Category Archives: fantasy

The Light-Bearer

In the beginning, there was nothing but darkness. But when the mighty voice of God broke into the silence, the darkness parted, and overwhelming light was cast upon the universes. So goes the story of creation, Genesis. But what the good book did not say, was that the light did not come from the voice of God. For it was not brought about by the power of the Word. It was brought about, by the light-bearers.

The light-bearers were benevolent creatures, who were under the command of God. They were as many as the stars in the galaxy, each bearing the radiance of truth and the light of God’s magnificence. They were astounding creatures,  much like the stars at night, shining brilliantly against the backdrop of the twilight sky. Stories of old said, that when they frolicked across the universe, they moved so fast yet so gracefully, that their trail of light would mock the most wonderful comets in the nightsky. It is also said that when they danced in unison, hovering over the edge of space, the night sky would become a spectacle. Belittling any fireworks display then and now. They say that even the Perseids meteor shower paled in comparison, with the beauty of the light-bearers’ dancing in symphony.

Of all the light-bearers, there was one who stood out the most. His name was Lucifer. He was magnificent, for he bore the brightest of all the lights. He had in him the power to outshine even the sun and he can radiate much stronger and warmer than any super giant existing in the vast expanse of space. He was fair and kind, possessing the heart of a champion and the visage of eternal light. It is said that when the creator finished everything on the seventh day, Lucifer, not Prometheus, brought fire into the world.  And God, seeing what he had done, was pleased with him. More than any of his kinsmen.

Lucifer made sure that the earth blossomed. He made sure that there was enough warmth to cast upon the flowers and trees of all kinds. And during the sixth day, when man was not yet man, it is said, that he made the rain come pouring into the earth. Enough water to sustain the magic of what is now known as Darwinian evolution. The rising of man from single-celled life forms which roamed the earth. God was so pleased with him, and the creator trusted him like his own son.

It came to pass though, that God, seeking to further enrich the existence of his favored light-bearer, asked Lucifer for a journey of faith, a trial for ascendancy. And even up to now, Lucifer holds the previlege of being the first light-bearer to had been granted the previlege of ascendancy. Such a test however, can only be done into the great void. A region of “moment” where God, nor any of his creations did not exist. Lucifer though, having faith in the wisdom of his master and taking pleasure in the gift bestowed, accepted God’s offer. And so, the brightest, the greatest of the light-bearers, in all his splendor, in all his radiance, ventured into the great void.

The void surprised Lucifer. For never in his life had he thought of a place beyond the presence of the Almighty. In the void, there was nothing but darkness. And because there was no air, only silence can be heard. It was a place of desolation, despair and destruction. A place that can bring shivers into ones spine, shooting straight down to the soul. But Lucifer’s faith in God was not built on steam nor water. His faith could not be swayed simply by the despair nor darkness which surrounded him. And in prayer he tried to nurture his faith, with hopes that God would answer and grant him grace. Oh how he prayed in the vacuum. He prayed every single moment in his infernal solitary confinement. Millennium after millennium, he kept on praying.

But, all his prayers were unanswered. And as time passed in the oblivion, the inner voice within him preaching of magnificence in all that is good, gradually started to fade. Like any solid rock subjected to infinitely perpetual drops of water, his faith started to break into pieces. For there was no light, no planets, no trees, no creatures to remind him how beautiful creation was. There were no other light-bearers, no man, no woman, no other sentient being to remind him what he was and of his existence’s purpose. Lucifer though, even in his dwindling conviction, prayed on steadfastly. But unfortunately, only silence cometh again.

In his prayers he hoped, asked, pleaded and begged for nothing else but a mustard-seed of grace from the maker. But eons passed and still there was no such sign, no hope whatsoever of deliverance. Until one day, one momentous crack in time, Lucifer stopped praying. And for the first time in his existence he started feeling cold, and became aware of the nothingness which enveloped him. At that infinitesimal moment, at that exact instant he broke away from prayer, the prophecy of the “Fall Of The Morning Light”, may have not yet been fulfilled, but the wheel of destiny started turning towards the direction of its fruition.

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And There Was Blood

Tom stared blankly into the mildewed ceiling of his decrepit apartment. He watched silently, intently as the rusty ceiling fan blades cut perpetually the ceiling lamp’s light. But he was not contemplating on the color of the ceiling, nor on the energy emanated by the man-made-electric-sun attached to it. He was in another realm, a dark isolated place where agony, wrath and malevolence were as real as the pitch black darkness that enveloped it.

