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Mr. A.R.E.N.

I am a young aspiring writer/poet from Austin, Texas and have always striven to be someone else. Curiously enough my name is an acronym for four other names:
Adolfo...Ricardo...
Eulalia...Niceforo...

Echelon

     The young child of a man tended the field of his father’s property. His father a farmer in the plains of Beauce, owned a small one acre plot in size, but he nurtured and worked that field with his son along side him each season. Every spring they would come out of their three room cottage and go about tilling the soil in the pleasant weather. After this dubious task was complete, they would have spent a considerable amount of strength as the one acre plot was ridden with hundreds of worn down, and faded red bricks. Taking a break, the two usually told jokes to pass the time for a while, and then when they had satisfied their weariness while in each other’s company, they started again, sowing the wheat. And when the time came for the sun to set, they would be finished, and famished. But alas, they were not like the wealthy barons in nearby Chartes. They lived humble lives of work, and sleep, and with the father’s ever present determination to provide for him and his son. His father would sometimes say “Un pauvre homme, séjours pauvres.” which meant “A poor Man stays poor.” Then they would sleep, most likely eating a meager dinner of potatoes or soup before sleeping in their weathered cottage, but the son was nevertheless grateful for all of these things. He never complained. He never yearned for more than his father and his life.

     One spring many years after the boy was born; his father became sick, causing the son to worry very much. His father had recently been in the process of completing some field work. The son later learned that his father was breaking apart large obstructive parts of what had seemed to be a brick road, partially submerged in the soil. The father retrieved a pick and started upon a section of the brick structure that day. Surprisingly, as the first blow cracked against the bricks, the pick deflected against them coming back to pierce his left arm. The father was shocked and his arm was partially dead. He screamed when the pick pierced his upper arm, and the son heard him from the hut and came running. The son managed to bandage his father’s arm, but the bleeding did not stop until after a long while, thus the father was weakened from blood loss. This was the onset of his fatal sickness. His father died of an infection later that spring. The son woke up in his room and walked not but three steps from his bed, and saw his father sprawled on the floor. He didn’t cry, but he was sullen for many weeks after his death, and the simple burial humble as could be.

     The brick road submerged in the soil was an interesting sight to behold, thought the son whenever he passed that area of the field where the large structure lay buried in the ground. And it had seemed that after each night, the brick structure came farther and farther out of the ground. Their one acre, surprisingly, wasn’t privy to the neighboring farms of others, and in fact, as his mind crossed the idea while he stood facing the brick road in the dark, “Personne d’autre possède la terre au delà de notre ferme des milles. Ce qui si…” The sound of crumbling stone and shuffling dirt, and debris reached his ears. It was midnight. And the sight of an endless road comprised of bricks floating higher and higher into the sky, all starting at that once buried part of brick structure, reached his eyes. It was now neatly straight in the ground sloping very slightly all the way, upward in a spiral, into the night sky. Their was a tall stone tablet at the beginning of that road, and the son saw that it was inscribed with slightly familiar ruins, or letters, however from a distance they were indecipherable. So he took a stroll out into the darkness of the earth, leaving the friendliness and safety of his fathers’ home. 

     Walking towards the tablet he saw that it was in Latin, it read:

                              Composuerunt in corde morientium Stella

                                       Deus, qui fecit mundum in fingi

                                          Excludunt de angelum lucis

                                              Invasori animarum

                                            Violaceus Sanguinem

                                              Ultra hoc punctum

                                                       Iaceret

    He translated it to read in French (here viewed in English):

                                   Forged in the heart of a dying star

                             Molded by the God that made the universe

                                       Spawn of the Angel of light

                                            The usurper of souls

                                               The Violet Blood

                                              Beyond this point

                                                       It lay

     Though he went on.  

