There is one trick to learn in life, just one: how easy it is to take a life.
And one lie to forget: life is sacred.
Do those things, and you have Truth and power at your side. While all others will be hemmed by prisons of decorum and conscience, of shame and guilt, self-loathing and self-pity, you will be free.
And only the free can truly act. Justice without mercy, law without weakness, strength without shame. It is only those of us who are free who can change the world, who can shape it from outside, who can cut it so fine.
We are the surgeons the world needs. We are the judgement it craves. We are the the hands that that will heal without pity and make war without flattering.
And you, who are too weak to be strong, dare call us monsters? We are only w2hat you are too afraid to become, for once you act you cannot cease from action. Once you find Truth, you cannot settle for lies, and the Truth will take you far and deep and wide.
And there will be blood. Even your own.
Showing posts with label series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label series. Show all posts
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Master Said, “See? They Don't Seem To Notice?”
The silence stretched between them until finally she broke it. “Your trip?”
“I don't want to talk,” he said, “about it,” and then did. “They took me to the cold place, the place that smells of death and the end of hope.”
“It is not always bad,” she said, though to him it was faith rather than hope that underscored her words.
She snuggled closer to him, their warmth enfolding; he did not pull away. This time his body was silent for him.
“What have they done to you?” she said, voice steady for the children. For them, she could do anything.
He tried not to think about that. “No more, never, never. That is what they did, what they are,” he said, a howl rising under his voice but he throttled it back. They could take him back. They could do worse things. He knew this in his bones.
“But --,” she said, and nothing else.
“I can still guard,” he said. “I still have my job here.”
“But.”
He could feel her wanting to draw away, but she did not. He wondered who this was for: the masters? the children? him? Herself? “They fed me,” he said. “And I never bit their hand, not once. I was loyal, and brave and true and --.” He stopped, courage failing for a moment.
“They made mockery of our love.”
“I should have been the one to say that.”
She stood, her eyes hard, a growl under her voice. “You did nothing wrong, and they made you not a man.”
“Sit,” he pleaded, but the speaking of truth seemed to have drained the strength from his voice.
“We should hurt them,” she said, and for a moment he saw the wildness he had fallen in love with and wondered if he'd ever see that flash of her again.
“No,” he said. “Our children would be taken to the death place or the river.”
“And you would not fight them,” she said, not making it a question.
“What do I have left to fight for?” he said. “I will not risk our children.”
Her tail thumped the floor feebly, trying to assure him and they curled up together on the mat by the door, trying to keep each other whole.
“I don't want to talk,” he said, “about it,” and then did. “They took me to the cold place, the place that smells of death and the end of hope.”
“It is not always bad,” she said, though to him it was faith rather than hope that underscored her words.
She snuggled closer to him, their warmth enfolding; he did not pull away. This time his body was silent for him.
“What have they done to you?” she said, voice steady for the children. For them, she could do anything.
He tried not to think about that. “No more, never, never. That is what they did, what they are,” he said, a howl rising under his voice but he throttled it back. They could take him back. They could do worse things. He knew this in his bones.
“But --,” she said, and nothing else.
“I can still guard,” he said. “I still have my job here.”
“But.”
He could feel her wanting to draw away, but she did not. He wondered who this was for: the masters? the children? him? Herself? “They fed me,” he said. “And I never bit their hand, not once. I was loyal, and brave and true and --.” He stopped, courage failing for a moment.
“They made mockery of our love.”
“I should have been the one to say that.”
She stood, her eyes hard, a growl under her voice. “You did nothing wrong, and they made you not a man.”
“Sit,” he pleaded, but the speaking of truth seemed to have drained the strength from his voice.
“We should hurt them,” she said, and for a moment he saw the wildness he had fallen in love with and wondered if he'd ever see that flash of her again.
“No,” he said. “Our children would be taken to the death place or the river.”
“And you would not fight them,” she said, not making it a question.
“What do I have left to fight for?” he said. “I will not risk our children.”
