Dark Rainbows Illuminate the Soul

A wild field of watermelons fluoresces beneath dark rainbows. Their soft luminescence reflects the warmth of summer's end and illuminates delicate souls. The cottontails gently sigh, a whisper so faint only the field mice can hear. They harvest the tiny kernels of corn that have fallen to the earth from ominous heights, at least for they that worship a moon of aged blue cheese. The watermelons are ripe and they smell delicious. Their ephemeral fragrance just catches the attention of Little Suzy who plays in the field with Jacob, the blacksmith's youngest son. They are playing a game called 'crackerjack'. Their laughter is carried by the warm breeze that floats toward a horizon infinitely wide. 

This is a special moment in time. An epoch when ancient past folds into the distant future like a ribbon of red velvet streaming in a sky of melted sapphire. 

The dying heat of the sun is ejected from its corona as tightly wound vibrations of light. The dark rainbows perspire high above sending fine droplets of rain to the earth, yet the children hardly notice. They giggle with care-free joy as the planet rotates furiously around its axis. 

Yet, there is a tranquil stillness to the ground beneath the ribbons of dark light. The rainbows cocoon the children, the mice and the field of wild watermelons beneath with a fatherly dedication only surpassed by the one who made it all possible. Here, in this quaint setting, the magnetic mosaic of life scintillates like one dimensional strings being plucked tenderly by hands wielding tremendous power. Only the dark rainbows feel the pull originating from the heavens. 

Jacob and Little Suzy grow up and the light goes out. A murky haze sweeps idly across time. The mice have gone for the long sleep. Still the prismatic droplets of rain fall, but no longer do they hit a pasture that is fertile. The watermelons are preserved, however, in the memories of Suzy and Jacob’s children and their children’s children. Above, a big heart bleeds love down for the ancestors. The children that played the game called ‘crackerjack’ are captured eternally in that special moment in history when wild watermelons grew freely among the corn and dark rainbows illuminated the soul.

It ended, it began, with a hug.

In an ancestral enclave hidden within the dense Indian jungle, an old Buddhist monk, ordinary just like you and me, reflected on his karma. He invoked the spirits of his past-lives to participate in an internal tribunal. How bitter-sweet, the sensations of longing and regret as he gargled on the waters of remembrance. The echoes of his negative aura reverberate up his chakras. They are his ghosts but they are not of the now. He has an undefined insecurity reflecting on his point of origin. The enormous leaves of the Banthanog plant swoon to the guardians of the wind as they vehemently observe him and cast howling calls. He hears with his heart and for a moment, he strangulates on the absence of oxygen. 

Then he remembers what his great grandparents said to him when he was but a child. That there would be a day such as this when he would endure the most trying of tests. The measure of his worth upon Lord Earth, in the form of a holographic projection of his primordial essence, would be scrutinized, examined. The memory sparks a furnace’s flame beneath him and in his tongue undulates producing a string of words within the sound vibrations of a dirge. The spirits congregate together in a furious and frenetic waltz to the mantra of his mind’s OM. He focuses on the zero point of the Nothing God of Solace and Tranquility and his thoughts undergo a deep freeze. He sees a blue child meditating in the lotus position atop the mighty elephant Vishnu. His black-hole eye connects with the child’s and they melt into one consciousness. Now, not even his bad karma could direct him.

He notices not the resultant levitation of his simple body humbled by the ages. If one were to record his alpha waves at that very moment, one would observe that the oscillations were highly irregular, although all the neurons of his brain were firing in syncopation to the beating of his heart. He was one with all, and all of nothing, indivisible from everything existing in the universe. He was of dark matter, truth, anti-particles, plasma, gravity waves, and love. 

The closest sun bathed him in its highly-energetic, life-supporting rays as he was taken, spiritually, on a journey across the star-network of his mind-space. Like a horse-hair brush saturated with white paint deftly swept over a midnight canvas, all the karma he had every accrued through an eternity of lifetimes, was ultimately erased as he hugged God on that early Sunday morning hidden within the trees.