     The son walked on the brick road between worlds towards the mansion in the sky. All around him the galaxies fluxed, expanded, and motioned in every direction. Not only disregarding the laws of physics but also sensibility. The stars in the farthest reaches of space could not shine on this white palace with columns as blank as porcelain, glowing with the nothingness of its impossible existence. The son walked on and reached the mansion’s huge mahogany doors. They opened, exposing an eerie waltz seething from its mysterious interior. The chandelier in the middle of the ceiling was enormous, and it sported diamonds faceted into silver, spiraling down above a grand staircase. And upon the stairs was a large, violet, male lion, which stared at the boy with blood red reptilian eyes. It spake, and its name was “Echelon.” The boy cowered in fear and confusion, as the walls secreted music at a quickening pace. The waltz, now approaching a halt, ended in silence. The boy turned to run out the doors, and suddenly the music exploded on a double stringed A and E as echelon pounced with claws drawn as he roared his ferocious roar.

     By this time the boy had distanced himself from the mansion. He ran and ran, quickly through a now endless prairie back in Beauce which expanded in every direction. The most vile horror was not the pursuing lion, but the blood red corn as red as Echelon’s terrible eyes. Red, red, red, everything around him was such as the skies were once luscious azul. The lion in chase ran towards the boy. But the boy was no longer a boy but a man. With great courage in spite of fear, and sinew as strong as life, he flexed his newly gained muscles. Echelon merely broke the distance in leaps and bounds, seeming to soar above the corn now dead as blackened egg whites in an unnatural rotten state. Echelon was so close that he was able to whisper in the man’s ear, as a snake sticks its tongue out in the air. It said “Man, you will die by the slash of my daggers, and the stinging of my swords.” as the fangs of the beast were ivory made. The boy’s eyes looked into those of the beast, and then up at the sky, thinking of his father. And as he did so the withering crops around them replenished themselves with the newfound light of the revered sun. “I burn, I burn…” exclaimed Echelon, with a voice as deep as two hellish fiends The rays pierced his living violet mass, and blood spurted out, burning the corn. It was distracted, giving the man chance to run ahead. But instead he stood away from the beast, which was writhing with pain. He looked at the ground in exhaustion and Oh saw the glint of sweet steel. A claymore, the great long sword, worthy of confronting this demon, found the man’s hands. While he ran towards the monster he screamed the name of his father. Nearing bloodied Echelon, their eyes met. The man rose the sword into the sky, and brought it down  upon the massive head. The violet demon was dead.

 

A Dark December Dream

I had this totally obscure yet detailed dream one night in December of last year. It was, in a nutshell,…

About a young french man of the medieval ages who lived in the bountiful agriculture fields of Beauce. He discovered these ancient brick ruins far out in an area of land his father had owned, as the father previously died during the end of the previous winter. Over a period of days the ruins slowly emerged themselves from the ground and unraveled into an extremely long brick road, devoid of any structural support defying the laws of physics, and reached out of sight way up into the sky. Now the boy was extremely confused, and he had a dream where an angel warned him not to walk up the brick road, but he ignored its advice and did anyway. He wound up fighting a demon in the shape of an abnormally large purple lion named Echelon, which resided within an ivory mansion in space.

I will be looking for a copy of this short story later and might post it then. 

Willie-Jay’s words reflected on myself

"You are a man of extreme passion, a hungry man not quite sure where his appetite lies, a deeply frustrated man striving to project his individuality against a backdrop of rigid conformity. You exist in a half-world suspended between two superstructures, one self-expression and the other self-destruction. You are strong, but there is a flaw in your strength, and unless you learn to control it the flaw will prove stronger than your strength and defeat you."

My flaw being the tendency to have emotional reactions out of proportion.

The Complex of Maximilian Reynolds

My name is Maximilian Reynolds…I am no enigma…I am not unique…I maintain no wisdom…the complex of my mind is chaotic. Words of phrases caught in mid sentence and images of my youth constantly swarm in and out before my eyes…incomplete thoughts coupled with half-baked ideas are all that I wield in battle…I find myself to be a war in progress upon a battlefield where each side enacts effective stalemates upon the others…one day some lunatic from the simple chaotic void of my mind is going to set aflame the last remaining ropes that tether me to reality…

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