He loved his wife and kid. They meant everything to him. They were all he really had, and all he ever wanted. His wife, Teresa, was the most wonderful creature of God. His love for her was unfathomable. And hers for him was just the same. When the recession boomed, he had no savings. He lost his job, and almost lost his bearing. But his wife’s steady and loving hands held him together. During those long months of unemployment, he almost lost his sanity to whatever lurked behind the darkest recesses of the psyche.

In those days, he waddled in the pool of self-pity and depression. Teresa though, tried to tide things over by selling home made cookies at a nearby school. She too, started doing errands for their neighbor Mrs. Wilson, for a measly two bucks an hour. And when she went home, tired as she had been, she never said a word out of spite. Nor did she nag him on the loss of job, nor on what seemed to be a temporary dementia on his part. She just went on her way, ironing the clothes, cleaning and preparing whatever-something-there was for dinner.

His son, Kevin, God bless his soul, was nothing but God sent. He had the eyes of his mother. Young as he was, he understood well the concept of “not-having” and of virtuous patience . On Sundays, Teresa and Kevin, would take him out for a walk, and drop by the supermarket for groceries. Kevin would run to his mom asking if they can buy the Spider man figure which cost roughly a dollar. But Teresa, having only a few dollars, would gently, lovingly tell Kevin, “We dont have money, Kevin. Someday, I will buy you one. “ And Kevin would just beam his no-front-teeth smile, and shout “Someday!”. A picture of innocence and of saintly naivety.

And though he was in depression, he could clearly remember all these memories. It is funny that the mind has a way of preserving precious mental images even if the soul is lost in wandering. Probably because these are images that can permeate through the soul, through whatever hellish pain or indifference there is in this God-forsaken world.

Kevin and Teresa are now gone. They died because of misdiagnosis. Dr. Roberts, the doctor in charge failed to look beyond what seemed to be a complicated form of the flu. And since the Mastersons could not afford the services of a specialist, there was no other way but to proceed treatment with the public hospital’s Dr. Roberts.

For almost a week, Dr. Roberts diagnosed it as the winter flu. But the situation worsened. Son and mother both started experiencing thunderclap headaches and fevers that went on and off, just like typhoid. Dr. Roberts took another look at them and diagnosed them for meningitis, but the disease was far too elusive for the good doctor. He too had other problems. His hands were full of patients, and the Mastersons were not the only people he had to look out for. As the situation lingered, Tom could only watch his son and wife, slowly, painfully succumb to the cursed fate which all of us share. The inevitable fate of death.

Kevin and Teresa’s funeral was the most painful experience he had to endure. An image so painstaking that it drove him into the very depths of oblivion. He cried in pain, not knowing where the endless tears and the eternal pain came from.  The pain was neither poignant, nor stingy. It was a scalding pain. It was as if his heart was tormented by an enormous blue flame but was never reduced to cinder.  It was forever bleeding, and scalded by the very blood that gushed out of it. It was a pain no sane man can ever endure.  It was unbearable….  It was unthinkable ….

Now he finds himself in this cheap apartment, living like a rat, with a gun in tow. A rusty old piece that can get the job done for what the angels of retribution have prescribed for him. Dr. Roberts has to pay for his mistake.

For the past week, he had been trailing him. He knows where the hack-doctor lived. “Apartment 4, 7th Street, Orange County.”, he breathed out with the full resolve to kill. He stood up from his bed, and carefully loaded a full magazine into his cheap .45 caliber. He stared at himself in the mirror. He made sure that he looked splendid with his white long sleeves shirt, black slacks, coat and tie. He walked out his door and into the cover of darkness offered by the twilight that heralded the night….

….. to be continued ….

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No Rest For The Wicked

He stepped into the hot water. His body almost soaked in blood from the day’s unending battles. His once proud ivory wings are now just but fragments of what they used to be. The burnt skin, the scars, the ugliness of his physique was a testament, of the commitment he had made to those whose lives hang in the balance.

The hot water was soothing. For a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to forget the pain within, with the seething heat offered by the water. His thoughts roamed, they wandered into the void within him. Blessed nothingness. The water trickled down his spine, down his broken wings offering some respite to the weary body. It has been a long time since he felt anything good.

The war is not yet over, but the outcome has been predicted long before. And no matter what the others do, for him it will all eventually be over. And as he has envisioned since the start of the war, he will eventually evolve into something new. The inviting water from the hot springs, the greenish lush surrounding him momentarily interrupted his train of thoughts. He dipped his head into the water.

As he held his face diving in, he once again felt the scars. The scars of the battles that had been almost an onslaught at the start. Three long years of aggression was not really what he wanted. But the fates have decided on him, via a series of unfortunate events. And in the solace underwater, he opened his mouth unleashing a sound no man under his command should ever hear. It was a swan song, a howl of a dying dog roared with a dignity of a lion, albeit a dying one. It was pain, unbearable, unceasing pain. A tormented soul’s lament over what there was and what there is.