Her tail thumped the floor feebly, trying to assure him and they curled up together on the mat by the door, trying to keep each other whole.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Court
He came dressed in black, and the Court was silent when he entered. Some things are so deeply forbidden no one need ever actually forbid them; but since no one had, he continued to walk in slow, measured steps to the throne. The King sat on it, listless, unmoving: the Bishops hovering about moved quickly, buzzing about to offer advice and keep others away.
They did not stop him, because he was beneath their notice.
The Queen looked down upon him and her smile was as brittle as the paint on her face. “Why are you here?” she said in her great and terrible voice that could be felt over the whole of the kingdom.
“I bring word from the front lines,” he said.
“The Knights do that,” she said.
“The Knights are dead,” he replied, and the court was hushes for a moment.
The King roused briefly to murmur something only his wife heard.
“All of them?” the Queen snapped.
“Yes.”
“And you, peasant; why do you come here in the colours of the enemy?”
“Black is also a colour of mourning,” he said.
“There are always more Knights; we can promote from the ranks,” she said casually.
“Not without cost,” the peasant said.
The Queen gazed down, her pale face gleaming in the light from the floor. “You have a problem, peasant?” she said, drawing up her office around her.
“The enemy slipped through our lines too easily, and left without being harmed,” he said, the words tumbling out in a spasm of guilt and desperation.
The Queen raised her pale eyebrows. “Sabotage?”
“Treason,” the peasant said. “Someone broke the laws, worked out a deal. Or was jealous,” he added, and knew himself damned.
“Jealous?” the Queen said.
“In all the land, there is only one Queen, and you are a Power of our land. You can do anything your bishops can do, even what the towers that guard the kingdom can; you see it all, but there is one thing a Queen cannot do.”
Her smile vanished, and her face was colder than winter as she stared at him.
“I am only a pawn in the games of the Court,” he said into the terrible hush that gripped the court. “But Knights can move in ways even the Queen cannot.”
“Guards,” the Queen said.
The peasant smiled then, mirthlessly. “I will not serve a kingdom whose honour has been tainted. I do not just wear the black!” he cried, and the court froze as he lunged towards the King and stabbed him once, in the heart.
For a moment, as only the peasants could, as only a pawn in the game could, he briefly was the queen and then the king, and the world fell away as the Queen screamed her rage down into the swirling void of white and black and silence that engulfed them all.
They did not stop him, because he was beneath their notice.
The Queen looked down upon him and her smile was as brittle as the paint on her face. “Why are you here?” she said in her great and terrible voice that could be felt over the whole of the kingdom.
“I bring word from the front lines,” he said.
“The Knights do that,” she said.
“The Knights are dead,” he replied, and the court was hushes for a moment.
The King roused briefly to murmur something only his wife heard.
“All of them?” the Queen snapped.
“Yes.”
“And you, peasant; why do you come here in the colours of the enemy?”
“Black is also a colour of mourning,” he said.
“There are always more Knights; we can promote from the ranks,” she said casually.
“Not without cost,” the peasant said.
The Queen gazed down, her pale face gleaming in the light from the floor. “You have a problem, peasant?” she said, drawing up her office around her.
“The enemy slipped through our lines too easily, and left without being harmed,” he said, the words tumbling out in a spasm of guilt and desperation.
The Queen raised her pale eyebrows. “Sabotage?”
“Treason,” the peasant said. “Someone broke the laws, worked out a deal. Or was jealous,” he added, and knew himself damned.
“Jealous?” the Queen said.
“In all the land, there is only one Queen, and you are a Power of our land. You can do anything your bishops can do, even what the towers that guard the kingdom can; you see it all, but there is one thing a Queen cannot do.”
Her smile vanished, and her face was colder than winter as she stared at him.
“I am only a pawn in the games of the Court,” he said into the terrible hush that gripped the court. “But Knights can move in ways even the Queen cannot.”
“Guards,” the Queen said.
The peasant smiled then, mirthlessly. “I will not serve a kingdom whose honour has been tainted. I do not just wear the black!” he cried, and the court froze as he lunged towards the King and stabbed him once, in the heart.
For a moment, as only the peasants could, as only a pawn in the game could, he briefly was the queen and then the king, and the world fell away as the Queen screamed her rage down into the swirling void of white and black and silence that engulfed them all.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Rituals
“Why am I here” Father Black said. “I left the order years ago.”
