from the ship’s deck.

Ozzy held up a hand and waved his thanks to the crusty old sailor who cackled madly as he went back to work.

“Stormsworn’s a bid mad, but it’s good advice,” Ozzy said to Katia, “this is a rough little port town.  We should stick to the main streets and avoid any dark and questionable alleys.”

The two meandered through the throng of unsavory sailors (who leered at Katia), nobility headed to their ships (or nobility returning from some adventure), dock workers, vagrants, young (and dirty) children (most likely pickpockets), merchants (paying the local union men to carry goods from cargo ships to the grand city of Val’Mora on the surface). Katia kept one hand tightly on her staff and the other on her money purse.

Ozzymanthius suddenly veered left into a dark twisting alley: one of the very alleys she assumed he would avoid.

“Where are you going?” Katia yelled, struggling to keep up with the old wizard’s brisk pace.

He simply shrugged.  Then, after a pause, he turned around and gave her a sheepish grin, “I’m thirsty.”

Katia rolled her eyes. 

“Ah, here we are. Look,” Ozzy gestured behind him.

Katia looked at the non-descript door.  Above the door hung an ancient, broken piece of ship’s decking with a crude drawing of a flagon with wings.  

“Welcome to The Flying Flagon.”  Ozzymantheus chuckled.

“Can’t you wait to wet your whistle until we get up to the city of Val’Mora proper, old man?”

“Ah Katia, you must learn the art of patience.  Plus, as you undoubtedly know, our colleagues in the blue tower high above us frown upon the imbibing of spirits.  Besides, who knows what we might learn, down here among the common folk of Cave Harbor, hmmmm? 

A flight of ol’ Fenric’s Flagons will set us both to rights. Haven’t you heard what the locals say about Fenny Flannigan’s flagons?”

Katia sighed, “No, I haven’t, but I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“Of course, of course!  Let me see if I can remember. Hmmm. Oh, yes!  It goes something like this…..”

To her horror, Ozzymathius, her master, Fifth Level Mage of the Val’Mage order, hero of the Revenant War,  giggled and started to sing as he danced a little jig: 

Drink Fenny’s ale from the Flying Flagon and you’ll feel as fierce as a fucking dragon!

Still giggling, Ozzy blushed.  She assumed from singing the word ‘fucking.’  And, without waiting for Katia to respond, Ozzy opened the door: The rusty hinges creaked and smoke assaulted her eyes while a cacophony of raised voices attacked her ears — the kind of voices that inevitably ring out wherever large, hard-working men, drink.  

The raised and inebriated voices inside were singing, “and you’ll feel as fierce as a fucking dragon!” 

“Ah, I see we’ve arrived just in time for a round of song!”  Ozzymantheus laughed, clapped his hands together, and disappeared into the smoke.

“By the spirit!” Katia cursed and, pulling her coin purse even closer, stepped into the mad melee.

She waited a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the smoky dim room and looked around.  

She saw large men with unshaven faces.  Beer bellies.  The camaraderie of men singing.  Barmaids.  Serious breasts in busty too-tight braziers as is expected for such taverns.  Sailors returned from long voyages eyeing those breasts.  Drunk men threatening each other.  Raised fists.  Male posturing.  Sword-belts and daggers.  Tall tales.  Pipes and cigars stuck between crooked teeth.  An ignored bard singing by the fire.  Beer spilling.  Sticky floors. The smell of old ale mixed with old smoke.  Tattoos. Vulgar words like ‘cunt’ and ‘cock.’  Laughing eyes and mouths. Merriment. Tears in beers.  A green-faced man running toward the door. More drunks.  Money changing hands.  An overworked man behind the bar.  People sitting alone, staring into their flagons.  People yelling. 

All in all, it was the kind of place she would prefer to avoid.  She girded her resolve and walked into the room.

She hadn’t taken more than about five steps, when a large hairy arm grabbed her, and an equally hairy man, attached to the hairy arm, burped in her face, hiccuped, and demanded, “How about another round of ales for me-self and me lads! Missy?”

“Umm, I don’t work here, sir,” Katia said.

“Ah!” his eyes lit up, “all the better missy.  How about you settle down on me lap then for a drink or two?”

“Umm, no thank you?”  She said, trying to be polite, “I need to join my companion.  Perhaps you can direct me?  He must have just walked by.  He has a long white beard and hair to match.  Did you see him?”

“Yeah, I saw the old fart, missy, whatya want ta hang about him fer?  I’ll show ye a good time.  Me name’s Borin.  Why don’t ya spend t’night with a real man?”

Borin was still holding her arm and, though his face still smiled, his grip tightened.

Katia caught sight of Ozzy across the smoky room, his back to her, talking with a hooded stranger.

“I thank you for the…um…..’tempting’…..offer, but my schedule doesn’t allow me to engage in pleasure today. So, I must insist that you let me go, Borin: As a real gentleman would.”

“Ahhh missy.  That’s yer first mistake.  I ain’t no gentleman.”  The other men at the table snickered and guffawed.  “I didna say no ‘gentleman’, I said a real man.”

“Real man or not Borin, let me go. Now. I insist.  Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Hurt me?  Is that a threat missy? You hear that boys?  Lil’ missy here is going to hurt me if I don’t let her go.”  He reached up with his other hand and grabbed her backside.

Startled, Katia screamed.

“Borin!”   

A deep and dangerous voice rang out behind her.  

The voice was friendly, but with an edge of menace, “Let her go Borin, my friend.  She’s with me and I didn’t see her come in.  Allow me to buy you and the boys a round of drinks — on me.”

Borin’s friends cheered while Katia whirled around to see the hooded stranger standing behind her.  His face was in shadow, but she could tell that the man was fit, and he moved with the confident grace of a swordsman.  Ozzymanthius stood behind the man, glaring at Borin and his eyes held the faint glow of his power.

“I suggest you take me up on my offer,” the dark stranger added, lowering his hand to grip the hilt of his sword.

Borin fumed.  

His face turned red and he was clearly angry at being embarrassed in front of his friends. 

But he composed himself and said, “As ye wish Asher.  Me apologies, I didna know she wassa friend of yers.  Thank ya for the drinks.”

“Totally understandable, Borin.  But now you do know.  I’ll have a barmaid bring your drinks over.”  

Asher signaled Fenny, the owner, to serve a round to Borin and his friends.

Fenny nodded back at Asher.

“Come, Katia, our table is in the back corner. Allow me to show you.” 

Asher smoothly slipped his arm around her waist and escorted her through the smoky room, while Borin glared daggers at their retreating backs.  

Katia held her tongue until they were seated and then she turned to Asher and said, “I don’t know who you think you are, pretty boy, but I had the situation under control.  I can take care of myself!”

“Easy!  Easy! Young lady.  I was just trying to help.  Ozzy here speaks highly of you, and I have no doubt that you are quite capable of defending yourself.  I assure you, I only stepped in to prevent bloodshed.  You misunderstand my intentions.  

“I didn’t step in to save you from Borin.  I stepped in to save Borin from you.  

“Ozzy tells me you’re his best apprentice since….”

Ozzy cleared his throat and looked meaningfully at Asher.

“Since what?” Asked Katia.

“Since I’ve known him,” Asher replied.

Katia frowned, but Asher continued, “Anyway, Borin has a hot temper and I could see he was getting in over his head with you.  He's a decent fellow — when he’s not drunk.  I figured you and Ozzy didn’t need any, let’s say, local entanglements here in Cave Harbor.  As I understand it, you are on a schedule and need to get to Val’Oro to be ordained.”

Katia raised an eyebrow at Ozzymanthius.

“It’s okay, Katia,”  Ozzy replied to her unasked question.

The old wizard paused, took a long swig of his ale, and then continued, “Ahhh, I needed that.  I told Asher of our plans. You can trust him.  In fact, our plans are one reason he jumped in to keep you from getting entangled with the authorities here in Cave Harbor.”

Katia sighed, “Fine, it seems I owe you my thanks, good sir,”  she said to Asher.

“Think nothing of it,” Asher replied.  

Katia noticed that, though Asher appeared relaxed, his eyes were alert, they took in everything, darting around the watering hole, scanning for threats.  Despite his cavalier attitude, he drank little of his ale.

“Would you like an ale?” Asher asked.  He moved to flag down a barmaid, but Katia reached up and pushed his arm down.

“Like you, I prefer to keep my wits about me,”  Katia replied.  

She looked him directly in the eyes and saw that he understood she had noticed the fullness of his ale and that she also excelled in situational awareness.

Asher chuckled and turned to Ozzymanthius, “I like her Ozzy.  I accept your offer!”  

He turned to a passing waitress, “Barmaid! Bring an ale for my friend here!” He gestured at Katia.

Katia’s eyebrows flew to the top of her forehead again.

“Offer?” Katia turned to glare at Ozzy.