We are all stardust

Why? The boy asked.
'Why do we die?
Why don't we live forever?'
All things must eventually die, dear
'But why, mommy?'
Let us ask the stars.
Listen.
Can you hear them whisper to you?
'Yes, mommy.'
What do they say?
'This star, the really bright one,
says that you can choose to believe
in the infinite. That matter eventually turns to energy
That we are all stardust. Born of stars.
When we lose this human form
we will make up the building blocks of baby stars.
'Is this true?'
That makes sense.
'What about memories. Do they have life. Are they eternal?'
If we listen to the tiny grain of sand at your feet, it will tell us.
What are it's thoughts on the matter?
I can't hear anything. Is there something wrong with me, mommy?
No. You must wait for complete silence
At the death of all sound, you will hear it speak to you.
'I can hear its voice! It is explaining to me that memories last so long as there are minds to contain them.
A memory is but a thread of pure energy waiting to be carried off into the wind.
Transferred from mind to mind until the end of time.'

The mother thought to herself, 'Children can be so profound'

My best friend,'Ben', really a pen.

My best friend, Ben, writes:

‘There’s the lunar orb rising, iceberg blue. Its rays spreading like tendrils of hair over balding heads. The arid dunes are washed in this light. The bitter gale, mourning the death of day, provides periodic howlings; lamentations fit for this desiccant, but magic, space. The locals call her ‘Banshee Ghyldahaal’. A bucolic fume-pot spews molten-hot magma in gleeful agitation upon the ancient sands. The sagacious Corinthian cactus speculates over the transformation of granules of crystalline sediment into cold, hard callous glass. Dark, and with beading perspiration, the nascent matrixes of glass glisten beneath the moon’s enchantment. Frankly, it’s breathtaking, the sand baking like this. Tiny Daizan scorpion warriors gyrate like puppets manipulated by the fingers of pale light that idly hang from the heavens.

Meanwhile, the aromatic notes of lavender, spruce and walnut are scintillating the taste-buds and olfaction devices as Arabian entrepreneurs, disguised as laymen spectators, down glass after glass of Chauvroui Reserve, 1872. From their tanned goat-hide tents, they ‘baa baaa’ like mountain sheep while they procure a delicate applause. Only the fingertips make contact with one another as if higher decibels would intoxicate the aura generated by the voluptuous belly-wavers at their front-and-center. There is submordial syncopation between the contracted fem-bots and the poisonous sand-vermin. Their stingers quiver in response to the cacophony of the ruby and sapphire-studded platinum bangles around the slender wrists of the damsels. “Baa Baaa,” again chortle the shriveled men with chestnut-and-amber-colored eyes that are dilated wide enough to capture the precipitating photons of light dripping down the stunning face of the moon. 

The eye, high in the sky, sees everything. It is adjusting and actively oscillating in orbit as even the most minute of detail regarding the proceedings are recorded and relayed to the armored hummer just beyond the farthest dune. Oblivious to the charlatans being so delightfully entertained, calculations are being made and plans are being scrutinized. The time has come: a cruel Caucasian pointing-finger, dressed in an excessively-extravagant, West-point class ring made of 24 karat pharaoh’s gold , depresses the evil, glowing red button located smack-center in the console and unleashes death-incarnate on the satellite-targeted rich, filthy rich, mountain-men.

Fortunately, there’s a 2 for 1 package deal on reincarnation in this most enchanting night. The oil tycoons, within purgatory, will have a choice of either coming back as charcoal or as diamond. If they choose the former, they will be ignited as fuel at some octogenarian’s 84th birthday barbecue party. They will then return as pious men. If they choose to come back as diamond, they will first undergo intense, I mean excruciatingly intense, pressure within the belly of a voracious mountain. They then will be discovered and carved into smaller pieces by their own kind and imbedded within the nose ring of some petulant King’s spoiled primogeniture until he or she passes beyond the great divide that separates the living from the inanimate. They will then return as some batty freelance writer that would no doubt subject even the most elementary of objects, to delightful personification.’ 

THE ALGRAMATHER (The story)

a/n: To read "THE ALGRAMATHER" (the poem) click here

a/n: The following story has neither morals nor true message. It is as incomplete as the evolution of the universe in which we live in. Its only purpose is to send ice-cubes of frozen sewage down your long-johns. However, the perseverant Reader just might reach the trinket in the spoiled box of crackerjacks that this tale is. Along the way, it’s possible that you will say ‘What the hell?! The author is disturbed or perhaps he has tripped one-too-many-times on ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’”. Rest assured, he takes in zero intoxicants or stimulants. An avid teetotaler, and human rights activist, he is a lover of animals and other soft, fluffy things. In fact, the author is a pleasant enough chap altogether. However, he knows that he must cater to all audiences, even those that derive pleasure in depravity. He, personally, ‘is above it’, but he loves to capture the imagination, even if it’s the disturbing kind. Be prepared to be confused, befuddled, and perplexed by the origins of the darkness depicted in the words you are about to masticate upon. And so, without further adieu, I give you ‘THE ALGRAMATHER’ 


THE ALGRAMATHER 
By Flat-faced Snorbelgorf, All rights reserved 1972. 

