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Possession

Atop a gathering of pregnant pauses stands the glimmering pale light of the mystic man.  Healing sutras and incantations abound within the swirling soup of his consciousness though his modest dress balances the embellishment of his spirit.  

He appraises the specter lodged into the soul of the afflicted.  A wild display and a cresting burst of kinetic possession, the flailing of the limbs silences the crowd as he, step after step, glides closer to the source of the commotion.  His sandals barely touch the floor of impacted dirt.  Hands now outstretched, he gently places the heels of his hands upon the temples of the possessed.

“Amun-em, brother.”

A widening of eyes now appearing lidless, the afflicted plants his feet firmly and a quick grasp of his enemy’s wrists startles entranced spectators.  Although appearing to struggle with the taut pressure of twisted twine, indeed with elbows and knees trembling, His Holiness remains composed with the proof of The Blessing.

“Amun-em, I caress thy spirit…”

“Off, off, off, you servant! Thou hath no influence within this cloister!” as a violent exhortation.

Simply placing his thumbs over the eyes of the afflicted, the lids close as if by self-command and his knees relax as His Holiness leads him to a genuflect.

Presented now to the masses is a divine portrait.  The healer manipulates the will of the weak and hapless vagrant placed into a submissive form.  Blinding light bounds through film covered windows and illuminates this new scene of deliverance.

To the masses:

“Go now and recount what you have seen to all you meet.  Reach both hands towards the realm of gentle Amun and give everything of yourself to the divine.  Every moment has been written, every tale has been told, and you must live each day according to it’s will…”

“Amun-em, Bless you all…”

And then, like a host of dragonflies, he disappeared into the damp morning and forevermore became our waking breaths.

 

 
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Posted by on January 16, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Mister’s Darkness

Mister commands the scene, the bills are drafted and memos sent. He’s practiced his reactions, he’s done this before.

But there’s still the darkness.

Mister is known for constancy and work-ethic, now people look to him for answers, he hasn’t had to toil with the dregs. No more fluorescent lights to guide him, everything simulates natural light. Oak or chestnut, that’s his landscape. And glass. Large panes of glass.

Periodically sickness overcomes him. His stomach is overtaken by cramping in these moments, his already irritable nature made more irritable. Flashes of light, sudden movements, questions of any kind, requests made of him leads him to fury. He’ll whip his head so violently his neck spasms and his posture resembles that of a lifelong loom operator.

Mister has responsibilities, you see.  Investors rely on his answers to their questions and he’s made speculation into an art.  Mister is a king-maker, his proteges make good Misters.  And the world needs Misters.  Without him, indeed you wouldn’t have urban decay, but you wouldn’t have the metropolis that comes with it.  People command instantaneous results, the products must be on the shelves unspoiled, and the supply must meet the demand.

It’s Mister’s job to analyze that demand and to acquire the specific reason the demand is there in the first place.  He must then allocate the researchers and the testers to make that demand into a desire.  An outlet is then provided for that desire to manifest into capital.  And the capital must be repatriated.

Sixty stories does not a functioning corporation make, but neither do the minds that occupy them.  Not even Mister’s mind serves as an indispensable component of this process, rather, the process defines the result.  And Mister created the process.

Well, Mister did not create the process really, the process existed before him in various forms.  But no other process worked quite as efficiently, quite as seamlessly under the leadership of any other Mister.  Mister is the Mister of Misters.  The laborers know it, management knows it, retailers know it, everyone within the supply chain recognizes the distinct fortune that comes with serving this particular Mister.

They do not, however, see the darkness.

Darkness is not measured in crystal, cotton blends, German engineering, graphs, charts, automated environment control, bills of sale, deeds, blind trusts and a staff that could easily operate the Titanic.  These things do insulate the darkness.

Insulation such as this provides no escape and no avenue for gratification or release.  Mother made sure of this in the beginning, but now his prison is of his own making.

Oh yes, if not for Mother, Mister may not have the darkness.  But Mother instilled propriety into Mister’s very being and existence, Mother provided the foundation for the darkness.  And, additionally, Mother gave him the scars that no one can see, or should see, or ever will see.  Not if Mister can help it.

Mother knew nothing of supply demand, repatriating revenue, blind trusts, steel, glass, oak or chestnut.  What Mother did know was how to keep things quiet.  Always quiet, always careful, always invisible.  No potatoes in the stew for the potatoes were harvested by the dirty neighbors across the way.  No vinyl records for Mister, the noise made it too easy for the demons to come in.

Mister still doesn’t listen to records and abstains from potatoes if he can help it.  He operates on a steady diet of freshly caught fish, leeks from the garden, and distilled whiskey.  And darkness.  And profit.

 
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Posted by on January 14, 2014 in fiction, prose, writing

 

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