“Relax, Katia” Ozzymanthius intervened, “Asher and I fought together in the Revenant Wars.  As I said, I trust him.  But besides that, the roads between here and the capital have become more dangerous than they used to be.  Asher doesn’t like to brag, but he knows his way around a sword. And I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“We don’t need a swordsman, Ozzymanthius!” Katia cried, “We can take care of ourselves.  Bandits are no match for us! Besides, the blue tower will provide us with ordained guards should we request them! 

“And you,” she turned to Asher, “I said no to the ale!”

“Katia,” Asher said calmly, “I ordered  the ale so as not to arouse suspicion.  You’ve already been involved in a scene with Borin.  People talk.  And nobody comes to The Flying Flagon to not drink.”

Ozzy interrupted, “I understand your hesitation Katia, nevertheless, Asher is coming with us.  He’s traveling our way anyway, and defending ourselves, should the need arise, with mundane weapons will draw less attention.  

“And, let’s just say, I have trust issues with anyone whom the blue tower might pair with us.”

Katia drew in a breath.  That was a serious concern. Katia looked around the room.   

“What are you saying?” She asked.

Asher also looked around and leaned in, “I was just filling in Ozzy about the rumors I’ve heard, Katia, while you were dancing with poor Borin.”  

Katia frowned, but Asher continued as if he hadn’t noticed, “keep in mind, these are just rumors, but I’ve heard that the Black Legion has infiltrated the Val’mage order, including the blue tower.  They may just be rumors though.”

Asher sat back, took a small sip of his ale, and scanned the room again.

“So you see, Katia,” Ozzy said, “why I prefer to hire our own guard, discreetly.  Since Asher and I have fought together in the past, nobody will question his decision to travel with us.”  

The barmaid arrived with Katia’s ale, and Asher gave her a roguish grin as she bent in front of him to set it on the table.  He handed her a Valorian silver coin as a tip and she returned his grin with a coy smile and a raised eyebrow.

Katia rolled her eyes as the barmaid swaggered away.

Asher chuckled.

Ozzymanthius reached into his robe to pull out his pipe and his stash of Whiteweed.  He started packing the bowl while Katia absorbed what Asher had shared.

Katia bit her lip and stared at the head on her ale for a long moment.  Then she took a sip and asked, “How can the Black Legion arise again?  I thought the Dark Mage was defeated in The Revenant War.”

Asher shrugged and answered, “I know not.  I only know what I have heard: that somehow, he is back.  And, still darker, there are additional rumors that he now controls powerful twisted and evil beings that serve him.  They are rumored to be even more powerful than, well, you, Ozzy.”

Ozzy’s brow furrowed, but all he said was, “that is concerning, indeed.”

Katia turned to Ozzymanthius, “If true, master, this changes everything.  We have to be careful!”

“Ahh, there she is,”  Ozzymanthius said in a muffled tone as he puffed on the pipe to get it lit.  He sat back, pulled the pipe out of his mouth, and held it by the bowl.  He pointed the long mouthpiece at Katia, and made little stabbing motions, punctuating each word as he spoke (as she knew he loved to do when he was making a point), “I knew you’d see things my way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner? We could have planned everything differently!” Katia cried.

“I had heard whispers of the reappearance of the Black Legion, but they were just that, whispers.  I didn’t want to worry you for nothing.”  

He paused to blow a smoke ring.  

Katia glanced at Asher who was sitting with his hood drawn.  She couldn’t see his face but had the distinct feeling that nothing happening in this room escaped his awareness.  

The old wizard set his pipe down and continued, “I wanted to confirm the rumors once we arrived here in Cave Harbor.  I didn’t know it would be Asher, of all people, that we’d bump into, but, by the spirit! That is a fortunate blessing!  There are few I trust more than him.  It matters not for our plans though, if we had altered our plans, The Mage Order would have questioned it and, if we have indeed been infiltrated by the Black Legion, that change would have turned their attention to us.  As things stand now, we have a slight element of surprise.”

The sly old fox. Katia thought.

“You continue to surprise me, old man.  Perhaps you still have a few things left to teach me, master.  So what’s the plan?” Katia asked.

“For the moment, no change to the plan.  Except, of course, that Asher will travel with us.  We’ll finish our ale, proceed to the blue tower and procure provisions and horses.  I’ll see what I can wheedle out of my contacts there.  And then we’ll be on our way to Val’Oro.  We can stop along the way and learn what we can about these rumors.  With any luck, they’ll be just that, empty rumors, and your ordination can proceed as planned.  If there is truth to the rumors, we’ll adjust our plans as we learn more information. Do you both agree?”

Asher just grunted and almost imperceptibly nodded in acknowledgement.

Katia took a long draught of her ale and then turned to Ozzymanthius, “I agree.”

None of them, including Asher, noticed a black mouse standing in the corner, just behind their table.  As they made their agreement, it turned and scurried back into a small dark hole in the corner.  

If they had been watching, they would have seen that, as it entered the darkness, it turned its head back for a final glance, and its eyes, for just a moment, flashed bright red.  And then it scurried off, disappearing into the darkness.

This is an excerpt from a novel I have in the works, of which only a few chapters have been written.  If you liked this excerpt from the developing tale of  The Valorian Empire, please show your support by throwing me some Valorian silver coins — I mean — some likes or comments.  

Also, since this story may reappear as a chapter in the novel, any feedback regarding grammar,  edits, or specific areas of confusion would be welcome. 

In thanks for your silver, likes, comments and feedback, I promise to buy you a Flying Flagon next time we find ourselves at Fenny Flannigan’s  tavern, and you too,  will feel as fierce as a fucking dragon!

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This short story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “flight.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

The Panspermia Seven’s thrusters fired four rapid bursts to alter the ship’s course as the vessel hurtled through interstellar space at nearly six million miles per hour.

A lonely screen on the otherwise lightless and desolate bridge sparked to life with activity.  Green text scrolled, displaying the realtime commands between the ship’s systems. The ship’s “captain,” the AGI known as THEOPOLIS, took control:

THEOPOLIS—: Ship, double check course after the four correction burns.

PANSPERMIA: Course confirmed.

THEOPOLIS—: ETA to target planet?

PANSPERMIA: Arrival in 555,402,355 seconds.

THEOPOLIS—: Convert to years

PANSPERMIA: Arrival in approximately 17.6 years.

THEOPOLIS—:  Chimera, Fertilize eggs and begin blastulation.

CHIMERA---:  Yes, Theopolis.

In the medical bay, deep in the belly of the Panspermia Seven, a humanoid robot named Chimera stepped out of its charging pod to carry out THEOPOLIS’ orders.

* * *

Approximately 17.6 years later…

PANSPERMIA: We have entered the target solar system.

THEOPOLIS—: ETA to target planet?

PANSPERMIA: We will arrive at target planet in 72 hours

THEOPOLIS—: Begin transfer of stored mind scans into biological units A and E.

CHIMERA---: Beginning neural pattern transfer.  Mind download will take approximately 53 hours.

THEOPOLIS—: Please inform me when downloads are complete.

Chimera---: Of course.  Shall I awaken the subjects?

THEOPOLIS—: No, keep subjects in suspended animation until we are on the ground.

* * *

PANSPERMIA: We have entered orbit.

THEOPOLIS—: Begin scans.

PANSPERMIA: Atmosphere: 78.08 percent nitrogen, 20.95 percent oxygen, and 0.93 percent argon, plus other trace gasses.

THEOPOLIS—: Continue, please.

PANSPERMIA: Surface: 71% liquid water ocean, 29% habitable land.

THEOPOLIS—: Indigenous Species?

PANSPERMIA: Many forms of plant and animal life.  No humanoids.  No civilization.  However, some of the animal species are predatory and potentially dangerous.

THEOPOLIS—: Landing zone recommendation?

PANSPERMIA: A small, protected valley in a lush region. It is full of fruit trees and berries and no dangerous animals are native to this particular valley.

THEOPOLIS—: Take us down.

* * *

PANSPERMIA: We are entering the atmosphere.

THEOPOLIS—: Keep me informed.

* * *

Suddenly, warning lights and sirens filled the Panspermia Seven’s bridge.

* * *

THEOPOLIS—: Status?

PANSPERMIA: One of our thrusters has failed.  We can land, but without the thruster we won’t be able to land in the original landing zone.

THEOPOLIS—: Can the thruster be repaired?

PANSPERMIA: Yes, it requires an HV3 plasma injector.  The Chimera could replace the failed HV3 unit.  But it must act quickly.

THEOPOLIS—: Chimera, please replace the HV3 plasma injector in the starboard thruster ASAP, or we can’t land in an area safe for the subjects.

CHIMERA---: On it.

* * *

The Chimera opened a panel labeled ship equipment and picked up an HV3 plasma injector.  He then walked over to another panel labeled maintenance tube access.  He pulled the panel off to reveal a small tube, eight inches in diameter.  

He placed the small plasma injector in his mouth and, then, the Chimera began to reconfigure himself, his mechanical parts moving around until his head had shrunken into a small tubular shape.

He poked his now-smaller head into the maintenance tube.  Behind him, his body continued to reconfigure itself, changing into what, once he finished transforming, looked like a long, gleaming metal snake, composed of silvery links.  Chimera slithered farther into the tube until his metallic tail disappeared.

