Frizzard Sloggindeck

What is this pulsing glow which saturated my vision? Were it but a black darkness, I would say it was lightning in the horizon, but nay: I have met a mystery too great for this mind to conceive. How can I ascribe its properties? What can be said of its facets? From a tree it grows, like the haft of a blade pierced deep into its roughened folds. Blue and green it foams in light. I draw close, and it buzzes in my ears. Does it make a sound, or only in my mind? Do I imagine it swirling like an oozing puddle? Can I feel its metal grow between my ribs? I draw near again to touch it. It sparkles with desire. My hand stops shy, and I shiver; this thing of evil, thing of beauty, light mystery, I dare not touch it. My hand curls up in indecision. Why am I so uncertain?! Feel it, for it is beautiful! Obey me, my own hand! But it is static and immobile. Bested by my own nature.

There it is, and I am here. Where? In the night? In the abyss? Flung to Tartarus by heretical thoughts? Falling through the infinite, a hole in the fabric of time? Why is there nought about me but the tree and its apparition, struck through the heart? It alone is illuminated, and I see not my hands, nor my feet, nor the body of my beating heart. And there is absolute silence, the stillness of death. Stillness?! There is no beating within my frame! I am dead.

This haft of light, it beats with the pulse I should expect from within. There again I approach. Do I have no control over my self? My legs move without command, forced in direction undisclosed. Oh, universe! Determine a different path, that I might find annihilation, and not forever the embrace of darkness! But I have thought these thoughts, even as I approach the certain blade. I have thought these thoughts, my Self, and not you, for you move with purpose intrinsic, yet I move with determination of MY own. Yes, I. Can you say that of your Self? Can you truly Be? Can you Act? No, you can merely exist. As it shall stay. But now I am by the tree.

I reach again for the blade. Would that I could move. My foremost finger nearly touches it. It brushes the handle. It must be full of vision, for my eyesight was replaced with another’s and I saw a universe of impossibilities. Planets with eyes and no faces stared mutely, curiously at the stars they circled. They were wide, baby eyes, massive in form, covering continents. The suns had white wings, and fluttered slowly in the vacuum. Were they flying? I could not tell. How else did they move in the galactic dance?

There was another planet! Black eyes, a face of smog, and covered in pricks of yellow light. It had more than a face, but a texture, and fingers, flying fingers, fingers that moved in space! The fingers reached out, little things, toward the wings, to grab them and become like the sun. The sun became red with anger, expanding, swallowing up the children; the black fingers nearly touched its face, until the sun rapidly contracted, and then the light. Brightness of light which lit up the dark void! How I could not look, for I was blinded. To this day, there is not another sight so bright. The evil textured planet of singular yellow power was consumed in the starry wrath, and left behind was a sight of speckled color more beautiful than Monet.

What was this revelation?

I recovered into the previous realm, and to my great surprise and consternation discovered the chief cause of my vision to be held in my hand, upon its impossibly black edge the drippings of green. From the wound of the tree it was pulled, oozing the green of life, and the tree moaned. There was no wind here, but its hair moved; there was no soil, but its trunk shifted. And moaned. Oh, how my soul was rent by that moan! It were as though a mighty animal had been stabbed in a vital, and I its unwitting executioner. How I wished to let go my grip of that horrid Vision-Maker! Yet I could not. It was sealed to me, glowing still in pulse with my heart which would not beat, blue now, red then: the color of nebula, and the black of space rimmed with the grime of green.

I was servant to this blade. I would serve it. I would die by it. It is a precious thing.

Mogumlula hofestebula ugummamu. Oayubi ughorabu memmoyalo. Frizzard Sloggindeck.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s