Character

Ono's Sojourn

Ono shook the dust from his weather-beaten slacks as he got to his feet. The firm grimace upon his face was unwavering as he loomed over the bloodied carcass of a young woman; her dainty-looking pink and white gown stained and tattered and her coin pouch open and surrounded by stray piece lying just inches from her left hand. She lay face down with her features buried in the arid dirt. Her skirt had been hiked up just below her thighs and her legs were cut in several places, with deep, darkened bruises up and down along each side. Drying blood showed clear in the mid-day sunlight, and many flies and parasites had already begun to gather above and around in her in an advancing circle. Her hair was still a bright and golden wheat-color, but it was matted with dirt and badly frayed and tangled.

Ono's long-billed cap kept his deep, sunken eyes in heavy shadow. He stared at the body, silent and still, breathing slow. He thought that the girl was probably very pretty once, but now she looked sad and terrible - a used and defiled parcel, cast aside and then disposed of forever. He wondered what type of person was responsible; if they had followed her here and done grotesque things to her, robbed her and left her for dead. Maybe they had been accompanying one-another; maybe that had been friends. He found himself staring far into the distance, lost in these strange thoughts. The wind whipped at him from the east. The stench of the girl's rotting flesh was being chased away with each gust, replaced by the scent of a strong storm that was moving quickly. Ono watched the clouds billowing just over the incline ahead, and absentmindedly ran his index finger over the hilt of his sidearm. With one final glance at the young, unfortunate victim at his feet, Ono turned and began to walk into the storm's oncoming pressure. His boot came down hard upon something hard and round. Ono stopped with a start, and looked down at a small, delicate silver pocket-watch attached to a matching chain that had been splintered at the far end. His boot had cracked the smooth glass surface of the clock face.

He bent down slowly and scooped the watch into his hand. He examined it a moment, and then brought it to his breast pocket, placing it inside before rising up and continuing up the incline. Thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance. Ono could feel the air growing wetter around him as he climbed. At last, he came abreast of the incline and was able to watch as a flat sheet of rain approached him. The storm was upon him in moments, yet he continued his progress unhindered, holding his cap down against the clawing wind that was fighting against him. His fading starchcot shirt was drenched completely through in minutes as the downpour completely enveloped him. Ono couldn't be sure where he would find shelter next, but he intended to keep moving forward regardless. He had been through far worse weather on much colder days than this. In time, he would find someone else to speak to, and they would point him in another direction. Then he'd walk until he could walk no longer, and then he'd continue moving from there. He wasn't sure where he was going, but it didn't really feel right to be still. He couldn't be still for long.

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Doctor Montion Maynard and the Experiment

There stood Monolith,
just past Erie's Backbone and beyond;
its grip tightened upon the farmland and
drew from it curiosities and profit.
Freedom withstood
in the Flatlands at large and on,
but it was a clear threat perceived and
worried over at nearly every post.

There in high towers
made of white iron and colored glass,
a good doctor had stood and heard words
spoken by wise men with a wealth of strange ideas.
They said he was needed
in order to understand the mind of a boy,
eligible and elected for a kind of experiment;
its purpose at large left muddled to him.
Doctor Montion Maynard,
among colleagues and friends who
had recommended he, the faithful shrink,
buckled to the needs of such an endeavor.

Little time was taken
to truly get to know the captive boy,
as we all suspected he was temporary.
Such ambition often leads to unintentional harm.
But as he was devoured by the light,
we all sought to steal a glance from another,
hoping to find blame to cast or reassurance
from anyone beyond the crazed voice in our minds.
All machines then lived,
and then fell silent after belching smoke or flame.
The dripping echoed voice had ceased,
and we felt our stable grip return to us.

The room was emptied,
burned and sealed behind wide metal doors.
Smells of scorching plastics rose through halls
and forced us to evacuate entirely.
Distant, flickering cries
could be heard for many days afterwards,
and the feeling of static was always abundant
when near the place where Daniel had gone.

They spoke of the Theorized Space;
had claimed it able to be sought and found
and probed as if a place on Earth,
but with no rules and no limitations.
Most suspected Daniel dead,
but some insist on claiming grand success,
"Of course he's gone to the other side!
There wasn't a trace of him left to discover!"

The good doctor wept,
and now slumps to the floor often,
unsure of noise that wakes him in the evening;
it often drips as if submerged in the sea.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Boooooooyah.