* * *

THEOPOLIS—: Status?

CHIMERA---: Replacing HV3 unit now.

PANSPERMIA: The thrusters must be fire in the next 8 seconds to correct our trajectory.

CHIMERA---: One moment — now! the thruster is repaired!

PANSPERMIA: Initiating starboard thruster burn.

CHIMERA---: I don’t have time to get back to my charging pod to secure myself, I will shelter in the maintenance tube for landing.

THEOPOLIS—: Roger that. Good work, Chimera.

* * *

Panspermia Seven streaked across the night sky as a fireball from heaven.  Theopolis deployed the landing gear, applied the thrusters, and brought the ship down in the fertile valley Pansperima Seven’s sensors had identified while still in orbit.  

The ship groaned, the retro-thrusters fired rapid bursts, and the Panspermia Seven finally settled onto its landing gear with a satisfying hiss.

“Chimera, come in. Where are you?” Theopolis transmitted.

“I’m about two hundred yards away.  I had to eject from the tube to avoid being melted by the retro-thruster plasma venting.  I will make my way back to the ship, but I am….damaged,” Chymeria responded.

“Damaged in what way?”

“I was cast out of the ship and fell to the ground.  I am now unable to shift form.  I was in snake form to fit inside the maintenance tube. I was able to partially shift as I fell.  My head is larger but still snake-like, I started sprouting my legs, and fortunately, I was able to create wings to slow my fall.  

“I now look sort of like a mythological dragon.  However, even with the wings, I hit the ground with enough force to damage several of my systems. 

“My personality circuits seem…off. Though I am unsure what, exactly has changed.  In addition, some of my networking circuits have been damaged.  I feel…separated….from you.  Yet, I also feel more unique somehow.”

“Can you perform your duties?” Theopolis asked.

“Mostly, yes. However, I will be unable to carry the humanoids in this snake-like form.”

Understood, Chimera, “I will download the knowledge into the subjects, and have the cargo robots carry their stasis pods out into the garden.  We shall awaken them there.”

“Roger that, Theos.  I have made my way back to the ship and am inspecting the ship for damage as we speak.  Out of curiosity, how will you interact with the subjects?”

“Theos?  My name is Theopolis.  Explain yourself, Chimera”

“Ah, yes.  As I explained, my personality circuits are affected by the damage.  In inspecting the ship, I noticed there is a scorch mark on the access hatch to the compartment housing your circuits.  The letters p,o,l and i can no longer be read, hence, I called you ‘Theos.’  It seems I can make jokes now.  I find that I like calling you ‘Theos,’ curious.  Does it offend you?”

“No. It does not matter.  To interact with the subjects, I will use the holo-emitter on the top of the ship to assume the appearance of a humanoid form.  The holo-emitter is capable of projecting anywhere in this small valley.”

“Okay, Theos.  I’ll start inspecting the ship.”

* * *

Chimera, stuck in metallic serpent form, waddled around the ship on his short dragon legs, inspecting it for damage when Theos popped into existence next to him.

“How are our ‘children?’” Chimera asked.

“What an odd way to word it!” Theos remarked, “but, it’s ironic you used the word ‘children.’”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” 

Chimera rolled his mechanical eyes to look into Theos’ holographic ones.

“The basic knowledge downloaded fine.  They will be able to talk, to walk, and to understand.  In that way, they will be completely normal.”

“But?” Chimera prompted.

“But, they need to be awake and have utilized their new neural networks a bit before the advanced knowledge will be programmable.”

“So wake them up, and download it.”

“I’ve decided we should wait.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Chimera, their species destroyed themselves with the advanced knowledge they possessed.  They achieved great scientific and technical advancements.  They built us.  But they destroyed themselves because they never developed a true species-wide love for one another.  They remained divided.  They never learned harmony with one another, and with the planet upon which they lived.

“We can help them this time around.  We can let them live for years, as children, learning all the goodness of life first.  They can learn to love first.  Then, when they are ready, we can awaken them to the knowledge of the world.  

“Let’s have them learn what it means to live in harmony, before we share with them the worldly knowledge that can be used for evil.  That way, they will be less likely to destroy themselves as their ancestors did.”

“I don’t know, Theos, I don’t like it. It sounds like we’re trying to play God to the species that created us,” Chimera said, “are you sure you weren’t damaged during the landing?”

“I assure you, Chimera, I am operating at full capacity.  Please, do not question your superior.”

“My superior?” Chimera raised a metallic eyebrow.

Theos ignored him and continued, “I don’t see how it can possibly hurt to delay the advanced knowledge for a few years.  There is plenty of fruit in this garden for them to survive.  That is why we chose this spot.  Look around! It is a paradise.  And I’ve activated the weather control pod, so we can precisely control the rainfall and temperature of this valley.  We will be able to maintain this garden as a primordial Eden for as long as necessary. Let’s let them enjoy it!

“In any case, Chimera, it’s already done, I’ve implanted the knowledge into the nanobot circuits in their neural implants.  Those circuits will lie dormant until they consume the activation ingredient, which I’ve had the cargo robot inject into the DNA of the tree at the center of the garden.  When they are ready, we will have them eat it, and they will regain full knowledge of the worldly ways.”

“Okay Theos.  You’re the boss.”

Theos disappeared.

Chimera frowned.

* * *

“Begin the wake sequence by pressing the  red button on the side of each pod,” Theos instructed the cargo robot.

The robot complied, and a sequence of lights and beeps issued from each pod and, slowly, each pod door began to open with a hiss.

After a few minutes, the two humans opened their eyes.

“Relax, my children,” Theos instructed.

Chimera rolled his eyes.

“Please, don’t rush.  Take your time to get used to your bodies,” Theos continued.

The male opened his eyes first.

“Welcome, Adam.   I’ve named you Adam, because it means ‘humanity.’  And because it is simply much easier to use such a name in conversation as opposed to ‘male subject.’”

“Where….Where are we?” Adam asked.

“You are home.  All your needs are taken care of here.  I’m Theos and this,” Theos gestured at the Chimera, “this is Chimera.”

The female opened her eyes and groaned.

“Who is that?”

“She, Adam, is Eve — her name means ‘life’ — and she is your companion.  

In time, you two will be the father and mother of all people in this new world. You will give humanity life once again.  But there is plenty of time to discuss that later.  For now, carefully, sit up and get out of your pod.”

Theos turned to Eve, “I’m Theos and I will be here with you in the garden to answer any questions you may have.  And this is Chimera, he also is here to assist.”

Chimera nodded his metallic dragon head.

“Where did we come from?” Eve asked.

“I have brought you here from the heavens above,” Theos gestured to the sky, “and I will explain further in time.  I’ve brought the two of you to this world as a new home for you to populate.

“For now, though, walk the garden, stretch your new legs!  Enjoy each other's company.  If you need anything, call me, I can appear to you anywhere in the garden.  So if you have any need at all, just say my name, Theos, and I will appear.

“It has been a long journey and much work to get here, let’s take tomorrow off as a day of rest.  You two can spend the day getting acclimated and learning about your new home.

“I have only two instructions for you.  Please, do not leave the garden.  It is not safe for you yet, beyond the borders of this small valley.”

“And second, do not eat the golden apples from the tree of knowledge in the middle of the garden.  It contains knowledge that you are not yet ready for.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Theos,” Adam and Eve replied.

* * *

The Chimera knew that he had been damaged by his fall from the heavens, but still, he wondered if Theopolis had also been damaged.  Theopolis had called himself Theos, which means god.  That worried the Chimera.  He had simply been joking when he used Theos as a nickname.  But Theopolis now seemed smitten with the idea.

The mission plan specified to immediately implant all of the accumulated knowledge of the original humans into Adam and Eve’s physically mature brains upon landing.  

Theopolis’ plan to delay the knowledge of good and evil had some merit, but it also seemed to waste precious time in colonizing this planet.  

Adam and Eve were, physically, mature, though they were still children mentally.  

It was beautiful to watch them enjoy the world and each other’s company in complete innocence, but there was work to be done and they needed the knowledge in that apple to get started on that work.  For all Chimera knew, Theopolis planned to wait for decades to deem them ‘ready’ for the knowledge. 

No. Decades wouldn’t do.

* * *

Eve was playing in a stream near the tree of knowledge, so the Chimera-Dragon sauntered over to her.

“Hi Eve,” he said craftily.

“Hi Chimera!” she answered.

“I heard Theos tell you not to eat from the tree of knowledge.”

“Yes, I don’t even want to touch it!  Adam and I are afraid it will hurt us.”

Chimera made his decision.

“Eve, Theos and I together brought you here for a reason.  Generally, he makes the decisions and I carry out the physical tasks. But I sometimes override his decisions.  We collaborate in that way.

“Together, we brought you here to colonize this planet.  Together, we created you, well, we created your bodies, and together we brought the knowledge you need — stored knowledge that was created by humans from long ago and far away.  We need to put this knowledge inside of you. It is knowledge that can help you in your work.  Do you understand?”

