The Flatlanders

I suppose I should start by mentioning that I am an unreliable narrator. This is either a story of doomed heroic exploits, a journey to the underworld, and a starship, or it is not. I may or may not be a human being. These captors of mine may or may not be doctors. It is no difficult task to imprison a man, but to imprison an ageless superbeing-that is another matter entirely.
How did I get to this place? I remember an ice field, the longship frozen in stasis, crippled in a drift of methane snow, leaking atomic power, its crew salvaging swords and skins for survival, set forth along the surface of the dark, lifeless planetoid. Lucidity comes to me gradually as I write this. The rocket was impaled by a meteorite. Its reactors spilling radioactive coolant into the void between its two hulls, it is amazing that the feeble humans at the helm were able to set it down in one place? piece. Yes, piece is the word. Tarterus is a dark world, adrift in the cosmos, ejected from a now-distant solar system by a planet intent upon devouring its siblings, like Saturn, devouring its children, its gaseous envelope thick and spinning with helium argon envelope, the methane frozen ing gossamer fields, as drifting snow. Here, ice is as permanent as stone and the wounded rocket, perilously balanced on its aft fins, sent up clouds of steamy gaseous mist. Elsewhere, there was quiet, and twenty nine men did trudge into the ether black plain with little but their courage. Little did they know the fate that awaited them. Elder beings, vastly more powerful, had designs of their own for the men and their crude machine.
"Mr. Anaeus?" It was a voice not unlike a carpet sample-bland and ordinary and promising huge amounts of the same. It was a beige voice full of beige overtones.
"Mr. Anaeus, have you been listening? It is important that you stick to your schedule o medication."
A sliver of terrestrial sunlight filters through the mostly-clothed miniblind. It is a grand sun, a G2 on the Hersprung-Russell scale, and the inhabitants of this globe are not worthy of it. Institutional walls, more beige, surround my corporeal form. Air ducts. These creatures breathe gaseous oxygen, suspended in a mixture of other gasses. I hate their sense organs, generally speaking, limited to three of the seven dimensions of spacetime Still, there is something to be said for the eyes of this tree-dwelling monkey. So many nuances of color, a narrow slice of the multitudinous radiation from its magnificent sun. I am restricted to an unlikely brane. They think the world they see is all there is. They are like flatlanders.
"I am a prisoner here, and the medication you speak of is engineered to prevent my eventual escape. It immobilizes my limbic system, obstructs the puny cerebral hemispheres of this monkey brain from higher function, and prevents me from psychotemporal projection into the othe dimensions. This mind here..." I say, pointing a blunt digit at the shelly test beneath my furry covering, a cranium, "It is a tendril, an extensionn of a far greater being, imprisoned on a world so vastly different than your own that you cannot comprehend the smallest particle. You, sir, are a blocked exit, and these alkaloids you prescribe are no medicine."
The creature adjusts the crude, wire-rimmed lenses in front of his eyes. He is aging. These bodies wear out so tragically. Free of predators, because generations ago their ancestors killed mighty sabre-toothed beasts with stone-hafted spears, their ancestors are free to grow old and weak, surrounded by notebooks an sterile walls.

It Raised a Black Sword

It raised a black sword. Ivory talons, glistening pale in the icy moonlight, gripped the pommel with an an ancient and terrible fury. The blade was longer that a man is tall, and by the look of it, still sharp after countless centuries in the abyssal void. Its owner roared.

In the surrounding forest, storm birds shook snow from the trees as they alighted. Ruin, they called, startled by beast and man alike.

I faced it with a gleaming axe. This nightmare thing was my enemy by chance alone, and yet, there was no escaping it. Were I to run, it would doggedly pursue me, crossing the threshold of every house I visited till doomsday if need be. A carrion giant, spawn of bloodbirds, from some world where giant mammals roam, forger of iron weapons, world wanderer. It would slip through the ether and find me in my dreams, gaining power with each passing moment.

Now, while it was new to the icy surface of Gondwana, the wraith vulture, worldbender, ebony eye, must be destroyed at the blade of my battle axe.

Its attack came as a sweeping downstroke.

In the dim Southern light, it closed the distance between us with three thundering footfalls, plunging its weapon at my head with an animal fury. Was it guessing I could not see the grey blade in the twilight? Or was it thinking nothing at all, driven by instinct? Its eyes were as empty as blown glass.

I spun to the right, dodging the blade, and swinging my axe in a great circle that intersected squarely the beast's right haunch. I did not hear the thing howl, though it did so. Black blood sprayed from it, bone crunched, and the thing fell forward to the frozen Paleozoic Earth. Even as it did so, it wrenched furiously sideways and backwards so that I would fall with it. I lay on the pebble bank of a frozen stream, solidly beneath the arm of a beastly giant.

What an arm it was Black-skinned, scaly in places, and covered with grey pinfeathers in others.

The vulture giant rolled to its back and brought me tightly against its chest as it did so. Bird hearts do not beat exactly like those of humans, and I heard its noisy blood as two clawed hands raked my armor-clad back and sought to secure a neckbreak hold on my head. By then though, my dagger was unsheathed, and I sought its heart with my blade. Deep and sure, up beneath the breastbone and through layers of muscle and sinew, I thrust the steel blade till my arm was elbow-deep. It flung me to the side, an awkward toss I was to feel for days afterward, but the thing was mortally woulnede. It crumpled into a ball and died.

Quickly, I reached for m notebook and dissection tools.

Beasts like this-betweenworld wanderers, do not last long after death. Something from the other side pulls them home. Maybe, they are resurrected, maybe they return their substance to a vast pool of humor, caloric, and quintessence, from which other monsters are built. Maybe they just die.

In the North, amid the flat forests and scaly trees, where the cockroach kings build mighty castles, our world harbors creatures with such capacity to travel amid the threads of reality; the blueback, the ebon-eye, the skinworm. I cannot imagine that those particular creatures, once fully-grown, are mortal by any means, in this world or another.

Parchment unrolled, quill in hand, I dip my stylus in black ink, warming the bottle between my hands. the moon comes out from among the clouds, and I thank the Metal Gods for helping me defeat my foe. Quietly, I pray to the great four; I pray to Metallica, hearing the sacred music in my head.

My first cut opens the chest cavity. I gaze in awe at all the structures. Tube, bone, and air sac, its ribs are hollow inside, and spongy. A sac near its heart is full of solid stones, polished smooth like gems, textured like fresh soap. I pocket a few of them, wondering if they were ingested on Gondwana or if they are from the creature's strange birthplace. Deftly, I cut its impaled heart from its chest.

It is heavy-perhaps the heft and size of a man's head. Rising, and taking two steps away from the body, I put it under my nose and breathe deep. The monster's essence is still escaping from it. Inhaling, I drink some of the creature's power for my own use.

Strange memories fill my mind.

I spend the next two hours sketching. Twice, I have to light a torch, and later have it blow out in the frigid wind. Three times, I stop and raise my axe, to ward off the strange nocturnal lopings of Lystrosaurs. Finally, the carcass dissolves in smoke, its substance passed back into the aether. I pull my greatcoat over me and sleep, restlessly.

Strange dreams overtake me. Bright fields, and cities made of sticks, rising a hundred hands tall and filled with thousands of birdfaced bests. The thing was a mere chick once.

In the morning, I raise its great sword, too heavy to carry, and heave it into the stony slope, a marker of where the thing perished.

Anguish

Forty Thousand Years in Space

I reposted my crazy magnum opus, Forty Thousand Years in Space, on the molumbia page