“You are still a priest,” a man says roughly to his left, fingers holding his arm tightly.
The bag over his head is tight, but not enough to choke: he can't see, but it isn't restrictive. It occurred to Father Black that the two men walking to either side had put bags on heads often, easily dragged people from their lives and to.... where?
“Are you with the government?” he tried.
“After our fashion,” the man on on his right says; they both sound alike.
“Why am I here?”
“A baptism is needed,” the man on his left said.
Air hisses, cool and sterile, and Faqther Black finds himself guided into a room andn brought to a halt. The hood comes off, and the man to the right tells him not to look around, says something about security, but Father Black doesn't here. He's busy staring at a silver incubator devoid of tubes, and a small figure is lying in it. Not wrapped in clothes, but naked like a doll, with skin the colour of a dead body and wide black eyes that didn't blink at all. Small, long fingers reached up towards them
“I was asked a question?” Father Black said.
“They can't talk; most of the time we get images,” the man to the right says.
“This is an alien.”
“Yes,” one of them says. Father Black doesn't hear any weapons, see any movement, but the dark eyes of the creature in the incubator grow wider.
“What – what I am supposed to do?” he asked.
“You are a priest,” the man to the left says. “We have water.”
“What?”
“A baptism,” the man to the right said, without a threat of humour in his voice. “The aliens rarely produce children, but those they do must be blessed so they will not burn in hell. Baptism is a kind of exorcism, you know.”
Father Black nodded numbly and took the water from them, saying the words. The alien did nothing in return, and the water sank into that strange skin as though it were more sponge than flesh.
I'm sorry, he thought, not sure who he meant, or who he was speaking to; if the alien could hear his thoughts, it didn't react. The bag was placed on his head again and Father Black led from the room.
“Do – do you plan to wipe my memory?” he whispered.
“Who would believe you?” the one on the right says, and sounds almost sad.
Father Black said nothing else.
“You are still a priest,” a man says roughly to his left, fingers holding his arm tightly.
The bag over his head is tight, but not enough to choke: he can't see, but it isn't restrictive. It occurred to Father Black that the two men walking to either side had put bags on heads often, easily dragged people from their lives and to.... where?
“Are you with the government?” he tried.
“After our fashion,” the man on on his right says; they both sound alike.
“Why am I here?”
“A baptism is needed,” the man on his left said.
Air hisses, cool and sterile, and Faqther Black finds himself guided into a room andn brought to a halt. The hood comes off, and the man to the right tells him not to look around, says something about security, but Father Black doesn't here. He's busy staring at a silver incubator devoid of tubes, and a small figure is lying in it. Not wrapped in clothes, but naked like a doll, with skin the colour of a dead body and wide black eyes that didn't blink at all. Small, long fingers reached up towards them
“I was asked a question?” Father Black said.
“They can't talk; most of the time we get images,” the man to the right says.
“This is an alien.”
“Yes,” one of them says. Father Black doesn't hear any weapons, see any movement, but the dark eyes of the creature in the incubator grow wider.
“What – what I am supposed to do?” he asked.
“You are a priest,” the man to the left says. “We have water.”
“What?”
“A baptism,” the man to the right said, without a threat of humour in his voice. “The aliens rarely produce children, but those they do must be blessed so they will not burn in hell. Baptism is a kind of exorcism, you know.”
Father Black nodded numbly and took the water from them, saying the words. The alien did nothing in return, and the water sank into that strange skin as though it were more sponge than flesh.
I'm sorry, he thought, not sure who he meant, or who he was speaking to; if the alien could hear his thoughts, it didn't react. The bag was placed on his head again and Father Black led from the room.
“Do – do you plan to wipe my memory?” he whispered.
“Who would believe you?” the one on the right says, and sounds almost sad.
Father Black said nothing else.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Journey's end
“I was going to call,” she says.
I speak a silence filled with unsaid words.
Her eyes flit about the room, taking everything and nothing in. The walls peel with the smell of chemical cleanings.
“I was going to say I love you,” she says brusquely. “But I thought, you already know that. Not much point in saying what you know, is there?”