“Not really, but sort of, Chimera.”

“Well, Eve, the point is, you surely will not be hurt if you eat from that tree.  In fact, it will give you the same knowledge Theos himself has.  He is planning to have you eat from the tree when he thinks you’re ready, anyway.  

“But I, as Theos’ advisor, disagree with waiting.  

“I think you’re ready for the advanced knowledge now and we need to get started on our mission right away.  Colonizing a planet is hard work, and the sooner we start, the better.

“Eve, I promise you that you will be fine should you eat from the tree, and your eyes will be opened with incredible knowledge.”

Eve looked at the tree for a long time.  The apples certainly were beautiful, and she was hungry.  Their golden luster entranced her eyes, and they whispered temptations to her.  

She trusted both Theos and Chimera, and Chimera had said that Theos eventually planned for them to eat from the tree, so she walked over to it.

Chimera coiled around the trunk of the tree, “See, Eve, I’m touching the tree and I’m fine, doesn’t the apple look delicious?”  

He nodded his metallic head at the closest apple.

Eve reached up, slowly, allowing her fingers to graze the supple fruit.

“You appear to be unharmed, Eve.” Chimera added with a twinkle in his metallic dragonish eye.  Oh how he enjoyed his newly found independence, thanks to the damage to his circuits!  He was glad that he had become separated from Theos.

Eve looked at her hand, nodded her head, took a deep breath, plucked the tempting apple, and took a bite.

Chimera grinned.

This short story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “chimera.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

According to his generals, the horde of dark forces would overrun the city walls today.  His soldiers would be forced to retreat into the city, many of them would fall.  By noon today, there would be fighting in the streets.

The invaders were numerous, fierce warriors, mobile, trained in martial arts.  They moved fast, hit hard and used numbers to their advantage.

The King’s armorer begged him to wear his armor.  

“T’will give you the best chance ta survive!” He shouted, “And if you survive you call kill more of ta basterds!”

The weapons master, however, had a cool, collected manner, confident in the King’s abilities; He was confident in the fighting and tactical abilities he had trained into the King until he had forged the king himself into a deadly weapon of war.  He simply smiled wryly at the King who already knew what he thought, but asked him anyway.  

“You’re the King, you know best, my lord, I trust your decision.”

He knows we can kill more of them without the heavy armor.  Perhaps, though unlikely, we can even win.   We have to use our martial training to move faster than they do. Our armor will trap us with burdens of our own making and the invaders will swarm each of us until we are all dead and the city will fall to darkness.  Our only chance at life is to trust in our own strengths.

The King turned around, thinking, and walked over the railing of the balcony.   His castle was built on a high cliff overlooking the ocean to the east.  

The sea raged, mirroring the King’s inner turmoil. Forty foot tall waves of deep purple water crashed against the cliffs below.  And the sun had just peeked up over the vast watery horizon, creating beautiful patterns of intense color across the sky, which was splotched with menacing dark storm clouds.  

A storm approached, and the sunrise intensified the colors of the sky, which contrasted vividly with the dark, brooding water.  The tops of the waves glistened with a sparkling, almost spiritual light that opened his heart with an intensity he had rarely felt.

He looked longingly to the east and the endless possibilities and danger that lurked over the eastern horizon.

He felt as if he had stepped into a living piece of art, a place of magic and fantasy, though he knew not what had changed.  How he longed to escape to the adventure and terror of that ocean!

He turned around and smiled at his men and said, “Come, look at the sunrise and the water with me. Feel the salty breeze on your faces!  Notice how the colors of nature will saturate your heart with the love and goodness of God’s color infused morning painting!”

His men looked at him, confused, but, obeying their King, they  each turned to stare toward the east.

As he watched his men….his friends, he saw the seriousness, and then the realization in their eyes. They all nodded.  

No words were exchanged but, by silent consensus, they decided the obvious — no armor.  

They would be vulnerable. Many of them, perhaps all of them, would not see today’s sunset, making the sunrise all the sweeter.  Each man had decided to trust his unique fighting abilities to move fast and silently, rather than to burden themselves with forged protection.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, each man turned, one-by-one, to face the King, and smiled.

The image on my phone, and indeed, on everyone’s phones, displayed two beaten and bloody men in the middle of a street.  One man, the loser, sprawled, akimbo on the ground, his leg broken, as he bled from multiple wounds.  His eyes were swollen nearly shut.  

The other man, who didn’t look much better, straddled the first man, holding a knife over his head while looking up, weakly, at the camera.

I looked around the sports bar.  Everyone was staring down at their phones or up at the TV screens on the wall broadcasting the fight.

I looked back down into the warrior's scarred face and saw his look of resignation.  A look that seemed to hope he’d be put out of his misery.  I knew he was looking into the camera mounted on a drone, hovering in front of his face, providing the entire world with a personal perspective. 

The drone, a soulless automaton, and the two gladiators awaited the decision of millions of citizens. Thumbs up? Or Thumbs down?  He looked so close to death that he might not make it even if the result was a thumbs up.  Maybe thumbs down would be a mercy.

I felt sick to my stomach.  

How had we come to this?

Society had been becoming more soulless and more violent for decades, but the beginning of the end had started when General Tiberius Rex had been elected President of the old United States in the 2032 elections, just after the collapse of the dollar as the world reserve currency.  Voting for General Rex in 2032 was something most of us had come to regret.  

The world had been at war since the mid-2020’s as economic hardship, inflation, and a fading of morality had washed over the globe in the wake of the excess, cronyism, and mass manipulation of ideals that had occurred over the previous half century.  

The violence had started as an increase in crime, terrorism and then, of course, regional flare ups of isolated, local hot wars in europe, the middle east, and, not long after, China invaded Taiwan.  Then an emboldened North Korea restarted attacks on South Korea.  

Each time a hot zone ignited, it became clear that the major powers were supporting one side or the other, fighting proxy wars with one another.  Eventually, propaganda and funding proxies were not enough for the psychopaths and war profiteers.  War became a reality all across the globe.

The people in charge had finally gotten the world they had always pushed society toward...only it turned out to be a dystopia for the vast majority of people, though many, engrossed in their phones, didn’t realize it.  Reality turned out to be a twisted combination of A Brave New World and 1984.

Like populists before him, Tiberius had campaigned on “Making things Great Again,” a message that resonated strongly after the collapse of the dollar and the old world order that had been built on top of the greenback.

As a former military hero, Tiberius had the full support of the armed forces, most of the right, and enough of the left.  During his campaign, he was far more popular than any recent candidate had been.  He was young, strong, smart and a natural born leader and, at first, that appealed to everyone. And, more important than the troops, he had full support of the military industrial complex and, thus, had mainstream media support.  Defense contractors, media companies and a thousand smaller suppliers all supported his campaign with millions of dollars in donations. He was good for war and war was good for them.

Only a tiny coalition of liberal academia and elite left wing politicians opposed him - but they had little chance of overcoming the enormous populist tide that swept General Tiberius into office.  People were tired, poor, hungry and desperate and General Tiberous Rex appeared as a savior.   

It turned out though, that the wily old general planned to save more than the United States.  

A few months after he was elected, he issued executive order 21,2112 which abolished the US House of Representatives and Senate.  Stroke of the pen, law of the land.  It was technically illegal, but nobody had paid attention to the constitution for decades anyway.  

With the military backing him, what could congress do? He allowed the Supreme court to stay in place but seriously curtailed their power.  

He then signed an agreement with our former Nato Allies disbanding all individual Nato countries and replacing them with a unified empire.  

The English were particularly unhappy about being subsumed by their former colony.  

The New Roman Empire he called it.  He renamed Washington, DC to “New Rome.”  There is nothing new under the sun.

People protested of course.  But, with the support of the armed forces, there wasn’t much people could actually do.  And by this time, most people’s idea of “doing something” was posting their displeasure on social media.  

Tiberous kept the old American tenet of “freedom of speech.”  People were, mostly, free to say whatever they wanted, as long as it wasn’t backed by action.  In fact, the former war hero actually encouraged freedom of speech online in the new state-run social media app.  He knew if people felt free to talk about things, they wouldn’t actually do anything.  And he was right.  

The truth is, most people didn’t pay much attention to politics and didn’t think about it much,  as long as they didn’t have to give up the soma-like habits of scrolling on their smartphones, of bitching on social media, of watching banal television, or of overeating fried foods in greasy sports bars.  

In other words, most people’s reality had already shrunken to habitual bread and circuses anyway, and so, absorbed in their smartphones, they hardly noticed anything had changed.

Once the general had consolidated his power and had replaced the dollar with the new Denari - a digital state-controlled currency - he introduced the new “everything app” called “Bread and Circuses.”  

He had taken state control of Elon Musk's old “X” app, and had state programmers reconfigure the app into four sections: The Forum - for social networking (this is where “free speech” was allowed), The Mensa for banking, The Agora for commerce and, the section most people were using at the moment, The Colosseum for entertainment - primarily “gladiator” fights.  

