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 Posted: Mon Aug 04, 2014 7:57 pm
The note lay at the bottom of the locker, slightly askew, as if pushed through with the force primarily weighing on the right side. A fleck of tar cemented its lip shut.Quote: Sometimes I catch the scent of sandalwood in waking.
I learned that torment and comfort share a bed with each other. Quenton, Oh, how long it's been since I've seen you - the scar on your face I remember more keenly by touch than visual memorization of those jagged edges. I always preferred to look at your eyes. There are, in fact, many things I miss about you, always surfacing in the early hours - a hint of your voice, a fading memory, a group of words too old to be spoken by these tawdry idiots now surrounding my existence. Sometimes, if I turn my attentions inward far enough, I can feel something rotting in me. I left you a note on May second. I left it on your table where you'd find it the next morn. I left it so you'd be disappointed, so you'd curse my name and know no further any love of me or my aggravating antics. I did not want you to miss me - I wanted you to hate me. In derision comes an ease of survival for you, I thought. When all these youma we discussed before finally surfaced in surplus, you would know some measure of hope in that hate. Without me to worry for, to search for, you might endure their initial slew until I could find you and bring you into the folds well enough on my own. It could not be done earlier, for I needed to test you. I needed to know your drive for life before you could join me in a city recreated. And now, I am glad I never did. In truth, Quenton, I work for an organization called the Negaverse, and have done so since my drafting over a year ago. It's a life keen on deception, a facet I've seized on so keenly in recent efforts. You see, I wanted to damn the world. I wanted to live in a place so mired in chaos and corruption that Law found no home in its environment - none sculpted by humans to uphold this vapid sense of community, civilization. We always argued about art, you and I. How I miss it so. Quenton, I left on an operation shortly after my note. You need only know of its result - that I am undeniably a monster. Not in conscience, either. My appearance is warped, perhaps beyond recognition. Now I know every fleck of your body better than I know my own. I don't want to live like this, Quenton. I suspect I won't for long. With the scarcity of food and my already whittled condition, I doubt I'll have much time to brood over it. I find I can't eat anything but the gentlest of foods, and even then suffer nausea for hours. I don't know what's happening to me. I'm losing so quickly the inclination to worry about it. I want to see you again. Take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home take me home - Alois Scholz Ivynian backdated to shortly after Das Gift.
no need to rush response on this one - it encompasses letters left by alois over a long time period, including his face-to-face meeting with quenton and afterward. more recent letters following the purification attempt will be included as well.
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Posted: Sat Aug 16, 2014 7:18 pm
Quote: I can't tell when time is passing.
I never thought it would hurt like this. Quenton,
It's been a while since I last wrote. My motivation to so much as breathe ebbs and flows with the tides. Where I am, there are no seasons - no suns and moons to inform me of how long I've stewed in this rotten husk of ground. I'm so often unaware of what goes on around me... Too often I whittle away my sorrows in dreams stagnated. Too often I lay prostrate, wasting away.
Too often I dream of you.
I can't concentrate much lately. Thought slips from me like sand through a sieve. So many scraps of me are missing now - I stand as a broken tower waiting for the last block to crumble at the very base of me. You patched and chipped away at the holes in every wall, adding portions of yourself to cement what great cracks spidered from your efforts. And as all that drew away, dust scattered across the skies, you left nothing but a ruined marvel. I question how long I can live without you - if this qualifies as living.
Sometimes I'll walk these halls, ancient corridors long eroded, and I'll catch the scent of sandalwood on a corner. You should leave some on a card for me - assuage my sanity in small doses.
I'm not dying like I expected. Something here is keeping me alive, and I know it's not the company riddling this fetid hole. There is a power behind all of us, behind the abilities we manifest so termed as superhuman. I don't know whether she wants me alive for all eternity or if the creature festering inside of me simply refuses to die, but it feels like...
Gott hat es mir verraten. And here I thought it was you.
In the early morning hours, before consciousness fully strikes me, I hear your voice. All these trifles spoken to me as if I still lived with you, sleeping in while you murdered fledgeling chickens for Faust's daily meals. Sometimes I'll hear you talk to him, other times to me - or faintly, so faintly, the sound of the pencil against the pad while you sketch. Sometimes I'll hear birds, or car horns, or people talking just outside an open window. Sometimes I'll know the noise of a bus driving by, or the quietude of wind whispering through the trees.
The number of aspects I miss about the world stretches to infinity.
I don't want to live anymore, Quenton.
Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me KILL ME PLEASE - Alois Scholz
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Posted: Sat Aug 16, 2014 7:28 pm
Quote: The sun is naught but a rotting hole in my head.