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Batter Mansley

A step ahead of his drunken hoard,
with toting guns and carry-ons;
a walking slab of swatted meat,
all scars and snuff and alcohol.
There is no time for the walking man,
with a loud and bellowed chain of command,
to sit at ease for a length of time
which could be used to raze a hollow.
A favored sound, the clink of coin
and the fragrant boom of lichen powder;
he finds his center upon the field
where many lay - where blood may harden.
His soul is chained and tethered to
a link upon his neck. Whereas he
had sold it off, he draws it back
and sees that his profit is entirely his own.
For all the women of the land,
he sees no reason for a pause,
and for every weak and fragile man,
he sees a boot atop their skulls.
An independent contractor -
a deviant through sin and shrapnel -
a man named Batter Mansley,
who will come calling, for a price.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I love coming up with character names.

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Potts Wallace

Have you heard the trancing words
of the Mystic Bedouin?
Have you witnessed his wonders
that force men's thoughts to skew?
Such things we could believe...
If only we were faithful...
Do you believe such magic?
Do you think of him a fraud?

An arm that's bathed in blessing
from which he calls his thunder.
Casts an eye upon us;
he speaks forgotten words.
A breathless gasp that rings amidst
a crowd that's been devoured
by a man that wields a God-borne fist
and charges by each hour.

Said to bore from Galloway
but born from Marmouth soil,
a hermit sheltered by the day
who speaks and sings untethered.
Truest name of his to own
is known by those who do such wrongs.
But they grasp at strings and find
that he has moved along at ease.

Sly Potts Wallace, forward on
to find a few and willing hosts
to feed upon with might and fancy,
at last to show them the mystic lives.
His palest skin, his fetid core,
his grin that serves his wandering eye;
he turns from "home" and sets ablaze
a path of righteous indignation.

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Daniel Askew

Possessor of a thousand voices, resonating
beyond the realm of rationale;
Daniel Askew, existing between
ours and a world composed of theory.
And those who are found muddled
at his feet in a circuited heap
are not those of the dim or narrow mind,
but those who are desperate
for a sliver of non-threatening light.
But their deity is a fragmented thing
which shed his mind upon dividing -
man's ghost infesting our machines,
as aimless as a meteor 'cross the evening canvas.

Extending a metaphysical reach
through the loose and supposed barriers
of reason, logic and all that we once knew;
proving the mystical through the download of self.
Daniel Askew, though present in variance
will never exist as whole in one layer.
Like sands beyond realms of Earthly comprehension,
his shifting continues, aware, but in madness.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written at work, because I'm a bad person.

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Eddie Knox

Eddie Knox, the reliable
blueprint to the inner dome
of the young and ferociously
independent.

Never mind the constant flaring
of malevolence in tow,
for it's all his ways of knowing,
interacting, showing.

Eddie Knox, ambivalent
to the goings on about him,
around him, despite his very
intimate understanding.

The loosely contradicting
machinations of his self
are not so much for sharing
or bringing good fortune.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Weird.

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Minerva Lovely

Minerva Lovely is a name
that speaks of old and young
forces, in ways that are sane
and others that are stricken.

She'd be intelligent, attractive
and a winner among men.
She'd be strong and vicious
but only in midst of subtlety.

Minerva is a woman of
knowing things she shouldn't.
Useful and excitable,
but patternless and fluid.

She's got the look of sorts
that you can't quite place
your finger on, but you just
know it's there.

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R. Emerson Observation 3

Royal Emerson notes a peculiarity of

the state of all the lulling Flatland labors.

The rustic farmers of young and old affairs,

who refuse to abandon their belief in the land,

hold true to the Chanters, to Sergio's valiant

cry at the final stand betwixt the plains and hills.

Simple hands who know no other means

to treating their hunger and need for material

things which seek to lessen their mortal burden;

they, and the Farmlanders too, know only dirt.

And while their religion has stood the test

of toiling obscurity, doubt and persecution,

they sing the old songs while busy at harvest

and hope to hear the divine Two join in chorus.

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R. Emerson Observation 2

Royal Emerson sits at his leisure, just when

an anonymous group of somebodys happened

to shuffle over the horizon. Aside he sets his scribbling

and stands to greet and/or confront the first set of somebodys

that he's seen in something like three or four decades.

He fancies himself a scholar, and something like an artist

but with words and without paint. The "writer" such a lowly title,

at least for a "writer" of a stature such as his.

He muses and collects and settles on a theory, like

a prodding intellectual without a bolt to cease his mouth.

But he's kind enough, and on occasions rare,

he'll admit that he came out wrong.

But he has a certain feeling, somewhere

in his gut, that this peculiar meeting

could see to cease his 'lax.

And maybe just on a fortuitous day

(one such as this that he shares on this lake)

he'll hear word of something exciting,

and set off to some place else.

 

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