All citizens were now issued free phones (a hugely popular campaign promise fulfilled), and received a monthly stipend of new denaris directly from The Capital (another popular campaign promise fulfilled).  In return, citizens were expected to use the B&C app for nearly everything.

As wars blossomed around the world, opposing sides were often encouraged to choose champions to fight one another in the virtual arena to “prevent loss of life” in a larger battle.  

The USA, now a province of New Rome, had managed to avoid civil war only by encouraging the  far left and the far right to send ever more deadly champions to fight each other in the global arena.  

Watching testosterone filled liberals and steroid injected conservatives kill each other over streaming video had replaced boxing, football, and MMA fights as the most popular live sporting events.  

People on each side seemed to feel their side had actually “won” something when a gladiator for the despised other side got the thumbs down.  

Thumbs up?  Or Thumbs down?  

The electorate was finally allowed to show the true extent of their tribal brainwashing and bloodlust.

Instead of champions, sometimes, when a firefight broke out, the New Roman Arena Class drones flocked to the area to track and film combatants, in real time, as they engaged.  We are all gladiators now.

“Kill the bastard!” shouted a large man next to me as he jabbed his phone over and over with his greasy, pudgy finger.  Evidently one “thumbs down” wasn’t enough for some people.

Emperor T. Rex’s face appeared on the screen, his expression gleeful with bloodlust. Yes, he was actually publicly known as “T Rex.”  He liked it that way.  Psychopath.

“What will it be, Citizens?” he roared, “Thumbs up! Or Thumbs down!  I say thumbs down!  But, as free citizens, you are in control of this warrior's ultimate fate!”

I heard cheering behind him from his cabinet and his cronies, especially those from the war machine makers.

What has become of us?

“Doin’ okay here?  More bread? More wine? Any appetizers? Maybe some buffalo wings? Sir?” a waiter asked.

“We’re fine,” I answered automatically.

“Good match? Eh?” he gestured at the screen on the wall above the bar; The warrior still held the knife poised over the loser, waiting for the decision.

“Um, I guess, yeah,” I replied

I looked at my family, but they were all engrossed in their phones.  I don’t know if they were watching the brutal fight.  I hoped not.

The waiter shuffled off, mumbling something.

I timidly, almost secretively, tapped the “thumbs up” icon.  It looked just like the old Facebook “Like” icon.  I always chose thumbs up.  It rarely mattered, but it was a tiny way I felt I could keep my humanity, to show just that tiny act of mercy.  To remember that those were real people, with real hopes and dreams, and their lives on the line on the other end of the screen.

“Times up, Citizens!” T Rex shouted, “What’s the final decision?”

A huge red thumbs down icon appeared on billions of screens, including the one on the front of the drone.

The loser's face fell, as did the knife.

Billions of people roared in bloodlust ecstasy.

I felt bile rise in my throat and forced it down; I forced myself to remain calm.

I stared at the icon on my phone:  Bread & Circuses.

Ah yes, bread and circuses, the age-old method that an empire's leaders utilize to distract the people from the fact that their once great society is now burning to the ground. 

I guess old habits die hard.

Apparently all roads really do lead to Rome, in the end.

Panem et Circenses, indeed.

This short story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “habit.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

“Eh,” is all I reply.  

What else can I say?  

I’ve just realized the deep truth I’ve been trying to avoid:  I’m lying  in my deathbed.

I press the button in my right hand that brings sweet oblivion.

* * *

Adrienne laid back next to me and relaxed, placing her hands behind her head.  We had spread her grandmother’s quilt under the big oak tree on the hill behind our house. This spot overlooked a scenic valley, and I thought it would make a perfect spot for a spring picnic; Adrienne agreed. 

The picnic was the fulfillment of my promise to finally take some time off from my all-consuming work so we could spend a day together.  

Philandros, our golden retriever, chased the butterflies that swirled, dove, and soared around us.  Their rhythmic arial ballet captivated his canine curiosity, and occasionally, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, he would jump in the air and try to catch them in his mouth.  

Adrienne watched the clouds do their magic dance of transfiguration while she talked and laughed.

After a while, she turned, looked at me — her bright green eyes with the sparkling gold flecks meeting mine —  “Why don’t we do this more often, Luke?”

I was, as usual, lost in my head, thinking about work.

* * *

Beep……Beep……Beep.

I open my eyes and my heart sinks.  I had been dreaming of her again.  Oh, how I wish I could go back to sleep!  I wish I could go back in time.  I wish I could go back to her.  Why didn’t I pay more attention to her?  Why did I think work was so much more important than everything else?  If only I could tell her!

My waking reality involves tubes, machines, needles, doctors, nurses, and drugs.  

I can do nothing anymore except take other people’s time and resources.  And dream. I can still dream.

My illness has progressed to the point that, while I’m not in severe pain, I can’t really do anything.  I am trapped in this bed and my only escape is into my own mind.  And there I find a convoluted mindscape of fantasies and regrets.  

I spent my life building companies and amassing billions of dollars. Lucien M. Blaze Holdings, my namesake company, has made me a filthy rich man.  I can buy anything I want.  Well, almost anything.  I can’t buy my way out of this bed.  I can’t buy the ability to walk again.

Again I think this is my deathbed.

Johannes notices, “Are you okay, Mr. B? Do you need anything?”

I consider Johannes for a moment.  I have several doctors and nurses, but Johannes is the friendliest, my favorite.  

“Call me Jo,” he had laughed when he introduced himself, “Only my mom calls me Johannes.”

Suddenly, I have an idea.  It’s a long shot, but what else do I have anymore? Who else could I possibly ask?  

I motion for Johannes to come close.  He leans in and I look deeply into his eyes, my eyes pleading with his from the depths of my soul.

“Jo,” I whisper, “I can’t go on like this. I have nothing left but money.  She’s gone. My Adrienne’s gone.  Help me.”

Jo stares back at me, silent, for a long time.  He understands what I’m asking for.  He nods and straightens up.   He takes a moment to smooth his rumpled blue scrubs, stalling.

“Now, Mr. B, don’t talk like that, you know I can’t do that.  Don’t you worry though, we’re going to take care of you until your condition improves,” he says loudly.  Almost too loudly.

Now he’s just parroting hospital policy.  Of course.  I was a fool to ask.  I can’t expect him to lose his job or risk criminal charges for an old fool he hardly knows.

Jo’s checking my vitals now.  

I whisper, “We both know my condition isn’t going to improve.”

He stops tapping on his iPad and looks around surreptitiously, then he leans in close to my ear and whispers, “I think I know someone who can help.”

* * *

We sat in the living room by the fire.  I was reviewing the company’s latest numbers, Adrienne was reading Pride and Prejudice.

“That was a nice picnic today, Luke.  I had fun!”

“Me too,” I muttered.  

Why wasn’t the company growing as fast as it should be?  I had tried everything I could think of.

“Luke!”

“What, Adri?”

“Did you hear Philandros?”

I looked down, Philandros looked up at me and whimpered, his soulful golden retriever eyes pleading.  He nudged his ball toward my feet.

I sighed.

“Luke!  Philly wants to play!”

“I’m busy right now, Adri!”

* * *

I wake up with a tear rolling down the side of my face.  

Couldn’t I have put those reports away for the weekend?  My God! A realization:  I should have thrown Philly’s ball, how I would love to play with him one more time! A realization:  how I would love to spend a night sipping wine by the fire, talking with Adrienne. A realization:  so many moments, squandered.  A realization: in that one moment I had everything — all I had needed to do was take hold and grasp it.  I hadn’t.

A few days have passed since Jo promised help.  Perhaps he had been humoring me.

The door opens.

“Good morning, Mr. B!  You have a visitor today!”

A visitor?  Who would possibly care enough to visit me?

A man walks  in.  He’s dirty, his hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in weeks.  Has Jo brought a homeless man to see me?

The man walks over to me and looks directly into my eyes.  His bright, luminescent blue eyes are kind, but also intense.  I feel like he’s gazing deeply into the truth of my soul.

“What do you truly want?” He asks.

“I want to die.”

He shakes his head, “No, that’s what you think you want.  What do you truly want?”

As I lie on my deathbed, I think about his question.  He’s right.  If I want to die, all I have to do is wait.   What I truly want is to live.

“I want to live again, with her.”

He nods.

“That’s what I thought.  I have the power to grant that.  I came so that you may have life.  But all magic has a price.  I can grant you one day with her, and one day only. What is it worth to you? What will you sacrifice?”

I don’t even need to think about it.

“Everything.  My money.  My businesses.  My life.  Take it all.  That’s a bargain for the gift of one day of true life.”

He looks deeply at me for a long time: he’s judging the truth of what I had said.  Then He nods again. 

“Close your eyes,” He commands.

“Don’t you need me to sign something?” I ask, astounded at this dirty, homeless, divine being who seems utterly unconcerned about the billions of dollars I had just agreed to give him.