He gets his head out of the water. He gazed into the stars that watched him that night. He stared at them nonchalantly, for they have witnessed what should have never been seen. His cry to the fates, his wail to the heavens. He was calculating whether he should pray that night. For in his eyes, God never really favored him. But in a rare act of piety, he bowed his head, and uttered a very simple prayer. “Why?” he gasped with all honesty. God had never answered him before, nor will he probably ever. But he does not question his God, he believes. But being human, even though he has been granted wings, it is his nature to ask.

As he stands up from the water, he exhaled everything there was in him. Hoping it can take the pain and the weariness of his spirit. He puts on his armor, sheaths his tarnished sword into the scabbard, the seraphims have given him. He grabs his helmet, sets it on, making sure that the sun-gold hair is properly tucked in. Tomorrow will be another day for a bloody fight. Whether he will live to see it end or not, his resolve remains unwaivering. And though recently he has been dragging his fatigued legs into the battlefield, he tries to carry on. Steadfastly, patiently.

Yes there is no rest for the wicked. For they are the only ones who know what a real fight is, and how it can be fought to win. He looks up, makes the sign of the cross and hopes that God has not forgotten him. For now, there is no real rest, no place nor time of respite for the wicked.

The Atlantean, in the shadows of Olympus

The Atlantean bound himself with chains. Chains which he himself do not have the strength to break. All of Greece throw stones at him, because he has been tagged selfish for his nonchalant approach on the matters at hand. They persecute, ridicule and insult him for his silence, his stolidity over the circumstance around.

The non-omnipotent Atlantean, silently endures for what he thinks is right. He has seen what the God’s can do to beings of less, beings of a more unrefined approach. The Atlantean silently sacrifices everything, including ascension and equity, in a final chess match with the Gods. His resolve is unwavering, it is only a matter of time. How long will it take for the Gods to realize that without the Greeks and the Atlanteans, Olympus is nothing but an illusion?

The Gods reach out for the Atlantean, the Atlantean recognizes it, but he cannot beleive easily that it is for real. The Atlantean, holds on to his chains, for those who do not understand the underlying current. In the Atlantean’s eyes, the gods have violated time-tested principles and have in a way utilized lack of cognition on the part of the Greeks. The Atlantean has within him an opportunity to ascend, but ascension means nothing when the parapets are made of clay and the soul is inebriated with pretense.

His scars and wounds run deep and dark as the Styx. Yet the fire in his eyes flash brightly. A melancholic mixture of pain, anger, compassion and fiery drive.Truly, history is for the mortals, because the Gods have forgotten the past. They have forgotten that which has spurned the bloodshot in his eyes. He does not choose to let go of the memories, he cannot allow himself to be a part of a tribunal that does not hold dear that which he treasures.

The Atlantean became strong because of his desire to be strong, through the opportunities granted by a foreign feudal lord. When the Gods tore him up, he still chose to be strong. They have castigated him for sins not of his making. They have declared him incapable so many times. They have transferred his winnings to their favorite demi-Gods. And most painful of all, was that they have struck him a fatal blow of betrayal. And now that their favorite demi-Gods are gone, they seek him, the Atlantean.

The Atlantean smiles on the reversal of fortune. He knows that his strength lies within those chains and in a methodical sense of awareness. The friendly game of chess starts soon. He gains right to moral high ground for as long as those chains are bound intact. His awareness tells him that the time for the Olympians to dance with their destiny is coming. The Olympian’s ideology has to change, to save itself from an imminent doom whose shadows already tower on one of Olympus’s founding cities. The time of reckoning has come and it is only a matter of time before he can break free from the chains and get out of Olympus’ rule.

Though afraid of an immediate future, he suffers patiently. He feels it in his veins that the Gods will be punished for not setting things right from the very start. But by virtue of a celestial rule, the Atlantean will be charged of fixing that which the Gods have broken. The Gods cannot fix it because they have forgotten, what makes the Atlantean an Atlantean. The Gods have lavished with too much Ambrosia.

There will be no fight, no war. The Atlantean is not interested in such. And though in agony, he does not wish further pain for anyone. However, he dreams of the day when the Olympians start remembering how it was to be a lowly Greek. And that abiding by time-tested principles will always be boon to Olympus. The Atlantean seeks change within Olympus, a change that he thinks must be orchestrated by the Gods. As for him, he has decided to seek Atlantis and serve Atlantean Gods.If not, Anubis, or the one they call Christ might be a better God for him. Olympus is no place for him.

And only time will tell whether he can truly ascend or end up in the darkest pits of Tartarus.