Let's fill it with teeth. Quenton,
I wonder if I'm losing control of my mind sometimes. There's... Some kind of dichotomy here. Two entities sharing the same body, influenced by the same power.
Her name was Malicious.
Imagine someone immediately attractive to you, immediately confident and strong and brazen despite a weaker position. Imagine their immaculate weaving of empty promises, of connectivity so very rarely shared amongst yourself and your coworkers. Imagine entrusting the whole of yourself to another as aims align.
Now imagine betrayal that mitigates the sin of treachery committed by Judas Iscariot.
Her name was Malicious.
I'm tired of living here, of relying on asinine lieutenants to fetch me some empty sustenance while they chatter and chuckle amongst each other about my condition. For so long I've endured sidelong glances and comments beneath a whisper when in company of others. I think I've lost my spirit. I no longer want to leave this place.
I just don't care anymore.
When will you join me, Quenton?
- Alois Scholz
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Posted: Sat Aug 16, 2014 7:29 pm
Quote: Can you imagine a dustless day?
Can you imagine the moment when not even our corpses are left to see the morning sun? Quenton,
I am so tired.
It hurts to write. My fingers don't want to bend much anymore.
Are they fingers? I don't know.
I miss you.
I dream of your stony corpse every day now.
- Alois Scholz
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Posted: Sat Aug 16, 2014 9:17 pm
There was a small 'beer cooler' picnic travel bag, but nothing in it needed refrigeration- a selection of apples of different sort and colour, a 10-count cereal variety pack like others bought for camping, and individual almond milks for extra protein and the cereal. It wasn't much, pending how many meals one ate. Maybe two weeks stretched to Alois' usual starvations anyway. But it was a start. There was no telling when new letters would come. If they would. But there was a reply left with the cache, written on actual parchment skin with quill and esoteric marginalia sketched hither and thither- interruptive half dreams, half memories, that claimed the author's thoughts. Quote: A longing fractures heart when I hear silence in the place at dusk. If I listen to it, steady, still, hallowed holy uninterrupted, the cracks reveal their core. We seek no escape from suffering, though it may seem to be so or be understood so by most. These wants are abnormal, our goals. We long for new metaphors for life. These cracks lead home. Every pain a birth, every wound a death. Graves would be homes to most, eventually, for these frail bodies that we master, change, are changed around us and house us in their bone bars.
But graves are for the living, the loving left behind. They are not Our homes, yours and mine. Those places for sleeping bodies are just as silent as this room is now- no rebuttal, no denial, no lilting acid of sarcasm to demand a drawing out of venom from your lips. I could taste it now as winetasters and sommelier make their trade. Even as you are, Alois. Haven is the ache that lives on in all things for place where we can be- in recognition without perfection, honestly with support, understanding with vulnerability, and most of all the extraordinary limits unbarred of imagination where questions nourish.
We cannot go back to yesterday, for people, places, the very breath of time was different then. This place has become lightless, crushing and empty. It knew light, so now it may know dark. It is not home. I do not wonder that it ever was. It was you. A person is home, more than a place- it is not the place, even thinking of the past, the Yesterday, as a place. Even your writing, this letter left of your words and thoughts, feels more like home than this studio or the empty table, bed, floor, chairs. The empty lecture, medical, with an empty corpse.
Ennui is poison. Do not accept it. It profits nothing, it breeds into nothing.
You are greater then it.
What 'plenty' this false night gives you- forgetfulness of true dreams in nostalgia so that it may steal them away. Not fire. It twists gut and stagnant sneers; it is not your lot. Don't give your dreams to that place, to that eating which gives nothing .
This begins another trial, keep walking.
If this box of wishes and philosophy, art such as it is, can be mail of letters and hope.... you are welcome here a hundred and more times.
I am here.
You are welcome.
Come often. Quenton
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Posted: Sat Aug 16, 2014 10:24 pm
The accompanying cache was a selection of salmon jerky, coconut flour/chocolate/chia seed energy bars, coconut milk mochas in vacuum packs and marzipan fruits filled with preserves. There was a pillow, its pillowcase was a worn, hole-riddled t-shirt, a handful of days of wear and sandalwood infused. There were a few inevitable black furs at the edge where the pillow must have been near Quenton's own on occasions he was not using it as study-prop proxy. There was a collection of essays, all hand torn pages from books and hand sewn together in faux binding. A 'book' of thoughts and arguments. The page was vellum this time, topped with asymmetrical stain of ink in a familiar, human shape. Kiss, but in India ink, and its authenticity unquestionable- the mar of the scar through the lips that kissed the page. It was a stereotype, that mark. It was made new in its colour, not lipstick, in the rolling black like tears down from it that were left on the page and written over and through- all roots or rain, both, and the spoken voice of the scrawled letters. Quote: Even dogs are afforded euthanasia. Slaves are denied that freedom. It prevents the loss of its tools, its possessions. You are not a possession.