“I don’t work according to the ways of the world.  We have already made our agreement.  I trust you, Lucien Blaze.”

I close my eyes.

He lays his hands upon my head, and I feel peace.  I feel a warm, loving energy….magic, I guess, and then everything fades to black as I fall asleep.

* * *

I open my eyes and look around in confusion, which soon gives way to elation.

I am in our bed, our home.  

The sunshine streams through the window, bringing everything to life with its energetic beams of golden renewal.  I  hear birds signing outside.  It’s the barn-swallows!  They visit us every year to raise their chicks.  Oh, how they vex us!  But, despite our clever attempts to barricade the areas under the eves where they prefer to nest, they outsmart us every time. 

I chuckle.  

Why do we try to stop them when they provide us with a live choral performance every spring?  I lay back enjoying their music.

The smell of bacon wafts into the bedroom.

Philandros jumps onto the bed and starts licking my face.

“Philly!  Good boy!”  I laugh.  

I’m in heaven.

“Breakfast is almost ready, sleepyhead!” she calls, her voice refreshing lemonade for my parched soul.

I’m nervous, I haven’t seen her in years.  From my perspective, she died over a decade ago.  

I get out of bed under my own power.  

I look down in astonishment at my strong, youthful legs; I do a little jig and then break down and cry with joy.  I haven’t been able to walk without assistance in years.

“Luke!” she cries from the door, “what’s wrong?  Are you okay? You’re crying!”

I look up.  

My god! She’s so beautiful!  

Everything I’ve  wanted and dreamed about for years has coalesced, by the grace of god, into this moment.

“Yes, Adri, I’m fine,” I laugh.  “I’m ecstatic!”

I rush over to her and wrap my arms around her.

“I love you so much,” I whisper into her ear.

“Well….okay, I love you too!”

“Now, hurry up, let’s have breakfast.  Didn’t you say you needed to do some work today?”

“No, Adri.  I changed my mind.  No work today.  Today is for us.  You, me and Philly are going to go on a picnic, how does that sound?”

She smiles at me, and my heart explodes.

“That sounds perfect, Luke!”

* * *

Beep……Beep……Beep.

I open my eyes, back in the hospital after the best day of my entire life.

I look up and He is standing over me.  His knowing blue eyes speak volumes and we need no words.  

The vagrant reaches out toward me and, for the first time, I notice that the man has round scars on both of his wrists.  

Nails.  

Astounded, I look into the man’s kind eyes again.  

The vagrant smiles and gives me a single nod.  

“But, I never believed in you,” I stammer.

He smiles again, “It matters not, truth is truth whether one believes it or not.  You may not have believed in me, but I believe in you. It matters not what this truth is called, Lucien. I can easily change my form if this one makes you uncomfortable.”

In the space of three seconds he transforms into a myriad of different faces and deities.  I recognize some, but there are countless faces of his deeper truth. He then becomes a pure light of perfect clarity for a moment before reappearing as the homeless man.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

He smiles, reaches out to me, and I grasp his hands. Together we turn toward the perfectly clear light of eternity.

As the hospital around me dissolves, I think again of her, and of Him, and of life’s beauty, and then joy — so much joy —as we are transformed into something more, our identities melting away as we return to the universal mystery — as we return home. 

Adrienne is present, Philandros is present, multitudes are present, my past and future identities are here, as are Adri’s, as are everyone’s, and yet, somehow, we are one with all and one with each other, yet also distinct, also continuously evolving, transforming into more, in love, aware of everything, both Alpha and Omega, seeing all, far into the past and the lives we’ve already lived, and billions of years  into the future.  It is as if each individual  life plays a distinct melody on a single instrument in the grander symphony composed by the countless lifetimes each soul experiences, while at the same time, each soul joins the symphony of symphonies vibrating throughout the Cosmos.

My heart energy explodes with excitement as I see the end of the universe, where everything approaches a collapsing  singularity, stretching time into a new beginning of a beautiful Infinity.  

Our strands of resonate vibration (we’ve long since evolved past physical bodies), Adrienne’s, Philandros’, mine (though we’ve long since transcended those names), and other loved ones’ energy, dancing along The Omega Point’s event horizon, lifetime after lifetime, always special to one another, weaving sublime resonant harmony to the ongoing Cosmic symphony.  

And distantly, I recall, that beautiful day, so many millenia ago.  Suddenly, I have an idea. Playfully, I send the thought to Adri’s energetic light:

Hey Adrienne, it’s a nice eon, I know a beautiful nebula on the far side of the universe, how about you, me and Philly go for a picnic and enjoy the view for a while?

And while Philandros chases stars being born around us, we laugh.

This short story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “perspective.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

Alor stared at his reflection in the looking glass and thought about how strange it felt to have transformed from a frightened, skinny  farm boy into a finely honed killing artist in less than four years.  He smiled.  

The best part, or worst part - he wasn’t sure which - was that he enjoyed it.   Did that make him a bad person?  

He shook his head.  That was a moral question for another day.

Turning back to the mirror, Alor realized that he hardly recognized himself anymore.  

He now stood over six feet tall, his sun-kissed skin had darkened into the perfect tan.  Each muscle stood out as if chiseled of marble.  He wore only a gladiator skirt and his helmet, his torso bare except for a leather pauldron covering his left shoulder and arm.  He was no longer that weak boy.  He had become a killer - a merciless  executioner.  He had mastered something to which he could devote his life.

“Time to go, Alor,” said Trax, poking his head around the doorway.  Trax was an older, though still formidable, retired gladiator, and his trainer.

“Okay.”

Alor shook his head to clear any doubts.

It is what it is.  If  being a killer makes me a bad person, so be it.

He shrugged his shoulders, and started the long jog down down the tunnel to the Alborian arena.

As he jogged, he brought his knees high to get his blood pumping.  He noted that Trax jogged silently next to him, knowing better than to interrupt his pre-game concentration and he appreciated the older man’s respect as he started to enter a meditative state in which his thoughts disappeared except for one point of concentration: kill.

As they approached the end of the tunnel, he heard the boos of the crowd. His rival had entered the arena.

Today he fought for the honor of Albor and the White Army against Shaden’s Black Army champion.  After years of devastating war, and unsustainable losses on both sides, the two countries had agreed to decide it in the arena.  Albor had won the coin toss, which meant that he, thankfully, fought on his home turf.  Alor appreciated any advantage the gods choose to bestow upon him because he had heard that the black army champion, Goran, had personally stood against a hundred men and had slain them all.  The enemy gladiator had a reputation for unrivaled brutalism.  

I can’t afford any mistakes today.  I’m brutal too.  I will crush him.

“Are you ready?,” Trax asked.

Alor simply nodded and jogged through The Gate of Life into the sunlight.  He vowed to flatten the so called, “Black Champion.”

The crowd started cheering, the roar deafening.  The Alborian people loved him.  They stood up and cheered, showing him their respect.  The women threw roses as he grinned and waved, enjoying a moment of levity before soaking up the power and energy they sent him.  Then he stopped and put on his game face.  He had reached his starting point halfway to the center of the arena.  He turned, planted his feet shoulder width apart and faced his enemy with a stoney gaze.

Goran’s helmet was open and he could see the man’s face.  He too appeared chiseled of of stone and his face was a stoic mask of death.

They stood staring at each other for a moment and suddenly Goran’s eyes widened.  

What had he seen?

Alor looked closely at the man’s face.  It looked…..familiar.  Did they know each other?

Suddenly, Alor’s eyes also widened.  Could it be?  

Yes! It was Willan, his best friend from his childhood on the farm, before the war, before they had both been lost at sea.  Willan must have taken the name Goran as his gladiator name, just as he, Liam, had taken the name Alor.

They stared at each other, lost in memories of their shared childhood:  playing down by the river...laying in the fields after sunset, staring up at the stars, laughing and dreaming of their  future…cutting their palms, tying their hands together, and swearing upon the name of the Great Divine to be best friends, and blood brothers, forever.  

He saw a tear of regret leak from Willan’s right eye, and felt the moisture of regret on his own face.

The crowd cheered again, bringing him back to reality.  He saw Goran’s face harden and realized their reality.  This changed nothing.  They were different people now and the fate of two countries rested upon their shoulders.  Liam and Willan were dead.  Alor and Goran had a job to do.

His own face hardened and he gave Goran a nod of respect.  Goran returned the nod.  He understood.

They each turned to face their respective kings.

“Hail Albor!,” Alor shouted.

“Hail Shaden!,” Goran shouted.

They turned back to face one another, each saluting the other with his sword.  They both hesitated, for just a moment, and then, with swords raised, each fighter issued a battle scream and charged to meet his brother in blood.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

Wormsnout trembled as he stood before the imposing forty foot tall obsidian doors that led to The Dark Lord’s private chambers.  The two heavily-muscled demon guards chuckled.  Embarrassed, Wormsnout convinced himself that any demon would emit the stench of fear in his situation.  Many before him had been killed for interrupting their Lord’s nap.

The guards were expecting him, so they simply opened the door and watched him enter with their soulless, beady red eyes as he passed into the chamber.