‘The Algramather’ is the term given to the apocalyptic civilization-blight that occurred between the years Q.I.O. 11875 and Q.I.O. 9565. Long ago, there was a ‘today’. And what a ‘today’ it was! But not now. ‘Today’ no longer exists by any sense of the word. Now there is only detritus and diuretics. But residing within the filth of the present, a thin, oh so thin! vein of splendor which only really belongs in the distant past, hides. Her name is Luvicrin. In this moment, unfortunately, the majority of beings are so horrendous that one would wish they had never pictured them within their abruptly-agitated brain-works. Let us begin with the blood-raven: A dirty, foul-mouthed beast, it consumes only bone. However, it regurgitates, diurnally, expletives such as ‘Krock-chucker!’ And ‘splass-mazer!’ The passing ear is inevitably incensed by the vile verbiage. Then there is the Great Eraser. What a monstrosity by every definition of the word! It consumes love and any vestige of the emotion. Its output is fear. And what about the Queen of the Inveigled and Objurgated? We’ll get to her later. Let’s begin with that damned bird mentioned earlier.

The superannuated blood-raven and its beady red eyes tell of a million lifetimes of suffering. Nearly too old to work for its sustenance the raptor simply decays. It scavenges within the night-soil for the nutritious and delicious marrow and periosteum within the endoskeleton of vermin-vertebrates. Enough about the damn flying carnivore for now. Next: the people. People, but not people: Zombies. Just kidding. Once sanguine hearts are now defalcated and buried beneath the very same waste and clay that the blood-raven pokes its serrated beak into. Actually, the people that remain are like zombies for they no longer have the fire of purpose burning within them. Incessant trickles of chalky, lithium cyano-nitrate tears escape the melancholy eyes of humanity in this age of pain. 

There is an onlooker to the misery: the Great Eraser and its nothingface. It gazes forlornly with drooping lips of dread. It yearns to consume all adulation, affection and amity (although there is barely any of that left now-a-days). In return it will inexorably excrete the darkest of shadows. There is a sadness. The sadness is of emptiness. This can be characterized by the color ‘off-white,’ the letter ‘Q’ and the symbol of the dirk, a cruel Scottish dagger once used to usurp the life-thread of the beloved Duke of Chutney. A horrid anti-lambency slithers like torpid flames across the surface of the violated planet. Volcanic eruptions spew hot magma and suffocating ash into the atmosphere, obfuscating the little hope that escapes from the sun in the form of heat. 

It wasn’t always like this. There once was one who reigned over a kind of utopia with a clenched fist of tolerance. But a vision of supremacy crept into her mind that would not be titrated even by agápē. Then, very rapidly, all the bliss of civilization was methodically crushed into an insipid powder within her vice-like grip. Today, she is known as Gretchamel, AKA, Queen of the Inveigled and Objurgated. She was the accursed wench who siphoned all the love from the youth with the help of the nothingface. Before The Algramather, an earlier generation had her constrained by solidarity, yet she brewed up dissidence which teased-apart the vigilant eyes from the apathetic, and she escaped in the form of agony and despair. She became Destitution incarnate: the one that bends the will of the dastardly Great Eraser to do her bidding. 

She was also a cannibal. Every afternoon, at high-tea time, she would dip fleshy lips, ripped off her harvested slaves, into her scalding-hot Oolong Tea. They tasted better that way, much like an Oreo cookie would when dunked in milk. She had a penchant for babbling nonsense to her reflection. For this reason, she had mirrors set up everywhere. Along the cobblestone streets of Grouser and Hackbut there were at least 852 mirrors of all shapes and forms. They also facilitated in spying on her unhappy subjects. All in all, her actions snowballed into an avalanche of destruction, pestilence and pollution that carries itself into the now. 

To be continued… 


a/n: To read other ominous tales by Flat-faced Snorbelgorf click here