Do not look to any God. Do not be surprised of Judas among men. Or the work of Judas, for he was made by god as all the rest of us, if you believe in the Christ, the Trinity, the God of Islam, or Adonai. Seven days spent the child of David, who took Bathsheba, dying in pain. Seven days for the sin of the father against the wishes of such a God. David wrapped himself in sack and ashes and fasted and sought to show his sorrow to God. God does not listen. The child died. That child found no justice in god.
Voltaire.
“Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.”
It is presumption that the responsibility of 'Goodness' or 'Badness' must be in some other's hands and not our own. Nor must everything must be measured in gains. The meanings and wonder, the humanism of trying to behave decently without expectation of rewards or punishment after death, acting on simple account, are with in us.
Do not settle for slipping thought. Read. Don't slip away into willing slavery. See the noose for what it is and stick the knot if you can with the 'gift' given you of their own power. Tar will prevent its tightening. You hear the open window, seek it. Find it and fit out it. Let not their false wings inhibit your flight. This magic infecting you gave you lies to make you forget the real ones of your thought.
The cuts have faded to bruises, the bruises from your joints are all but gone.
I forgot what it was to wake unsore.
It finds no favor.
Where are my bruises?
Quenton
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Posted: Sat Aug 16, 2014 10:56 pm
Quote: Sometimes I stick my fingers through the holes in the shirt. I can feel feathers beneath.
Sometimes I can't tell if it's my wings. The thought has crossed my mind to sew your letter beneath my skin. I'm afraid of losing what you've given me - every breath, every memory so vibrant across my senses, yet...
Why do you still take care of me?
Ever a font of support, Quenton. You would hand me the stakes to dig my way out of every dusty, wretched hole painted in molding blood. Of all the texts and novels and vignettes I read through the years, no surfeit of quotes collected could convey my gratitude for it. Or need of it. Or want for your voice. I've collected all these flecks of you, a collage of portions of your personality, amassed through the use of bored lieutenants. I've counted a thousand times over what small shreds of you I hold within my hands, each one known in my sleep.
She is no god, Quenton.
God does not exist as an entity, but in sensation - in breaths of understanding distributed over the course of a lifetime - across an endless expanse of skin. I am a taxidermist and skin is my trade; I've memorized every ridge in the marvels of god. I found god in you, Quenton. In the dead calm of the trees before a storm. in the air scented wet and charged with lightning.
In the business end of a syringe.
Let's name our own goodness, badness. Wipe away all the preconceived notions, the petty revulsions, the myriad transgressions. I want to see us again, at what we were, in how we grow a thousand times from dirt.
They burned everything for me. Now I must rebuild my world in gouts of ash.
And you are my Phönix.
I know with absolute certainty that they will kill me. Tied to a single source, the Negaverse exerts far more control over their groveling maggots. I am no different.
But I am.
I'm trying, Quenton. I'm trying until my lungs start hitching and my eyes strain beyond the dizziness. I've known so many setbacks over a short year. I could lose myself, I know this - drown in the dance of dead rites so the devil herself might reanimate my corpse. I worry, sometimes, that Malicious operates my body while I sleep.
There must be some way to purge her.
I will visit you soon.
Expect me.
- Alois Scholz
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Posted: Sat Aug 16, 2014 11:08 pm
Another note, crumpled and dusted with dirt, sat against the back of the locker. It lacked the pristine qualities of the previous letters, each contained in their own envelope and marred with tar as a wax seal. The paper itself of typical printer paper, likely stolen out of a copy machine. The page lacked a corner, long torn away in the daily stresses of life.
The handwriting contained therein lay struck across the page, harsh and indented, shaken and weak.
Sloppy.
Careless.
Honest.
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Posted: Sun Aug 17, 2014 12:01 am
There was a new shirt, neatly folded but plainly worn a week of overnights. There were chocolate soy milk drink-boxes, a large box of strawberries, yogurt coated granola bars, venison jerky that looked hand-marinated with a hand note on the white paper wrapping- 'slowly' A new collection of hand sewn leaves, interspersed with sketches of Faust (sans star) in various ridiculous poses the cat got himself up to. Some were not essays, but idles of sonnets. There was a sewn and wrapped coil in a satin bag, like for keepsakes, a length locke cut of pale ash. The page was vellum again. The marginalia had gone strange and colourful- a visitation of Bosch on medieval decretals and books of hours compressed to a single page. Chief of these was a rendition of a purple-black cloven hoof, coils of trumpet flower and vine spilling out of the hacked ankle like a grim vase. Quote:
The cat is displeased with the depredations of your officers. His claws leave blood on my pillow.
