#ccparker

[magnetar1]

"The Mirror of Iaat has reflected as much.  It is a relic to store their fading thoughts, before another Great Storm comes.  It represents all the chaos, disordered unions of ruptured systems, as a succinct and ordered tribute.  It exists in the world just like we do.  It exists because we do."

Artwork by Pierre Perichaud 

[magnetar1]

Neither realized they were breaking down, or could put it into words.  Only the will could survive such primal imminence.  To step away now would be lunacy of a different kind.

Artwork by Alberto Martini

[magnetar1]

The Cliffs of Kri remain heavily populated.  Predominately a flood of rotating visitors: mystics, chronic hallucinators, intercessors between worlds.  Visionaries of dark, liquid dread who carry their influence across thresholds holding sway over their maggoty offspring as if they are nature’s disciples.   A world sick with memory loss.  Anything to quell the agony of living forever without holding a key: cursed with addiction, blunt psychosis or vile sorcery, they’ve lost the ability to see their own demise.  Nothing seems to take the pain away until they’re under the spell of the worm, turning in its grave, dying forever.  

Artwork by Ernst Fuchs

[magnetar1]

How many of us still linger on the edges?  Even foul sorcery has been forgotten.  While alchemists and necromancers of old die off and kings wither in their sleep.  Only for a short time in the breadth of agelessness did Titan rule live up to its own vision of itself.  Breeding mutations while hidden in caves, invoking the golden light of memory (cosmic breach) while inviting new mutations into the world . . . 

Artwork by Blanka Dvorak

[magnetar1]

It is a kind of decadence, I suppose, with flashes of wretched cities in my head. They do not know how lucky they are to forget, but I suppose they’ve forgotten that too.  It is alright to remain void in the face of existence when there is no escaping it.  Only I knew in a kernel of my being: it was here – it was close.   Still, it was easier to ignore it, look away.  While all the judges of this world are standing by, reveling in their doom, shifting the pieces to fit their perfect vision of things to come.  There was a murky understanding, a scant amount of loyalty to it.  Still, here, behind the yellow fog in the charnel, festering graveyard of Alkedama, there is none.  Only necromancers came and went, wary of becoming cannibalized.  

Artwork by Elisabeth O' Rourke

[magnetar1]

For now.  What else?  

If it was possible to fall asleep, drift away, I would.  Dreaming as I walk through this world as it is, there is no deeper stratum I can sink to.  I’ve obliterated my every need in the common sense while heightening my rapaciousness for moral sickness.  I embrace what can not be embraced by sane minds.  

That is all this darkness has for me; not sleep, never sleep, of the truest kind.  The only way to escape is directly into.  My instinct, and fondness, for penetration, to feel what’s inside, is far more than a physical act.

[magnetar1]

"If she could not see the parallels she was hiding it well.  It was the same as when those masters wept over broken hearted soliloquies in the same moment they were plunging the sacrificial knife into the throat of some innocent child.  That was how the world was seen through the eyes of epileptic mystics who flashed in and out of psychic skins.  In the manner of a serpent’s course, vacillating between fateful presence and total disembodiment.  Unrecognizable in the end as their immortal spirits burn even brighter, unloosening the carriage in desert winds as they embrace metamorphosis."

Artwork by Armando Liccardo

[magnetar1]

If Villus did not awaken then he is awake now.  Twitching, vibrating monstrosity of nervous exhumations.  Howls heard outside for aeons squarely in his head as he thrashes around in the streets.  Blade is sharper than ever now as Villus, no longer at his desk, or on a stage, anchors himself to the final act.  It is the seed of his own demise at the start of everything.  A feeling in a gut that persists to this day, through every incarnation.  Those same alignments, starry fields of ensorcelling dominion, that lay claim to his essence and imagination. Infernal debt sealed behind a voyeur’s mask.  Raging in the dark for so long under the pretense of a sign.  Rites woven into the bowels of Urr even before the tome is written, clear to him now as he snaps another neck.  They are dead anyway, he writes, feeling the sanctuary of its brooding force riding high.