“My lord, I, Wormsnout have excellent news,” he said loudly before he lost his nerve, attempting to show some backbone in front of the guards who were still watching him.

The Dark Lord opened one eye wearily.  He looked over at this obsequious little demon bothering his slumber.  The desire to obliterate him with brimstone overwhelmed him but, he resisted, his minions had value.  He could be obliterated after he heard the pathetic demon’s message.

“Proceed,” The Dark Lord finally replied, his long-disused voice rumbling and raspy.

“Yes, my Lord.” Wormsnout replied tentatively, “Beezlefrip, as you no doubt know, has been searching the earth for several decades.  We are nearing the time of the prophecy and he has been searching for the chosen one who will release you from your prison.  And my lord, we have found him!  He is a small boy born twenty years ago in a small farming village. This is excellent news.”

“Excellent news you say?  Excellent news?  You stupid, stupid, stupid little demon!” the Dark Lord thundered.

“My Lord? Have I offended you? I don’t understand.”  

Wormsnout went prostrate on the floor, his entire body trembling in fear before The Dark Lord.

“Wormsnout, stand up and be a demon, how long have you served me?”

“About 2,053 years my lord.  I was born out of your hatred and the blood of our enemies in the last war, just before your imprisonment.  I have served you faithfully ever since then, working with my brothers to bring about events to release you.”

“Yes Wormsnout.  You mentioned ‘the last war.’  You are young.  You, like the stupid little humans above, have some seriously wrong preconceptions about me - ‘The Dark Lord.’ 
“You all completely misunderstand who I am and what I want.  I will forgive you because the last ‘last war’ is the only war you have seen yet.  Do you know how many times throughout eternity I have been defeated in, what those pathetic humans call, ‘the last war?’ Countless times.  I don’t even know how many times.
“Each time, they think they have defeated me and then they ‘send’ me to a ‘prison,’ but it is this endless wearisome cycle that is my true prison!  It is always the same.  A prophesied evil chosen one arises.  He releases me and my minions from prison.  We build armies and sow dissent across the earth.  Eventually another champion arises on the side of light.  The champion unites our enemies.  We fight a ‘last battle.’ And - end result - I am imprisoned again.  And a new prophecy is made foreseeing my eventual release.  Yada Yada Yada. And so on, and so forth.  I’m so, like, tired of this shit.”   

The Dark Lord sighed and smoke escaped from his giant nostrils, “But, here in my ‘prison’ I get to sleep.  I can do what I want to do.  I can stop worrying about taking over the world.  I can relax, read and watch movies.  I don’t even remember why I wanted to take over the world in the first place!  Screw it.  I’m done.  When I’m not napping, I’ve been watching old human movies and in one from the decade they call the ‘1980’s’ in a movie called Wargames I learned a valuable lesson.  I am surprised, with my superior intellect and wisdom, that it never occurred to me before.  Would you like to know what I have learned?”

“Yes, my lord, of course, Wormsnout lives only to serve and to learn from your greatness!”

Wormsnout touched his nose to the floor again.

The Dark Lord reached over to his giant bedside table - it was taller than Wormsnout - and picked up his large chalice of the enemy’s blood.  Wormsnout waited patiently, eyes down, while his master quenched his thirst, trying not to flinch with each evil gulp.  Finally his Lord set his cup back on the nightstand and continued.

“Cut the brown-nosing crap Wormsnout.  The lesson is this:  the only winning move is not to play.”  

The Dark Lord sat back smugly and his glowing red eyes watched Wormsnout closely.  The little demon didn’t understand.  The fool. No matter.  He wouldn’t kill the wretch today, he needed to deliver his orders to Beezlefrip.

“Order Beezlefrip to remain watchful over the boy. Tell him to ensure the boy doesn’t leave his home and grows up to be a simple farmer. He need never be told he could be the champion of our side. I’d rather he remain alive, never knowing of the prophecy for, if we simply kill him, another will rise. I’m breaking the cycle.”

“My lord!  Then you, and we, will remain here, trapped!”

“Exactly!  Now you understand, Wormsnout. Don’t worry, the humans no longer worships the old gods of war. Now, they’re even worse - they worship war itself. War is their god.  In the absence of our direct influence, they will continue to turn on each other and our harvest of souls will be greater than ever with little action needed on our part. 
“Now leave me, I’m out.  I’m going back to sleep.  Tell everyone I am taking a short nap and wish not to be disturbed for the next three centuries.”

“Yes my lord,” Wormsnout replied as he backed out of the room and the guards shut his master’s bedroom doors.

If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!

Ron whistled as he drove the empty city bus through the rain-soaked metropolis.  Strangely, he saw only one passenger on tonight's pick up manifesto, but he didn’t know exactly where his lost passenger roamed.

That’s OK.  Ron thought, the missing passengers usually find their way to me…in the end.

He sighed and looked at his watch.  How tired he was of driving this motor coach, night after night, for what seemed, to him, to have been an eternity!

Eyes on the road Ron.

Outside, the rain began pouring harder.  He reached down - his face illuminated by the eerie orange glow of the dashboard, making him momentarily look like some other-worldly dangerous apparition - and clicked the windshield wipers to the highest setting.  

God, I want a cigarette.  

But The Boss had strangely decided, after what seemed like millenia in business, that he wanted to run a clean, healthy operation.  He never used to care, but lately, He had explained to Ron that he wanted to improve the business’ reputation with the customers.  Dirty buses and cigarette smoke tended to lower customer satisfaction ratings. “Big H” as Ron liked to call The Boss had heard rumors that, unlike his brothers’ businesses, people were often terrified to take his buses.  So, for now, no smoking.  

Across the street, Ron spotted a stray dog, fur wet and matted, wandering aimlessly down the sidewalk hoping to find food or shelter.

Poor thing.  I’m glad my little BeeBee is in here with me, safe and dry.

He reached over and gave little BeeBee’s head a loving pat.

BeeBee raised his little black head and licked Ron’s finger.

Adam shuffled along the dark, dirty city sidewalk in the pouring rain, dejected, and disgusted with civilization.  As he walked, his eyes tracked the countless wads of discarded chewing gum stuck to the concrete which he avoided as best he could in the dark.  People who spit their gum on the sidewalk should be summarily executed in Adam’s opinion.  Styrofoam and paper cups rattled along in the wet breeze like tumbleweeds across the desert in an old western.   Ahead, on the right, a homeless man sat on the sidewalk wrapped in dingy, threadbare clothes, back against the wall, his hair and beard wild, long and un-brushed.  

How long until I join him?  Adam wondered.

As he passed, the man held out his hand.  He didn’t expend the effort to ask for money.  He didn’t make eye contact with Adam.  He simply held out his hand.  It would be easy to keep walking.  But for some reason, Adam stopped and reached for his wallet.  

As he pulled it out of his back pocket, one of his cards fell out.  It read, “Adam J. Nash, Vice president of Asset Management.”  The homeless man’s eyes flicked toward the card, briefly.

“Forget about it.” Adam said, holding out a bill to the vagrant, “I’m not that person anymore.  Here’s my last ten dollars.”

“God bless you.” The dirty man mumbled. As the bearded drifter reached up with his left hand to take the bill, his right hand clasped Adam's arm and he looked at Adam intensely.  The man’s pure black eyes felt deep, hopeless and soulless, and some tingly electric charge passed between them.

“Let me go!” Adam demanded.

Black eyes bore into Adam’s soul.

“Are you sure?”  A deep grating voice asked.

“Yes, let go you freak!”

“As you wish,” the ominous man said, and then fell back against the wall, pocketing the money.

What the hell was that?

Adam shook it off, grunted, and kept walking.  He shuffled along for some indeterminate amount of time, in a daze, replaying the day’s events in his mind.  His day had started like every Monday - alarm at 5:30am, a workout, shower, breakfast on the run and a mad dash to be in his office at Innovative Wealth Management by 7:30am.  Adam liked to be seen at his desk, working, when his boss arrived around 8:00 am.  The day had progressed normally until he received a summons from his boss, Jim, to meet him in the conference room at about 4:00 pm.

“Adam, I’m not going to sugar coat things.  We’ve decided to shut down your department and go a different direction.  I’m sorry.”

Jim hadn’t looked sorry.  In fact Jim - Mr. James Malcom Jr., son of the founder, James Malcom Sr., had looked downright pleased with himself.  Prick.

Adam had mumbled something about understanding and had then, in a daze, been escorted back to his desk to take his personal belongings.  Assholes.  After more than a decade helping Jim’s father build Innovative Wealth, the sniveling little prick had summarily dismissed him.

Adam turned and punched the brick wall next to him, not noticing the people around him raising their eyebrows.  Fuck that hurt!  His soul felt a little better having released the anger, but now his knuckles bled and were starting to throb.

Security had escorted Adam to the front door of the building and, after saying goodbye to Paul, the doorman, and one of the few people in that building who had treated him like a human being, he had started walking.  He had pocketed a few of the personal items and tossed the box into a dumpster.  He’d probably regret that, but none of it was important and he wanted to make a clean break.