It is a disappointment. These stains are no part of you.
It isn't ours.
If I am to be the Soldier, beset by demons of my own choosing in castles, I know what rules to play by. If I find one of your officers, I will take their foot and I will not give it back until they fetch you to me.
It will not be your foot I take. A foot or a foot? Jest of size should be too beyond our so serious mein. But growth of age and weariness is not growing up. Have you read Leaves of Grass? There is imagery there worth your time. Reminiscent.
Or find me the door and fetch you myself from this pit. You want to leave it. Remember. Dismiss yourself from impassiveness. When was your blood lukewarm? Draw close to me, not in letter but touch, ultimate in your own right. Be clear, possessed of self and grow fierce- your will is the custodian of your self.
Treat with me, if not with word then riddled hands and limbs.
Do not let go.
I won't.
Quenton
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Posted: Sun Aug 17, 2014 1:45 am
There was an airline-approved size baggie, probably from the campus CVS, which happened to be a 24 hour location. There were bottles of acetometaphin, ibuprofen, naproxen, and aspirin. There were gauzes and tape, and bottle of baby oil. There was a box of truffles, artisan made with Grand Marnier and Stolichnaya. The note was torn from sketchbook paper, some 400lb coldpress with streaks in the graphite where hand had pushed in writing instead of a right-hander's pull. Quote:
Does the tar flow even so far as your blood?
scorched hot.
Cauterized?
Paper cannot scream for us.
Pencils bear ill beneath rage and break. I should not have left.
Traitor knife, that cannot give even its most basic function form.
We do what we can.
Despair stares at closed doors and looks no more around. Walls are doors with different keys.
Find me.
If one winged woman is not enough, then we find and gather every single one from the sky and try something else, something anew since the chance is afforded, before the Rot decides some toy of you. Before the curse grows worse. Speed now, it's too late for us to be tired.
Quenton
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Posted: Sun Aug 17, 2014 7:34 am
A pamphlet lay at the base of the locker, glossed on the side printed with poignant questions invoking thought of a higher power. Beneath the question struck white against a black background lay an artist's rendition of holy imagery. A coffee stain blossomed over the corner, wetting into the savior's face. A Sharpie mustache graced the face of the disciple, complete with pointed beard. It reeked of rot, of garbage and filth and wilted with the high humidity of fermenting foods.
On the back, a note penned out in cheap black ballpoint.
Atop the pamphlet sat a single violet crystal, pinning down a cluster of black feathers, down, far too large for most birds of the area.
The cognac sat not far, a note pressed to its label with Scotch tape. On it read 'I don't have any coffee'.Quote: Quenton,
I left the Rift some days ago. It's harder to live here than I remember.
There are no shadows so brazen in daylight that I might hide myself in their folds. People coat the streets no different than maggots on a rotten body. I don't like it; even peering over a building proves dangerous. And our enemies... Numerous as they are, most find reason to leave me as I am rather than attack. I can feel them beyond a stretch of buildings, lingering as if considering my presence, weighing their own life against mine, the odds stretched across the scales. Mostly they leave. Rarely they approach, fists raised and words brandished for my ever scathing hate of their kind. They chase away the guilt with my first strike, but I so seldom offer that balm to them.
My constant presence gives me pause in visiting you. They feel it, my existence here, stretched over an area unmeasured. Some lack the finesse to deduce location, but one possessed of tenacity and accuracy... Every passing day quashes that fear beneath an old and tired yearning.
Let Faust have the feathers. In time he will know the wings from whence they came.
Sleeping in abandoned buildings offers its own challenge - hiding resources from curious vagrants demands I use what tar I can muster to wall off an enclosure. The pillow still smells like you.
I can watch time pass now - through old windows, overhead, in shadows crawling across the rooms. It offers impetus, both a balm and a harrowing inevitability. Each second still passes, yet it draws closer to an unknown fate. I don't know what waits for me in their offices. I suspect, soon, they will summon me. If I've curried their favor all this time, I may know mercy in a straightforward murder. If not... I doubt my nightmares can reach that far.
I met with a knight earlier - one of the opposition to the Negaverse. Curiously Stubbornly he wants to support me. I've tried sending him away. Rather, he persisted, so I bade him from me with important information for those still interested in rending the chaos from me. I offered him a chance, and he took it - Negaverse agents possess the unique capability to tear out the physical soul from a person's body, effectively killing them in a short period. I ripped my own soul out for him. He had the foresight to use a camera phone to take photo evidence of it. I know of one out there that might know how to study it properly... I can only hope the information reaches her in time.
As I've not offered them reason for it, the officers have not pursued me. But...
I have plans.
So, so many plans.
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