I am dying, I think, or whisper, or say.
She pats my hand as though it were the paw of a dog. “I was going to talk about the weather, but it's not nice. All rain and chances of snow. It has to be above freezing to snow, you know. I read that somewhere.” And she laughs, the sound entirely devoid of a sob. “And here I am talking about it anyway.”
She reaches for the cigarettes in a pocket, drops her hand. “The doctors tell me you aren't in pain. They have you on drugs, so many drugs. You might not even know what I am saying.”
She looks at me, holding my gaze with hers; I see no tears, but a tenderness that confuses me.
“You never sent me letters; I almost didn't find you,” she says, soft, almost gentle. “But I did, and your eyes are so empty now, so very empty again.”
I want to ask how that can make her happy, what she could even mean, but my voice is a single breath, croaked, and she squeezes my hand and tells me she is here.
And somehow, despite everything, it seems right.
I speak a silence filled with unsaid words.
Her eyes flit about the room, taking everything and nothing in. The walls peel with the smell of chemical cleanings.
“I was going to say I love you,” she says brusquely. “But I thought, you already know that. Not much point in saying what you know, is there?”
I am dying, I think, or whisper, or say.
She pats my hand as though it were the paw of a dog. “I was going to talk about the weather, but it's not nice. All rain and chances of snow. It has to be above freezing to snow, you know. I read that somewhere.” And she laughs, the sound entirely devoid of a sob. “And here I am talking about it anyway.”
She reaches for the cigarettes in a pocket, drops her hand. “The doctors tell me you aren't in pain. They have you on drugs, so many drugs. You might not even know what I am saying.”
She looks at me, holding my gaze with hers; I see no tears, but a tenderness that confuses me.
“You never sent me letters; I almost didn't find you,” she says, soft, almost gentle. “But I did, and your eyes are so empty now, so very empty again.”
I want to ask how that can make her happy, what she could even mean, but my voice is a single breath, croaked, and she squeezes my hand and tells me she is here.
And somehow, despite everything, it seems right.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
travel
I remember you, sometimes. Not as now, but when your eyes were empty, drinking in the world without conditions, watching to learn and learning to watch. That is what a mother can love, what is remembered. There was a time when you were so empty you were beautiful.
I left when you were six to return when you were sixteen. I do that to all my friends, all my family: vanish and return, to see you with new eyes. We change slowly, but we do change, and if I had stayed with you, remained with any of you, I would never have been able to see your song except to confuse it with my own.
I don't have roots, you understand: I don't want to cease changing, to be a stone ground down by the river. And I want to see you change, how you grow and become someone new, each time I visit. I can remember each you that was, and each you that is, and when I try I can love them all.
I wonder if our eyes become empty again when we die?
I would love this to be true, but love has no place in truth.
You prove that to me with your tears, and all those letters you never write. If you really missed me, you'd find a way to find me, I said, gently, and you said you were going to travel too, as if you could hurt me with words. I remember your colic-crying; nothing you say can hurt worse, and I told you that you won't find anything that you can't find here as well.
I should have told you that we only travel to lose ourselves. I should have asked you if you ever thought I had changed as well. I wonder how empty my eyes are.
I left when you were six to return when you were sixteen. I do that to all my friends, all my family: vanish and return, to see you with new eyes. We change slowly, but we do change, and if I had stayed with you, remained with any of you, I would never have been able to see your song except to confuse it with my own.
I don't have roots, you understand: I don't want to cease changing, to be a stone ground down by the river. And I want to see you change, how you grow and become someone new, each time I visit. I can remember each you that was, and each you that is, and when I try I can love them all.
I wonder if our eyes become empty again when we die?
I would love this to be true, but love has no place in truth.
You prove that to me with your tears, and all those letters you never write. If you really missed me, you'd find a way to find me, I said, gently, and you said you were going to travel too, as if you could hurt me with words. I remember your colic-crying; nothing you say can hurt worse, and I told you that you won't find anything that you can't find here as well.
I should have told you that we only travel to lose ourselves. I should have asked you if you ever thought I had changed as well. I wonder how empty my eyes are.
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