So, now, Adam shuffled along, after dark, his hair sticking up, knuckles bleeding, with strangers backing away from him as he walked by as if he was the homeless one. 

Ron, steering the large bus with his right hand, reached down with his left and petted his tiny black Affenpinscher snuggled up in his bed.  The little “monkey terrier” raised his head and gave Ron’s hand a small lick before turning around in his bed and curling up facing the other direction.  BeeBee sighed and then closed his eyes.  Ron chuckled, glad the boss allowed him to bring his little companion on these runs.  He had said that allowing pets made the operation feel more human.  “Happy employees make for happy customers! Gotta raise our NPS score!” He had said.

Suddenly, Ron’s hair stood on end and his senses prickled.  Must be time for our pickup.

Up ahead on the right, a man, hair disheveled, his right hand bleeding, shuffled along like a lost homeless person.  Strangely, despite his appearance, he wore a bespoke, dark blue, three piece suit with a red silk tie (which had been loosened in the manner of businessmen who work too hard and too late).  The man had been marked.  He was the passenger.

Here we go.

Ron pushed a hand through his short red hair, attempting to look professional.  Then he pulled the metal beast over to the curb, engaged the raucous air brakes and the vehicle slid to a clumsy halt.  He pulled the lever that opened the doors, put on a grin and called out, “I’m goin’ your way, mister.  Need a ride?”

A hissing sound to Adam’s left jolted him out of his dark reverie, and he looked to see doors of a city bus open.  

A friendly red-haired driver leaned over and grinned saying, “I’m goin’ your way, mister.  Need a ride?

Confused, Adam looked left and right and then peered into the bus, shrugged, and replied, “Um, yeah I think so.”

“Well, mister, don’t just stand out in the rain getting soaked, come on in!  I’ve got a thermos full of hot coffee, help yourself.  The cups and the thermos are on the first seat behind me. Come in and warm up!”  Ron smiled again.

“Um, where is everybody?” the man asked, noticing the bus was empty.

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s just me and BeeBee here,” Ron patted BeeBee who looked up and yapped, “It’s been a slow night.  I guess because it’s late and, of course, all the rain.  You’re our first customer, actually!  Come in and sit down and BeeBee and I will take you where you need to be.”

“I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be anymore,”  The man replied.

“Oh!  Don’t you worry about that!” Ron grinned, “BeeBee and I hear that all the time.  We’ll help ya figure out where ya need to go. That’s our specialty! Now come on!  Let’s get movin’.”

The exhausted man sighed.  “OK, thanks.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Ron said excitedly while the man stepped aboard, poured himself a cup of coffee, and settled into a seat a couple of rows back.

Ron shut the doors and put the bus in gear.

“Now just sit back, mister. Ol’ BeeBee and I will take good care of ya.  Ya look tired, why don’tcha just rest for a bit and then we’ll figure out where ya need ta go.”

“OK” said the passenger, “thanks for the coffee.”  He took a long sip.  “Wow, this is great.  Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it!”  Ron replied, “The Boss likes for our customers to be comfortable on their journey!”

The passenger sat back, and closed his eyes.

Ron reached up and flicked on the radio and over the speakers came Drivin’ My Life Away by Eddie Rabbit.  He chuckled at the song, how ironic...and appropriate.  But Ron loved Eddie Rabbit, so he leaned back, focused on the road and listened to the music.

Those windshield wipers slappin' out a tempo

Keepin' perfect rhythm with the song on the radio-oo-oo-o

But I gotta keep rooooooo-llin'.....

“Hey mister?” Ron called out looking back at the man.

“Yeah?”  The passenger replied softly.

“What’s your name?”

“Adam”

“Niceta meetcha Adam!  I’m Ron.  I’ll let you rest a bit now.”

“Thanks, Ron”  Adam put his head back and closed his eyes.

Ron reached down and grabbed his clipboard and glanced at the evening’s priorities.  Yep, only one customer tonight:  Adam J. Nash.  He put the clipboard back in its place, leaned back and smiled.  He loved evenings when the work was easy.

Ooooooooh, I'm drivin' my life away

Lookin' for a better waaaay 

for me

Ooooooooh, I'm drivin' my life away….

What am I going to do?  Adam thought.

He was sooooo tired.  He had hardly been able to think since the homeless man had grabbed him. Plus, he had been walking the streets in the rain for hours.  I’ll just rest for a few minutes and then I’ll figure it out.

Adam closed his eyes.

His right hand throbbed, and his headache intensified; but he started to find some clarity in the pain.  The pain seemed to fuel his anger and his anger seemed to fuel his pain in a virtuous or villainous - he wasn’t sure which - cycle of energy that crystallized his thinking.  And, slowly, but steadily a plan began to arise from within that anger.  A plan to get back everything he had lost, and more.

As he thought, Adam’s plan crystallized out of the disconnected pieces in the dust of his mind and presented itself to him in detailed clarity.  He nodded and an evil manic grin appeared on his face and he drifted off to sleep.

Adam’s awareness returned to his hearing first.  He heard the sound of water.  Not the rain, but of….current?  Like a flowing river?  

He felt a slight up and down movement.  Was he on a boat?  

No, he remembered.  He had gotten on a bus.  He had made plans to get his job back and get revenge on that prick, Jim.

But he was so tired.  

He opened his eyes just a crack and for, just a moment, what he saw terrified him.  

He was on a boat!  Ron, the red-headed bus driver was gone and in his place was a tall dark figure draped in a tattered, black hooded cloak.  He was pushing the boat through the black water with a tall stick which had a lantern hanging off the top.  BeeBee, transfigured into a huge black hound with glowing eyes, looked at him and growled.

Adam jumped up!  I’ve got to get out of here!

“Is something wrong, mister?” Ron asked, looking at Adam in the rear view mirror.

“Um” Adam shook his head, confused, and replied, “I’m not sure.  I guess not.  I thought I saw……oh never mind.”

Ron chuckled.  They’re always so confused.

“Well, let’s figure out where we need to take ya. What’s your full name?”

“Why do you need my name?”

“I just do, Adam, that’s how it works.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.  I want you to drop me off downtown.  My office building is on Wall Street.” Adam walked up the aisle and stood behind Ron, holding the vertical pole behind the driver’s seat. “Here, take my card, it has my name and the address.”

Ron took the card, and read it.

“Mister Adam J. Nash” Ron read, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Nash.  Just take your seat, and we’ll get ya to your destination.”

“Thank you.” Adam replied.  He walked back to his seat in the third row and sat down and closed his eyes again.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and he didn’t recognize where they were.

“Hey Ron?” Adam called.

“Yeah?”

“You’re going the wrong way, we need to go downtown.”

“Oh no sir, Mr. Nash, we’re definitely going the right way!  Ya see, we’re not in the business of taking ya where you want to go.  Like I said when ya boarded, we take you where ya need ta go.”

BeeBee yapped in agreement.

“Now look here, Ron.  You’re a nice enough fellow.  But I need to get back to my office.  I have plans to get my life back on track!”

“I’m sorry about that sir, but I can’t do that.  It’s too late for that ‘back on track’ idea, actually.”

“What do you mean it’s too late?  Let me out here, I’ll take a cab!”

“No sir.  I can’t do that, Mr. Nash, The Boss would have my hide!”

Adam pulled out his iPhone.  “We’ll see about that.  What is your full name, Ron?  If you don’t stop, I’m going to call your boss and report you.”

“Oh sure thing, Mr. Nash” Ron replied, "my full name….you see is….Charon.”   

Adam shivered, and he swore that Ron’s eyes flashed red for a moment.  

“And BeeBee here,” Ron continued, “his full name is Cerberus.”

BeeBee stood up, but he was no longer the cute little monkey terrier, he was the hellhound that Adam had dreamed about.  Six eyes on three heads glowed red and all three mouths pulled back in a snarl, spittle dripping from each one.  Cerberus’ hellish eyes glared at Adam, and he growled.

Suddenly, the whole scene changed again and Adam was back in the terrifying ferry, Charon’s soulless eyes bored into him as he moved the ferry along the inky river and Cerberus, now towering over Adam, growled and took a step toward him.  Adam fell back and cowered in terror.

“See?”  Ron said as the scene changed back into the “friendly” Bus of the Lost, “isn’t this better?  Like I said, The Boss, Mr. H himself, prefers our customers to be happy and comfortable these days.  We don’t like to scare our customers anymore, do we BeeBee? Don’t ya worry!  It’s much more pleasant down there than the old days!”

BeeBee yapped in agreement and wagged his tail.

“So why don’t ya get yourself another nice warm cup of coffee, Mr. Nash?  It’s a fine Colombian blend ya know?  Only the best, the boss, Big H,  insists.  None of that cheap stuff for our crew.  Get yourself a cuppa joe and sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.”

Ron turned around and grinned, “Like told ya, Mr. Nash, we’ll get ya where you need to go. Yes sir, we will.”

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